Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

The problem with being so passionate about work, is that other things tend to fall by the wayside. Things that take the fun out of owning your own business, things that insure you can operate said business, and things that keep that business from failing.

It was all going wonderfully until he’d come up short when he’d tried to budget in some elaborate custom flower stands for his more adventurous flower arrangements.

There’s no reality check quite like finding out you’re operating in the red, but can’t quite figure out how. And there was no bank in the world that would help him out with a loan, if he couldn’t even use the business as a guarantee for payment.

It was exactly at his darkest hour, feeling dejected, lost and frustrated, that he walked past an unlit alley, and was suddenly blinded by a sign that just came to buzzing florescent life in front of his eyes. He had to blink twice at what he was seeing, to realize the pointy ears and shiny eyes belonged to a cat that was blocking enough of the light to reflect a shadow on the words:

Bruce Wayne

Accounting Firm

It was destiny, a sign from God, he decided, and promptly walked into the building. There was no time like the present to get this over with. Only problem was, Mr. Wayne was out at the moment, and his personal assistant -a rather brittle old man with a mustache that must have been popular sometimes in the 1900’s- did not know when he’d be back. He made Clark a cup of tea and penned down his address, phone, name, and asked when would be a suitable time for Mr. Wayne to drop in.

Which, Clark mused, was still progress to be celebrated. He shook hands with Alfred and made his way back to the shop, ready to relieve Lois, his only full-time employee, and soon to be his only employee if he didn’t put a stop to the money leaking problem. He hadn’t told anyone about his discovery, worried the paper trail would disappear if word got out that he’d noticed.

For now though, he had ten bridesmaids’ hand bouquets and four groomsmen’s boutonnieres to make for a pick up tomorrow at five, modeled after the bride’s own bouquet which he’d finished, photographed and sent for approval already.

Lois was occupied at the front of the store, so Clark got busy cutting lengths of ribbon, picking out tissue and clipping the extra leaves off, leaving more of the stem to work with. He was so engrossed in the work, that the sound of his cell phone going off, nearly sent his hulking form careening to the ground.

He picked up the phone and heard the deep timbre of a voice announcing, “this is Bruce Wayne, I hope I haven’t caught you at a bad time.”

Clark checked his wristwatch, it was nearly 10pm, Lois must have already locked up and left. Not that that was any problem, as he lived upstairs, above the shop for convenience. Remembering mister smokey tones on the line, he cheerily replied, “nope, thank you for getting in contact with me.” Was it a little too early to say ‘sorry I missed you at the office,’ when there was a possible hot figure, attached to the silken tone on the other line?

Mister velvet professionalism’s voice picked up, pure business now, “before we meet tomorrow, can you tell me what services you’re looking for? Are you getting ready to do your tax returns or are you looking to expand the business?”

Clark blanked for a second because, uh, he hadn’t even considered his tax returns and he definitely had not thought that any new ventures in sales might need a budget assessment. He’d always been more of an act now, think later kind of guy. Seize the moment and so forth. Not wanting to keep Bruce long on the line, he wracked his brain for an appropriate answer and said, “I’m looking for anything you’re offering.”

Ten silent seconds later, he corrected, “I mean, I want all your services,” which sounded a little better until he replayed it in his mind and clenched a fist, tapping it on his forehead hoping to knock some sense into his brain, while he grimaced.

“Mr. Kent, I run a respectable business, if that isn’t what you are looking for, please don’t waste my time.”

Clark stammered for a second, offended and a little embarrassed he’d landed in this misunderstanding, “sorry, I’m usually more articulate than this, I’m just unsure exactly what service I’ll require, because to be very honest with you, I have not kept up with the books. I mean, I have the online spreadsheet, the excel spreadsheet and the invoices, but I’m a little late with updating those and filling the template.”

Bruce asked after a beat, “are you running in the red Mr. Kent?”

He thought it over, it didn’t seem like he was, “I’m not turning much of a profit I guess, but I’m still able to pay vendors and employees?”

The suffering sigh never came, but neither did an understanding sentiment. “I’ll see you tomorrow morning Mr. Kent.”

The line went dead.

Clark decided it was time he got back to his order and closed everything for the night, which took an hour longer than usual because he’d remember what he’d said on the phone, cringe, and try to tell himself Bruce’s cold attitude didn’t spell trouble for him. Worry wasn’t really an emotion he experienced often, but his stomach churned at the thought of just how bad his accounts really were, for Bruce not to have even said goodnight.

