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“STEEEEEE-RIKE!” Dick shouted.
Bruce pointed to the pitching chart on Dick’s lap. “You need to circle the pitch number, see? That’s what tells us that it was a swinging strike.”
Dick made a little disgruntled noise in the back of his throat, but he took his pencil out from behind his ear and marked the chart as instructed.
“Leave it to you to make a game into an analytical assignment,” Clark said, nudging Bruce in the side.
“It’s part of the game,” Bruce said, with the slightest edge in his voice, and then added, “My father taught me,” just in case there was any remaining objection or criticism.
Clark shrugged. He wasn’t foolish enough to insult anything connected to the late Thomas Wayne, that was for sure. But Pa certainly never made him tally up pitches. They’d been far away from any Major League teams, and any Minor League too, at that, so baseball meant Smallville High baseball. That meant lots of parents drinking beers. And high schoolers drinking beers while pretending not to. And then, once Clark was old enough, it meant sliding to home plate for a run, bleaching out the dirt stains from his uniform, catching Pete’s fastballs from behind home plate. There’d been a good summer of playing outfield, too, but then he’d had one too many unnaturally high leaps for a pop fly, and Pa had convinced his coach to move him to the catcher’s box.
He’d been the best catcher Smallville had ever seen. Helped pay for some of college, too, so Pa didn’t mind too much.
The batter swung again. Second out for the Knights.
Maybe Clark should have brought them to another game. When he’d first had the idea, he’d thought it was so clever, bringing his Gotham boyfriend to a Gotham Knights game in Metropolis. It was a good thing Bruce was such a good sport about it, practically expecting the Knights to lose and being remarkably… zen about the whole thing. Maybe that was his training in the Buddhist temples paying off.
“Next time, we should play baseball,” said Dick, “instead of watching the Knights get their butts kicked.”
“It’s not just about winning and losing,” Bruce scoffed. “And anyway, you can’t play baseball with three people.”
“Well, not the whole game,” Clark reasoned. “But three’s enough for a pitcher, a batter, and one baseman.”
“One baseman,” Bruce echoed. “And no outfielders. Not much of a game.”
“Not to brag,” said Clark, leaning in toward Bruce and Dick, “but I can handle it.”
Bruce rolled his eyes. “I’ll pass.”
The next batter for Gotham stepped up to the plate. The pitch flew out, the batter swung—and remarkably, the bat hit the ball. Except it was very clearly foul.
Clearly foul and flying right at Dick’s face. Clark reached out a hand just in time to catch the ball, though Dick and Bruce did have the reflexes to at least duck at the last second.
“Here you go,” said Clark, dropping the ball into Dick’s hands.
“Cool!” Dick tossed the ball in the air and caught it a few times, but the fourth time Bruce snatched it away.
“You didn’t mark either of the last two pitches,” he noted.
“Right, right,” Dick said, grabbing his golf pencil and paper and scrawling in the appropriate symbols.
“Nice work,” Bruce said, placing a hand on Dick’s shoulder.
“Hey—I have an idea!” Dick was grinning now. “What if we got the whole League to play? Like, instead of just us three. Wally would come too, I bet, so each team can have a speedster.”
Bruce’s face soured. “Hard pass.”
“I think it’s a good idea,” Clark offered. “A little bonding activity for the group… With the two boys, that’d be five per side, which is all you really need. We can bring some of the other youngsters, too…”
“Clark, absolutely not. I’m vetoing.”
Another foul ball. Strike two.
“Diana would agree with me. And then you’d be outvoted.”
Bruce’s face contorted. “Do you not know what a veto is?”
“No one ever gave you veto power.” Clark crossed his arms in challenge. “And anyway, Dick wants to. You’d do it for him.”
Bruce groaned, and Dick grinned wider, because they both knew it was true.
“Fine,” said Bruce, “but I’m on Diana’s team. And I get Hal.”
Clark’s eyebrows shot into the air. “Hal? Really? You can’t be in the same room for five minutes without insulting him. Heck, someone mentions his name and I can hear your teeth grinding.”
Another foul. What was wrong with the Knights?
Bruce shrugged. “He has good hand-eye coordination.”
“Wait, wait, wait,” said Dick, “are we really doing this?”
“Apparently.”
“Yess!” Dick jumped out of his seat and did a little celebratory dance, shaking his hips and waving his arms. Clark couldn’t help but laugh.
“Don’t encourage him,” Bruce said, but the corners of his lips were pinched, holding back a smile of his own. He tapped Dick’s scorecard. “Lee just hit a fifth foul.”
Dick pencilled in the pitches, biting his lip as he focused on getting the marks right.
A wet spot appeared in the middle of his last K. And then another droplet of water fell on the sheet. And another.
Dick looked up at the sky just as Bruce held a hand out to confirm.