By the time he’d cleaned up, placed the arrangements in the large walk in cooler, checked the inventory and the order slips for the next day, he was too exhausted to do anything but heat up the bowl of chili from yesterday, and head to bed. The dirty bowl teetered on the edge of the sink, crowding in with an embarrassing mountain of other dirty dishes that could have benefited from a dishwasher.

A problem for another day, he thought.

***

The doorbell rang at the crack of dawn, and Clark dragged himself out of bed and into some clothes to get the delivery to the wedding planner’s team, counting and checking off his list, making sure nothing was missing or had had a mishap in the four hours since he’d left them. He made sure to sprits them with some water before placing them in the store’s branded box, handing over a bunch of his cards and signing off on the delivery, closing the back door of the shop after them.

It was still a little too early, so he decided to go back to his nap. Fortunately, the part time staff knew to locate his stock note and call in deliveries or do a pick up themselves, it’s why he paid them to be there an hour earlier before the business opened.

He was barely back in bed, slipping into a pleasant dream, when the doorbell rang. He opened one eye to look at the clock, and decided to ignore it.

It rang again, and again, and again, until he figured something terribly wrong must have happened or a mistake with the order had occurred, and rushed out of bed in boxers, a half tied robe and nothing else.

After yanking the door open, he met the angriest pair of eyes he’d ever seen. Those blue eyes looked him up and down, and having found him lacking, went back and focused on the shiny expensive watch adorning the man’s hand.

It took Clark a moment to fully wake up and realize that the asshole was indicating that Clark was keeping him waiting. “Sir, the shop isn’t open, and this door is only used for deliveries.” He kept the more uncomplimentary things he wanted to say, firmly behind his teeth, which was one of the worst things about needing customers so he could make a living.

The man’s face twisted in disgust, and Clark could see why a handsome man like him, might need to buy apology flowers at this time of day, probably to make up for his ugly attitude. “I’m not interested in flowers. We have an appointment.”

“We do?” But then it clicked, that voice...fucking hell, Mr. Frost was his accountant? He made a grab at the man’s wrist, lifting to check the watch and see what time it was, and holy hell, his anger rose like a fiery volcano. “It’s 6:30am! We never agreed on that!”

Bruce yanked his hand back, glaring at Clark, “I did say I would be here in the morning. Now, please move so I can begin.”

He couldn’t believe what he was hearing, or the fact that Bruce looked dead serious, “begin what? Now?! Can’t this wait for at least two more hours?”

Bruce made a sound like an arrogant snort before pushing Clark aside and walking in, inspecting the work area, “from the sound of it, your accounts are in dire need of a sift, and at least a week to balance out, any delay would only cause you to lose your business sooner.”

He stopped walking once he’d left the back workroom and entered the main shop area, checking the displays, the cards and wrapping corner, never touching, just observing with about as much interest as a child pays a wall. He turned to face Clark once more and said, “do you have an office or a corner I could work in? I’ll need to see your spreadsheet, invoices, receipts, card charges, loan or mortgage papers, staff stipends, and anything you feel might be relevant.”

Clark’s jaw hit the ground.

Bruce was dead serious and moving like a force of nature, making it hard to tell him that he was insane and to please leave the premises. It also didn’t help that he was a little too handsome to kick out, and despite having the personality of a solid rock, Clark was charmed. Or perhaps delusional due to lack of sleep.

Some smart part of his brain supplied that this was exactly the kind of accountant he needed to sniff out the money leak, and so, sighing he said, “this way.”

The office room was much further in the back, sealed off from the rest of the business since it shared access to his staircase. Which was why it was also a little dusty, a little cramped with items meant for storage and a tad bit musty.

Bruce stuck out like a sore thumb.

So Clark did what every guilty slob would do when inviting someone into their messy room, and started to do the haphazard clearing up, stacking things randomly and making space, and then trying to locate some coffee shop napkins or a box of tissue to clean up the space.

All the while, Bruce stood frozen at the door, not saying a word. Though, just that was enough to show he was judging Clark’s efforts and was displeased with them.

Clark booted up his computer, and started pulling out folders filled with purchase slips and invoices, he also pulled up the website he was using to sell some of his arrangements, and that contained the custom orders’ form.

Thinking everything was now in order, he pointed Bruce to the desk, “all yours.”

He got a nod for his effort. Which, fine, he should have made space for an accountant to work in, before hiring one, so it’s not like he earned a word of thanks for doing the expected. So he contended himself with watching Bruce set up the space, and tried not to be offended when he whipped out sanitary wipes and cleaned a spot for his laptop and legal pad.

His voice was neutral when he asked, “Mr. Kent, where did you get this excel spreadsheet from?”