“Looks like the rain isn’t holding off after all,” Bruce sighed. “I thought we’d lucked out, with an overcast but dry day.”
Clark scrunched his nose. “Maybe it’ll pass. It’s just supposed to be light.”
“Hrn.”
Lee swung and hit the ball with a crack, but the ball grounded right to first base.
“Well, that’s three-to-zero, Monarchs,” Bruce said, leaning back in his seat. “But the Knights are putting up more of a fight than I expected.”
Clark raised his eyebrows. “Are they?”
Bruce nodded, but his attention was on the jumbotron. It wove through the crowd, framing couples with a sparkling red heart. A saccharine tune from a sixties girl group played over the speakers.
“I can’t believe they still do this,” Bruce said, as the jumbotron camera honed in on a young couple who obligingly kissed. “How utterly droll.”
Clark shrugged. “It’s sort of sweet. Though it’s gotta be awkward for people sitting with strangers. Or coworkers, or something.”
“Hm.” Bruce turned his attention to Dick’s scorecard. “Let’s see what we have so far.”
Dick held it up, trying to shield it from the increasing droplets of rain.
And then they were there, on the screen: Clark and Bruce, with Dick in the corner.
Clark elbowed Bruce, who looked up and rolled his eyes. They’d clearly been chosen for their attire: Clark decked out with Metropolis Monarchs colors, and Bruce in his Knights cap and windbreaker, like the stubborn proud Gothamite he was.
Clark didn’t expect Bruce to make any kind of grand romantic gesture—just something small to oblige the crowd. But Bruce didn’t even regard Clark’s presence at all. Instead, he planted a kiss on the top of Dick’s head and then continued looking at the scorecard. Clark gave them a sweet smile, but inside, he felt rotten.
And the camera moved to another couple, this one clearly together, arms around each other.
“Heya, Dickie,” Clark said, reaching in his pocket for his wallet. “Will you get me another pop?”
He held out a ten, but Bruce swatted it away and handed Dick his credit card. “And a bottle of water.”
Dick took the card obligingly and shuffled off.
“You spent enough on these seats,” Bruce noted, putting the ten back in Clark’s palm. He wasn’t wrong, though that made Clark feel even worse. They were the best he was able to afford, and all in all, they weren’t even very good seats. Not compared with what Bruce and Dick were probably used to.
With Dick now running in toward the concessions, Clark asked the question that had been weighing on him: “Are you… embarrassed of me?”
Bruce shook his head, startled. “The soda’s a small treat, Clark. Don’t take it the wrong—”
“Not the pop. The stupid…” Clark gestured at the jumbotron.
“Oh, Jesus Christ, Clark. No. I’m just not… comfortable with it.”
“With me?”
“With making private business public.”
“You are at your parties.”
“Those are fake! That’s an act”
“So it’s only real emotions that you can’t show?”
“Yes!” Bruce must have realized how absurd he sounded, because he dropped his shoulders and sighed. “I know how it sounds. But you have to understand. My whole life’s been public, since I was young, but especially after I lost my parents. And I’ve gone to great lengths to keep my actual life, my actual relationships away from that public eye. Having them mix…”
“I get that,” said Clark. “You know I do. But that stupid KissCam put us up there—they know we’re together, Bruce. It would’ve been a nothing, but you made it something. And now it’s back to the old game: are Bruce Wayne and Clark Kent actually together, or just friends?”
“This again?”
“Yes, again. I hear it all the time when we’re out. Just… whispers, everywhere. People are constantly talking about us.”
They were right now. Some were speculating about the relationship—if it was real or not. Others about Bruce. Probably just sore because the Knights fuckin’ suck, one man was saying. Can’t believe a billionaire’s with a guy like that, said someone else. And that wasn’t even the worst of it.
“Right now,” Clark said, waving a hand at the stadium, “Someone’s betting on how long we have before you dump me. It’s just… It’s not a game to me, Bruce.”
“It’s not a game to me either! I just don’t give a shit what some nobody thinks of me!”
“Well, I do! Because they aren’t nobody. They’re people. They’re my neighbors.”
And then the camera was back on them. Unsatisfied.
The next Clark knew, Bruce was halfway on top of him, grabbing him by the collar of his t-shirt, knocking his glasses askew. It was not a stadium-friendly kiss.
Clark caught the screen out of the corner of his eye. They’d got their satisfaction and moved on. Bruce hadn’t, apparently.
And the thing was, Clark didn’t exactly want him to stop. But they had to. There were people around. Maybe people who knew him through work, or neighbors, or people he’d have to interview some day.
This was Clark’s town. He had a professional reputation to keep up. And that reputation wasn’t as somebody who would make out with his drunk billionaire boyfriend in a public arena.
And Bruce knew that. This was all some smug way to make a point. What a bastard.
Clark pushed Bruce off and fixed his glasses.
“That’s not what I meant.”
“Make up your mind,” Bruce said cooly.
“I don’t—ugh, don’t act dumb, Bruce. Not in front of me.”
Bruce shook his head. “I’m not. I’ve taken you to romantic restaurants and let photographers catch us on the way in. I’ve called you my boyfriend. I’ve bought you gifts. Honestly, Clark, this sounds more like a reflection of your own insecurities than any action of mine.”
“My insecurities? What insecurities?”
Bruce shrugged. “You tell me. Honestly, Clark, I thought you were better than this. You don’t do things for the attention, the affirmation… so why now?”
Clark’s eyes fell. He wanted to say that Bruce was right, but maybe he did care. Maybe he was just kidding himself. But that wasn’t fair. That wasn’t right. “I don’t need adoration,” he said, searching for the right words, “but I’d rather not be treated like a punchline. I don’t think that makes me an egotist. I think that’s just having personal integrity.”
Bruce regarded Clark sidelong. “Are you saying I don’t?”
“No, I just—” Clark’s attempt to even formulate an answer to that was interrupted by Dick’s voice, excusing himself as he climbed back toward their seats.
“Um, wow,” said Dick, sitting down and handing Bruce his credit card. “You guys know everyone saw that, right?”
Bruce looked cooly at Clark. “Did they.”
“Yeah. I, uh, might have dropped my soda and ruined my shoes.”
That broke Bruce’s petty glare. He turned toward Dick. “You’re suddenly clumsy?”
“Uh, no, I was trying to see what I’d missed, and then the camera had you two being gross. I was surprised.”
“Surprised.”
“Anyway, I got a new soda. And new shoes.”
He lifted his feet, showing off a pair of gaudy sneakers with the Monarchs logo. How long had they been kissing, that Dick had found the time to buy souvenir sneakers?
“Those aren’t coming home with us,” Bruce declared.
“But Bruce, they’re cool!”
“They’re treasonous, is what they are. We’ll swing by a real shoe store and get you a pair of something reasonable, and then you can drop those off at a shelter here. I’m sure some kid from Metropolis would be overjoyed to own those.”
“I dunno, Bruce,” said Dick, “they’re already pretty wet. Shelter might not take them.”
He wasn’t wrong: Clark had paid hardly attention to it, but the light rain had gotten steadily heavier over the course of the inning break, and the break was taking far too long…
Clark looked down to the dugout, where the manager was on a call.
“They’re discussing a rain delay,” he announced to Bruce and Dick.
“What? No,” Dick whined.
Bruce shook his head. “Maybe that’s for the best. We can go inside. They have restaurants. But we should go get a table before they make an announcement and the crowds descend.”
Clark folded his arms. “We don’t need to go anywhere,” he insisted. “You aren’t made of butter, and I’m not a witch.”
Bruce blinked with a blank expression for a few seconds and then shook his head. “If I’ve ever been embarrassed,” he said, “it was right there.”
“Hey, a little rain never hurt anybody.”
“True, I’m not having my pants soaked through because you wanted to prove a point.”
“Fine,” said Clark. He didn’t have it in him to keep fighting on what was supposed to be a fun day out. “Let’s go.”
They stood up, but they never got to any kind of restaurant. As soon as they started inching out of their seats, two stadium workers in striped Monarchs purple and yellow began pointing at them from the aisle.
“He said this row,” one of them was saying. “Man in the Knights cap, seat 308. Right there.”
“Well, that’s not very concerting,” Dick said.
Clark wrinkled his nose. “That’s not a word, Dick.”
“I used it and you understood it,” Dick countered. “Makes it a word.”
Clark sighed, not wanting to argue semantics when someone was here seeking out Bruce.
“They’re looking for you,” he muttered to Bruce, as they climbed past other spectators. “Excuse me,” he said to the other baseball fans. “Excuse me.”
Bruce waved off the warning and pushed his way to the aisle. He flashed a bright smile. “Can I help you gentlemen?”
“Oh, uh, yes, sir. Are you, uh, Mister Wayne?” The second stadium worker read the name off the page, as if Bruce wasn’t a celebrity of sorts. “Bruce Wayne?”
“I am. Is there a problem?”
Dick edged his way in, half-blocking Bruce from the strangers. Finally, Clark himself emerged from the aisle.
“An invitation, sir. To the owner’s box. For Bruce Wayne and your party.”
Dick scrunched his face and tried to peek over to read the sheet in the stadium worker’s hands. “The owner’s box?”
“Um, yes. Mister, uh—”
“Luthor,” Clark supplied. “Lex Luthor owns the Monarchs.”
How had he forgotten? He knew there’d been some reason why he’d generally avoided shelling out money for stadium tickets, but then Jimmy had been talking about the Monarchs playing the Knights, and he’d jumped. He hadn’t anticipated the fight with Bruce, or the rain. Or Lex. The idea was proving to be worse and worse by the minute.