Feeling proud of himself he grinned and announced, “got it online and adjusted some of the tabs myself.”

Bruce nodded, like he already knew that and was just asking Clark for confirmation, “this is outdated,” he clicked some more, “and as a business that requires almost daily stock, you haven’t considered market price fluctuation, so your monthly values aren’t accurate.”

Annoyed, Clark replied, “these prices are usually fixed.”

Bruce turned to him, really not impressed now, and Clark wished he’d kept his mouth shut, “are you trying to convince me that seasonality doesn’t affect the markup or markdown rates of the products and that your own pricing comes at sometimes a profit and sometimes a loss, because you’ve decided to sell at fixed prices?”

Put that way, he felt like an idiot, and even more of an idiot because he’d made Bruce think he actually was an idiot, “no, of course not, I just didn’t see-”

“The need to bother with the small numbers, a common misconception, you needn’t feel embarrassed,” which was said in such a sarcastic tone, that Clark’s lips thinned. So what if he rounded up or down? He had a business to run, and not enough hours in the day to do it all.

He didn’t realize he’d been glaring at Bruce, or that Bruce was returning the glare, until he broke it. Maybe the best thing he could do for himself was to get some work done, now that all desire to sleep had fled in favor of wanting to punch the face of his stuck up accountant. “I’ll be working up front if you need me, enjoy your spreadsheets.”

Bruce coughed, stopping Clark in his tracks, “before you go, you might want to consider a more, professional, outfit.”

Clark looked down at himself, suddenly recalling that he was nearly half naked, his robe open wide, the belt flapping at his sides, leaving his chest and tight briefs exposed. Right, a change of clothes first, punching his accountant after that.

In the event, very little got done, except for a change of clothes, as Bruce’s thundering voice kept calling him back into the dingy office where the man straining his suit berated him consistently on his hack bookkeeping job. Clark mostly zoned out when words like profit margins, overhead, market value, projection and other jargon kept being employed to explain how much he was fucking up.

And even though he knew Bruce could probably see that Clark’s soul was leaving his body in a bid to go and do something creative, he still wouldn’t dismiss him. In fact, he had started him on a mission to hunt down even his damn grocery bills and to produce the slips for where the petty cash had gone.

By the time Angie had arrived to open the shop, he was hurting for a stiff drink to match his stiff neck. He intercepted her surprised greeting with a warning not to go into the office, a lie coming to him quick, even when he felt guilty about needing one, “he’s helping me rebrand, so he’ll be coming and going throughout the week and checking things around the shop for inspiration.”

“Oh! But I thought you liked having the Bat as our signature flower?”

She was right, of course, he was really attached to the Bat flower because it invoked that sense of the sublime, alluring yet elegant, and a more original look than having a rose or an orchid on the stationary. If anything, it always sparked customer’s curiosity. “He’s refining the concept, let’s put it that way. Now, let’s get those flowers so I can start doing orders and some window arrangements.”

***

It was a good few hours into the day, Angie had left and Lois had taken over, while Clark labored over an anniversary arrangement that required the whole stock of red roses to be used. He was emptying the barrel outside, when he heard his name being called. He put the shears down and after a quick washup, went back to the office.

“Mr. Kent, why, pray tell, are none of these entries, dated?”

Clark walked closer and looked over Bruce’s shoulder, checking to see if maybe Bruce was cracking a joke at his expense. His eyes followed the finger nearly making a hole in the screen and said, rather cheerfully because he knew the answer to this question, “because I do them in batches whenever I can, so there’s no point dating each one.”

Bruce ripped him a new one.

He hastily escaped, hiding behind Lois when he saw her and giving her his trademark sad puppy face look. She patted his head, indulging, and asked what was wrong.

“He’s so mean, and he’s been on my case all morning,” he fake sniffed as Lois grinned at him.

“Serves you right, I told you to get your books in order months ago. That poor man had no clue what he was walking into.”

Clark glared at her, “not you too, isn’t it enough that he’s been up my ass about the spreadsheets?”

“Mr. Kent.”

Having been on a tirade about the very man, those two words had Clark leaping into the air before he ran, seeking refuge behind Lois once more. “Yes, Mr. Wayne?”

“I will be heading out to my other clients, and will be back tomorrow to resume work on the accounts. I suggest you use my absence to find the missing order slips, so I may have a complete account of your sales and purchases for the past four months.”

He nodded, never letting go of Lois, who gave him a look that spoke volumes about his priorities in life. He almost replied in the same uppity tones, but knowing that at that moment, he needed Bruce more than Bruce needed him, thought it was better to play the subservient role a bit longer. “Will do. Are you planning on being here at 6:30?”