“Ah, Lex,” said Bruce, smiling. “Of course we’ll join him. Show us the way.”
Clark opened his mouth to object, but Bruce had already accepted, and there was no way to have a private conversation about it with the ushers and security so close. The walk from their seats over left field all the way to home plate and up to the luxury boxes wasn’t a short one, and the awkward silence of it made the journey even longer.
“Right that way,” an usher said, pointing them down a plush-carpeted hallway.
Finally, it was the three of them again.
Clark grabbed Bruce’s hand. “Bruce, please rethink this.”
Bruce shot a glare back. “I’m not being rash. If I turn down the invitation, he’ll take it as an insult. And unlike you, I like to pick my battles when it comes to Lex.”
“So you can still play golf together,” Clark mumbled.
“Yeah,” Bruce snapped, yanking his hand back. “So we can play golf.”
Clark huffed.
“And,” Bruce added, his voice low as could be, “so I can have an inside ear and help keep you safe. You want to keep complaining?”
Clark shook his head.
“Then let’s go.”
An assistant met them at the door to the box, and Bruce offered his hand.
“Bruce Wayne, here to see Lex.”
“Of course, Mister Wayne,” she said, opening the door. “Right in here.”
The whole room was ridiculous, like an office suite with a picture window right over home plate. A table off to the side brimmed with platters of food that seemed wholly untouched. The wastefulness of it all made Clark’s blood boil.
“Bruce, Bruce, Bruce! So glad you came up. They’re about to call a rain delay, and I couldn’t have you sitting out there getting drenched, at my stadium.”
“So kind of you, Lexie. Though I’m not made of butter. I can stand a little rain.”
“Made of butter!” Lex burst out laughing. “What the hell is that even supposed to mean?”
Bruce looked over at Clark, with a clear I-told-you-so written across his face.
“Butter or not,” Lex continued, “I saw the camera and couldn’t believe my eyes. Bruce Wayne, here in Metropolis, to watch the Gotham Knights lose. They're what, thirty-six games back now?"
"Thirty-seven."
"And slumming it in the cheap seats?”
“I was with Clark,” Bruce said, as if that was a helpful clarification. Slumming it with Clark.
“So the KissCam showed us all,” Lex added, folding his previously outstretched hand into a defensive position, arms folded across his chest. Clark did the same. “Did you know, Mister Kent wrote the kindest article about me last week. Did you read that one, Bruce?”
“Hm? You know, Clark’s articles are kind of long,” Bruce said, patting Clark on the shoulder. “I just read the headlines. Something about stealing wages?”
“Wage theft,” Clark corrected, adjusting his glasses.
“A preposterous term,” Lex scoffed. “But I shouldn’t be surprised. Like Ayn Rand said—there’s always a scapegoat for people’s troubles. In Germany, it was the Jews. In America, the businessmen.”
Clark sputtered into a cough, and Dick looked up at him with a face just as incredulous. Wow, he mouthed.
Thankfully, Bruce broke into laughter, for once covering with a more animated reaction. “My God, Lex, do you hear yourself?”
“Well, obviously it’s not the same, but—”
Bruce held his hand up and turned his face away, laughing again before saying, “Forget Germany, Lex. I’ve taken more shit in America for having a Jewish mother than being a businessman. And you! You’re literally sitting in the best seat in this place, for a team that you own. You aren’t oppressed, Lex.”
It was insane, how Lex let Bruce get away with saying things he’d skewer anyone else for. Was it Bruce’s charisma? Money? Some age-old game between them stretching back to prep school days?
“Not oppressed,” Lex clarified. “Derided by the press. Blamed.”
Clark shook his head. “Maybe we should go.”
“No, no, no,” Lex protested, suddenly easy-going and chummy again. “Take a seat. You know, I admire your nerve. You always seem like a spineless sort of man, but put a pen in your hand and—bam. You’re ambitious. Fearless. That’s good.”
“Thanks,” Clark said through gritted teeth.
Dick slid into a seat next to Clark at the round table. “So, Lex, you just sit in here all by yourself?”
“Well, no,” said Lex, brightening at the chance to talk about himself, despite Dick’s disdainful tone. “Sometimes there are functions I host here. Or I have friends join me, like you.”
Gosh, he had a punchable face. Clark clenched his fists and took a deep breath. For Bruce’s sake.
“But you were here before us,” Dick noted.
“Ah, yes. I’m waiting for someone.” Lex shifted his gaze back to Clark. “Friend of yours, in fact.”
Clark clenched his teeth. There was no good outcome from that sentence. Clark didn’t have many friends who would be in any kind of contact with Lex. And one of them was standing right next to him.
Something buzzed, and Lex pulled his cell from his pocket. “Matter of fact, that’s her now.” He flipped it open. “Lois, you missed the first two innings.”
Clark jerked up, but Bruce was there already, holding his wrist, whispering a near-silent shh. Clark took a deep breath and sat back in his seat, but he kept tuned on the conversation.
“Just wanted to know if this godforsaken game was still on,” Clark heard her saying, “I’m not wasting my time driving to the stadium if there’s no interview.”
“It’s only a rain delay. Game’s still on.”
“Fine. I’ll be there in ten.”
“I look forward to it.”
“Yeah, I bet.”
The phone clicked, and Lex hung up.
“Lois?” Bruce asked. “Wow. I thought you two were through.”
“It’s a professional meeting. Unlike… you and Kent here. Apparently.”
Bruce narrowed his eyes. “Is there a problem with that?”
“Not at all,” Lex laughed. “I mean, it’s hilarious. The socialist and the billionaire.”
“I’m not—” Clark began, but he stopped himself. Bruce would stab him with a kryptonite knife if he turned this into a political debate. And Lex would be the real winner, then.
“I thought it was a joke, at first,” Lex continued. “Though I mean, what an elaborate and petty way to get back at me. Even for you, Bruce.”
Bruce leaned in and smirked. “Get back at you? What for?”
It wasn’t exactly a denial.
“Oh please. LexCorp steals your contract with EfficiTech, and one week later cable news is saying you’re dating one of the two journalists most determined to destroy my reputation.”
Bruce smiled. “If I wanted to be petty, why wouldn’t I’ve set my sights on Miss Lane? She and I had quite some chemistry, you know. And there’d be no better dig than snagging the woman that scorned you.”
Clark rolled his eyes. But the worst part was, it was true. Lois had been drawn to Bruce’s snarky, suave demeanor like a moth to a flame. Or a flame to a flame, as it were. Thankfully, Bruce’s carefully crafted reputation didn’t recommend him highly as a significant other, and Lois was savvy enough to stay away.
She’d warned Clark to do the same.
“I asked myself the same thing,” Lex said. “But Lois Lane is a hell of a lot of work to keep up with for the sake of a joke. She’d run circles around you. Unlike Kent here.”
Clark couldn’t argue with that either. But it would’ve been nice if Bruce could try. At least dissuade Lex from this narcissistic idea that their relationship was about him.
“It’s not a joke,” Dick said, standing up and picking up the fight like the perfectly gallant kid he was. “Clark’s a good person. And he’s handsome. Handsomer than you, by a mile. Bruce doesn’t need any stupid other reason to date him.”
Bruce and Lex both looked at Dick in shock for a second before laughing.
“Your boy’s charming as ever,” Lex quipped.
Bruce shook his head and said, “Don’t mind Dick. He doesn’t take well to anyone insulting me.”
Dick looked like he wanted to snap back, but Bruce eyed him and gave a subtle gesture with two fingers. A clear warning: back down, lay off. Dick switched from smart-aleck teenage ward into Robin and dutifully bit his tongue, but his heart still raced with anger and his entire body tensed from it. He walked over to the seats that faced the huge window and took one of those, leaning on the bar counter and staring out at the rain.
“No insult intended,” Lex clarified.
“Understood,” said Bruce. And then he smiled. As if everything were okay.
Clark couldn’t take it anymore, but he also couldn’t leave without causing a scene. So he turned away from Lex and Bruce and focused his attention on Dick, his actual ally.
“Sorry about the rain, kiddo,” he said.
“Yeah. It’s not so bad, though, right?” Dick shrugged. “I mean, more time for us to hang out.”
Clark smiled. “That’s a nice silver lining.”
“Or it would be,” Dick muttered, his voice low as he could make it. He jerked his eyes in Lex’s direction, in case the cause of his frustration wasn’t clear.
“Oh, I know,” Clark said, leaning back. “But you have to admit, it’s a heck of a place. And generous of Mister Luthor to invite us in out of the rain.”
“Yeah,” Dick said, plastering on a grateful smile before calling out, “Thanks, Mister Luthor. Real nice place you got here.”
Lex raised a hand of acknowledgement while carrying on with his conversation with Bruce. Clark would normally want to listen, but couldn’t bear to hear any more of Lex’s infuriating drivel or Bruce’s almost-equally-maddening charade, so he did his best to tune them out. There was plenty else to listen to: Dick, obviously, but also the rain falling on the roof and field, the thousands of fans trying to pass the time, the busy cityscape of Metropolis. All of it was better than what he was hearing now.
Thankfully, Dick jabbed a knobby elbow into Clark’s chest and looked over at the food. “Probably shouldn’t let all that go to waste,” he said.
“You’re right. It’s practically our duty.”
Dick hopped back down from the chair and began circling the huge table.
“What do you think?” Clark asked.
“One of everything, I’d say. Then we’ll know what’s best.”