Bruce gave him a withering look before he announced, “expect me at 9am.”

***

Bruce placed the briefcase in its usual spot, hung his jacket, and loosened his tie just a fraction. After all, Alfred was bound to walk in at any moment with a crisis or a new client. Which, he mused, would be a good thing, as he needed to keep his office afloat, build a clientele and prove he could make it on his own.

Not that he believed he couldn’t, after all, he’d all but run his father’s firm for past the decade, shaping it into the empire it was today.

One single slip-up, one faux paus and he’d been reduced to a deviant child, an embarrassment and a taint on the family’s image and name; and in a moment of clarity, or perhaps madness, he’d chosen to walk away.

He’d never experienced being the object of someone’s disgust, even though he had become accustomed to the sighs of disappointment, to the arguments that belittled his efforts and aspirations. He’d thought his family would never betray him, but a single piece of hosiery had shattered that delusion forever.

It had started innocently enough. Suits were an important part of looking presentable, sharp and adding worth, so he’d invested in having them customized, making sure the fabric didn’t bunch, didn’t restrict movement or snag when he moved or stood up after hours of work.

Sometimes though, the key to a clean look, was what you wore under it, to give it those smooth, crisp lines. At first, it had been a matter of pride, the family name as he mingled with professionals, bankers, investors and the ladies whose parents pushed them into the arms of any eligible bachelor.

The sock garters made sure the fabric conformed to his skin, emphasizing the length without compromising comfort. A handshake was not the only thing meant to assess body language, and sitting with a bent knee to denote openness was better than keeping his legs rigid to save face lest the socks attempt to roll.

There was something incredibly satisfying about taking them off at the end of the day, and unrolling the fabric down. It’s perhaps why, when he saw the nearly sheer socks next to the suspenders, he wondered how they too would roll down. Slipping them on that very first time had felt like a revelation, the silken feel of the smooth fabric, the ease in which his feet slid into his shoes, and the way that, spending a day in them was a complete distraction had given him a secret thrill, an emotion he couldn’t recall experiencing since adolescence.

An emotion that was quickly followed by a sense of dread, of hate for this flaw he’d found in himself. He was often filled with regret after a purchase, confusion and pain that he’d once more succumbed to the sensual feel of fabrics framing him so he’s no longer the stiff, boring, frowning individual who sits at a desk all day, crunching and researching. But looking at his body enveloped so, wrapped in delicate but tantalizing cuts of fabric, makes him come alive. And though he avoids his face, avoids seeing his eyes as they catch the reflection of his body, he can’t bring himself to stop. The one time he spots the rapture on his face, he breaks the mirror.

Perhaps he should have realized that the changes within were showing outward, that they had cast a different type of suspicion in the minds of his parents.

He thought he’d hidden the little indulgence perfectly, he’d thought his private moments were of no consequence to anyone, but finding his mother holding his newest acquisition in hand, shaking it so that the lace flopped under the weight of the silicon band ensuring its adherence to skin, shattered that illusion.

Bruce isn’t sure he’ll ever get over the shame of having his mother cry over his ‘tendencies’ or his father’s anger as he reduced him to a disgrace, a disappointment, and a sissy.

He’d thought his parents were above such sentiments, but here in his new office, feeling those walls starting to close in on him each day, said otherwise.

Perhaps his only relief is, that they hadn’t dug deeper into the closet, hadn’t flicked open the generic black boxes, because if they had, they might have outright disowned him. Seeing him now, a little more free in his choices, less anxious about people in his private space, they might still do.

He unbuttoned his shirt, back to the door and windows, and discretely adjusted the straps over his shoulder. Some elastic straps wore down faster than others, and this yellow one had loosened only after a few uses. Which meant he will have to start handwashing it instead.

If he hadn’t had to spend all that time at that infuriating florist’s shop, he might have had time to change, but as it stood, he only had enough time to collect the next client’s files, and drop off the myriad of notes he had for the Kent account.

Bruce took a moment to reflect on the fact he had to demote himself to this level of grunt work, just because he hadn’t wanted to poach his previous clients and get the rumor mill started on their family’s affairs. What use was his freedom when he was still chained to a desk? What use was his freedom when he was still adhering to a code of parental approved conduct when they’d never know about it?

His musings were cut short by the arrival of Alfred, asking if he’d be working through his lunch break, “yes, I’m heading out. You can leave the schedule on my desk and I’ll call and confirm any appointments I can fit in for tomorrow.”

He put his armor back on, hiding under the dark jacket, and got ready to take back his place in the world.