They grabbed plates and began loading them up, one of everything. Soon, they had four plates full of shrimp, wings, sliders, pretzels, tiny chili dogs, cheesesteaks, and fries covered in crab dip. Not much of anything green to speak of, but then, it was a baseball game, not a farmer’s market. It was good the plates were real, solid dinnerware and not paper, or they probably would’ve collapsed under the weight of it.
“Wings first?”
Dick nodded, and the taste test began.
“You know what’s crappy?” Dick asked.
“What?”
“Lex gets all this for free, and he can’t even eat it all. But this stuff is so overpriced at concessions. I almost thought about getting a pretzel when I was down there, but it was twelve dollars. For a pretzel.”
“I doubt Bruce would’ve noticed.”
Dick shrugged. “Doesn’t matter. It’s messed up.”
“Hey, I’m not arguing.”
“You know what?”
“Hm?”
“I’m gonna take some to go.”
Clark cocked his head. “What?”
Dick leaned all the way over in his chair, stretching until completely horizontal, and snagged two pretzels. And then he took his Knights hat off.
“Dick, don’t.”
He dropped the pretzels in and popped the hat back on without breaking his stone-face stare.
“Don’t what?”
Clark stifled his laughter into the back of his hand and shook his head. Bruce would say not to encourage him, not to teach Dick the wrong lessons, but Bruce was too busy schmoozing it up with Lex to have any kind of high ground. And anyway, it’s not like there was any sense in rebuking a kid for stealing when Bruce had let him name himself after Robin Hood, of all things.
But then Dick reached out and swiped Clark’s own hat off.
“You will not,” Clark whispered.
Dick dropped three more pretzels in while whistling a snappy little tune, and then handed the cap back to Clark.
“You can give it to someone who’s hungry, later,” Dick argued.
“Not if it’s been on my head,” Clark argued back. “That’s not hygienic. Take them back.”
“That’s not hygienic either.” Dick shrugged and pulled one back out of the Monarchs cap. “Guess we just have to eat them now, if you’re going to be a big killjoy about it.”
“Hey, I am not a killjoy.”
“Mmhmm, okay, killjoy,” said Dick, his mouth stuffed with pretzel. He picked up another, but stuffed this one in Clark’s face.
And then the door to the owner’s box burst open, and a familiar voice rang out, “Well, Lex, I’m finally—”
Lois Lane caught Clark’s eye and fell silent. Her face tightened into fierce ire. “Clark Kent? How dare you?!”
“Lois!” Clark tore the rest of the pretzel off and jumped out of his seat, which nearly toppled. He slid to catch it, pushing it back upright and stumbling over his feet as he finally waved hello.
“I should’ve known you’d find a way to scoop me, you goddamn son of a—”
“Lois, that’s not what’s happening,” he insisted, getting to his feet.
“No, you’re right. It’s not your fault.” She spun on her heel, directing her rage at Lex now. “You’re the one that promised me answers. Made me come all this fucking way, though the worst traffic I’ve ever seen, to this godawful ballpark, only to let Kent in on this. How long had that been your plan? The whole time? Some twisted payback because I wouldn’t go to dinner with you? Well, see here, Mister—”
“Lois!” Clark pled.
Behind him, Dick leaned his chair back toward Bruce and muttered, “Gosh, do Metropolitans take everything personally or what?”
Bruce snickered, but he stood up and placed himself between Lois and her would-be victims.
“Miss Lane,” he said, taking her elbows in his hands and looking her over like a work of art, “what an absolute pleasure it is to see you.”
“Bruce…?” She looked around him at the scene, her eyes widening in understanding.
“Clark’s with me. We were just trying to catch a game. Lexie here invited us in out of the rain, that’s all.”
“With you.” Her eyes closed tightly, and she covered her face with one hand in a rare gesture of embarrassment.
Bruce nodded.
But then her eyes flickered back open and landed on Clark, pinning him in an interrogatory gaze. “You weren’t getting quotes on that merger?”
Clark held his hands up, palms forward. “I wasn’t. I didn’t even know Mister Luthor was here.”
Her eyes narrowed, but then she seemed to accept his word, and her shoulders dropped. “Well, now I look like an asshole, don’t I?”
Lex shrugged.
“Not at all,” Bruce lied, laying on the charm thick. “You look like a very determined and very pretty reporter.”
He stood aside to let her through, but before she went anywhere, she unbuttoned her trenchcoat, shaking off the rain.
“Here, Lois, let me,” Clark offered, holding out a hand to take the sleeve.
She jerked away and glared. “I can handle my own coat, Kent.”
As she turned to hang it on a rack behind her, Clark caught Bruce’s eye and shook his head, as if to say, See? That’s your competition.
Bruce answered with a half-smile and another once-over of Lois, and Clark had no idea what that was meant to say.
Finally, she slid into what had been Clark’s chair at the table, and ran a hand through her dripping hair. “Are there drinks in this place?”
Lex snapped for a waiter, and someone dressed in a polyester button-down Monarchs shirt appeared out of nowhere.
“Kent, what are you having?”
Clark looked around in confusion, as if she could be addressing some other Kent. “Um. I, uh, wasn’t really having anything? But, um… it’s a Monarchs game, gotta go with a Met City brew, right?”
“A round of Met City lagers, then. It’s on him,” she said, pointing to Lex.
“Help yourself to anything out there,” Lex responded, gesturing toward the table.
“I’m not hungry, thanks. I just need something to dull the pain of being at a baseball stadium with no baseball. I’m pretty sure this is some kind of version of hell, Lex. You better make it worth my while.”
“Oh, I will,” Lex said. And then he smiled, and Clark once again fought back the urge to throw a punch then and there. There’d be another time.
“Come join us, Kent,” Lois said.
“That’s all right,” he said. “Dick and I were in the middle of a taste test before.”
“Suit yourself.” She leaned toward Bruce now, looking back at Clark conspiratorially. “Was the ball game Smallville’s idea?”
“It was,” Bruce said. “Though I keep up with the Knights when I can.”
“Cute. You two getting some apple pie at that crappy hole-in-the-wall in Hob’s Bay after this?”
Bruce met Clark’s eyes and smiled before Clark turned back to his food. “Maybe we will.”
“Sheesh, you’ve really fallen for the farmboy routine, haven’t you? But I guess you’re refined, composed, graceful… and they do say opposites attract…”
Bruce just laughed.
Clark backed up from the counter. “On second thought, I’ll be right back. I need to stretch my legs. Dick, you wanna come?”
Dick gave a longing look at the food display but nodded. “Yeah, I’ll come.”
Clark pushed open the door before someone from the stadium staff could, and marched as quickly away as he could while letting Dick keep up. They took the stairs, heading up. And up. And up.
“Sorry they’re all so terrible,” Dick said. “You know Bruce isn’t like that, right? Not really.”
“Some part of him is,” Clark grumbled. “Or he couldn’t do it so easily.”
Dick sighed. “Yeah, maybe, but not the important part. Hey—you know I can ask to leave. He’ll listen to me. We can ditch this whole place and… and get pie or whatever. I wouldn’t mind. I mean, I liked the game, but there’s no game now, so….”
Clark grimaced. It wasn’t a terrible offer, but he’d had the whole day planned out, and watching the game… it had felt important. Like something they should do together. “Maybe later,” he said.
They came out on the top bleacher seats. No one was there. The Monarchs weren’t really popular enough to fill every seat on a good day, much less one against the abysmally bad Gotham Knights. Much less in the midst of a rain delay. Everyone had run inside or abandoned ship altogether.
Dick took to the terrain immediately, jumping up on the slick plastic chairs and cartwheeling across. Clark watched on edge, waiting to swoop in and save the boy from cracking his head open.
After a minute, Dick stopped and righted himself. “What’re we doing here, anyway? Other than getting away from the urbanite snob brigade?”
“We’re going to watch the game.”
“Uh, Earth to Clark? There’s a rain delay.”
“Yeah, I know. But for how much longer?”
Clark winked, and Dick’s expression widened into a mischievous grin.
“I need you to keep watch,” Clark said. “Can you do that?”
Dick raised a hand in salute. “Aye-aye. I’m an expert at keeping watch.”
“All right then. Make sure no one sees this.”
Clark, as a general principle, didn’t like to mess with weather. If there was a hurricane or typhoon, sure, he’d do what needed to be done to save people. If creating a tornado was the best way to get rid of an invulnerable alien attacking monster, he’d do it. But he’d grown up with enough sense of weather patterns to generally know that it was better to leave them alone than to mess with them, all else being equal.
So maybe it was a little selfish, then, to blow away the rain cloud. Okay, a lot selfish. But he was doing this for Dick. And for Bruce. And for his own sanity.
And so he took a deep breath, and blew, up at the cloud. It inched ahead, ever-so-slighty.
Dick laughed.
“What?” Clark asked, turning around.
“If anyone sees you, you’re just gonna look like a drunk dad who thinks he can blow rainclouds away for his kid.”
“Who says I’m not a drunk dad who thinks he can blow rainclouds away for his kid?”
“Um, you’ve only had soda this whole time?”
Clark chuckled and stepped further out to the higher risers for a better angle on the cloud. It would be easier to just fly up there, but this whole place probably was packed to the gills with cameras. The last thing he needed was to hand over footage like that straight to Luthor, of all people.
So he blew again, and again, gently, gently, and soon, after a few more breaths, the rain had moved into the bay. The sun shone through again, glistening on the wet plastic and casting the field in its warm light. Its rays fell on Clark’s neck and arms, and his worries fell away as the energy buoyed his spirits and strength.
“Gee, it’s really clearing up nicely,” Dick called out. “How about that?”
Clark stepped down and put his hands on his hips, looking out at the stadium. “Huh,” he said, as Dick drew near. “How about that.”
As they made their way back down, Clark found it harder and harder to resist listening in on what Lex and Bruce and Lois were saying. He heard Lex’s voice, first.
“You’re welcome to stay, after the delay ends.”
“He is?” Lois. “What about the quotes? The merger, Lex.”
“Of course, Lois. There’s plenty of time for that.”
“It’s all right,” said Bruce now. “We’ll get out of your hair. Clark… paid a lot for those seats, and I think we better return to them when the rain lets up.”
Lex made some sort of grunting noise. “Right. Your Midwestern newsboy beau. Come now, Bruce, fess up: if it’s not to get even, what’s the appeal? Surely you can do better than someone gold-digging for their student loan payments.”
“Hey now,” said Lois. “Clark Kent may be a lot of things, but he’s not a gold-digger.”
Clark breathed a little easier at that, a friend coming in to his defense.
Lex laughed now. “Is that it? You’re sold on this idea of a simple American life, Bruce? Because I’ll tell you the truth: middle America is a stifling, sickening place that scorns the talented and the exceptional, and rewards small thinking and tradition. There’s a reason I left. And, frankly, Kent left that behind, too, whatever his reason was. His whole character all smacks of hypocrisy, to me. The country schtick while taking residence here, the socialist bleeding heart journalism while dating you, of all people. It’s all phony.”
“I don’t know, Lex,” said Lois. “I think you’re wrong. He’s really that much of a dope, a real cornfed Kansas boy. You’re just cynical.”
“Me? A cynic? No, Lois. I’m the most optimistic man in the city. I see the potential in everything.”
“Okay, John Galt, you’re a fucking visionary. We get it. But some people are just good. There’s no ulterior motives with a guy that calls his mom every Sunday and brings back apple pie whenever he visits.”
Clark sighed. It was all the expected, really. Too clever by half city-slicker attitudes, showing off their own sophistication by making fun of an easy target. He was used to being an easy target. It was part of the act he’d constructed for himself. He expected it.
Clark did not expect Bruce’s response.
“You know what?” Bruce’s voice came, a little sharper than his usual honeyed playboy tone. “I like how he calls home every week. And Ma Kent’s apple pie is the best thing I’ve ever tasted.”
Clark’s heart nearly burst at that, but it wasn’t over.
“And I like his charming Kansas accent too, and his refreshing dose of optimism, and good manners, and the whole nine yards. He’s a fucking breath of fresh air, and I’m in love with him, and no, Lex, that’s not a joke. And it’s certainly not a reflection on you. I don’t give a shit about EfficiTech. Though Clark’s right—you could stand to pay your employees a decent wage.”
Lex sputtered the beginning of some kind of retort, but Bruce cut him off.
“And Lois, I’d watch yourself, because the way things are going, I may have to marry him, and then you’ll be sorry.”
Clark froze for a second. Marry? But no—this was another act. It had to be.
“Sorry?” Lois laughed. “Why the hell would I be sorry?”
The assistant opened the door for Clark and Dick, and Clark found himself walking right into Bruce’s arms. He took Clark by the shoulders and pulled him into a kiss. Not a polite kiss, but not a sloppy proving-a-point kiss either. A real one.
“The rain’s cleared up,” Clark mumbled as Bruce pulled away.
“Did you hear, Lex? The rain’s cleared.” Bruce brightened into a smile and then reached one arm around Clark’s waist and another around Dick’s shoulders, steering them toward the door. “Thanks for your hospitality, but we’ll be on our way back to our cheap seats.”
“Uh, thanks,” Dick echoed. “Good luck on the interview, Miss Lane.”
They stepped back into the hall and let the door shut behind them before breaking into silent laughter, a mix of joy and relief and bewilderment. Behind the door, Lois’s voice rang out: “Did that gin-soaked polo-concussion-addled idiot just imply that I want to marry Clark Kent?”
Apparently it had been loud enough to hear with human ears, because after they rounded the corner and Dick sprinted ahead, Bruce turned to Clark and asked, “And you’re not embarrassed of me? You’re the one dating a gin-soaked polo-concussion-addled idiot.”
“Not in the least,” said Clark. “Though I do worry about those concussions.”
Bruce laughed. “I’ll be more careful.”
“Sure you will.” Clark watched their shoes as they walked, falling into step on the purple carpeting. “You meant what you said, in there?”
“About the pie? Of course.”
“No—you… Are you really in love with me?”
Bruce shrugged under Clark’s arm.
“Hey, slowpokes!” Dick called. “Hurry up, or I’m gonna miss the pitches for my scorecard!”
“I obviously am,” Bruce answered. “Now come on. We have a baseball game to watch.”