The entirely too ordinary, dreary, structured world.

***

He was still blurry eyed when he heard the banging downstairs.

Clark sighed, knowing it wasn’t a delivery pickup, so it had to be Bruce, coming to wreck his peaceful sleep even though it was nowhere near 9am.

He blinked the sleep away when it turned out to be Chris instead, looking shifty eyed.

“Oh, hey, uh did you lose your keys?”

Chris, who seemed gloomier than usual said, “I left them here yesterday.”

When no further explanation was offered, he made way for Chris to walk in and followed him into the main area of the shop, where Chris started sifting through papers and files.

“Try the drawers maybe?”

Chris gave him an annoyed look, and Clark felt a little awkward in the face of this stare. Even though this was his shop and he should have been the annoyed one, having to get up at the crack of dawn. There was just something about the shifty way his employee was acting, that made him want to stick around and see how this played out.

After a few more files were looked through, Chris seemed to give up. “It might be in the back.”

Clark though, felt his suspicions rising, especially as, due to Bruce being on his case all day, he’d been mainly working at the front. He trailed after Chris, and acted like he was going to go back into his main living quarters, when in reality, he’d stood to the side and looking through the gaps between the door hinges to the breakroom and makeshift office.

He watched closely, eyes narrowed, and saw Chris pick up a small slip of paper. He shoved the paper into his pocket, and turned around, ready to leave.

Clark made a hasty retreat into the workroom, and barely had time to pretend that he was busy with something, when Chris walked in and announced he’d found his keys.

Alarm bells started ringing in his head, still, Clark put a smile on his face and pretended nothing was wrong as he said, “that’s great. Are you on for today or is it just Angie?”

Chris returned his smile, all his previous moodiness had seemingly disappeared, “just Ang, I’m on tomorrow. Unless you need me?”

Clark chuckled, hiding the fact he knew that last part was complete and utter bull. Chris had gotten whatever he came for already, and it wasn’t a key for damn sure. “I’m good, wish you hadn’t woken me up for the key when you weren’t even on for today, but I’ll live.”

An awkward laugh left Chris, who quickly back paddled, heading for the door while saying, “it was on the same keyring as my apartment key, had to crash at a buddy’s. Sorry about disturbing you!”

He watched him leave, locked the door behind him and started rethinking having the temps come in the early morning. His next step was to root in the break room for the stack of notes that were sized similar to the one he saw Chris pocket.

Maybe it was silly, or a little old-school, but Clark went for it anyway, placing a paper on top and using a pencil he found lying around, he went over the notepad several times, scratching the surface, trying to reveal the indentation. He definitely felt silly when it seemed the secret message was a phone number. Did kids these days even write phone numbers on paper?

Now that he was finally alone and allowed to head back to bed, he found himself thinking about Bruce instead. Mainly he was wondering why a man that looked like he’d stepped out of a fashion magazine for the silent and brooding, would be personally attending to his clients. The age didn’t make sense either, people like Bruce Wayne who seemed to be so invested in their jobs, wouldn’t wait that long to go independent. True, he himself had started a little late in the business game, but he had parents to take care of, had a farm to run, so what was Bruce’s story?

The longer sleep eluded him, the longer Clark thought about the handsome, but severe man who didn’t mince words -the few he spoke anyway-, until he decided being an unproductive horndog wasn’t going to endear him to the man, and he might as well knock out some nice displays to sell.

He put the princess lilies into small but elegant bouquets, primarily using feminine shades of the flower, mixing some ferns in with the pinks and reds, and accenting with white tissue paper and funky ribbons to appeal to those stuck behind desks.

Lois poked her head in at some point, and helped Clark arrange the bouquets in an enticing manner inside the shop. He had an eye for flowers, she had an eye for ambience. They worked together so well; people often mistook them for a couple.

Truthfully, if his tastes hadn’t run in the opposite direction, they might have. He knew Lois held a deeper affection for him than he had for her, but she had stayed on, as a friend and employee even after the gentle rejection. She had someone new in her life, and Clark accepted graciously that now he had to consider another permanent employee because he could no longer hoard all of her time.

He’d once asked her if she enjoyed the work, and gotten a cagey response. It made him slightly nervous, because he knew this wasn’t Lois’ passion originally, and that there was a fair chance that she’d only signed on to help him because of her previous feelings for him.

Days like these, when she was smiling while arranging the bouquets, teasing him about getting the accounts done were such a relief.

Then she dropped a bomb on him.

“Why didn’t you ask me?”

She wouldn’t look at him when he asked, and the tranquility he’d just been basking in shattered into a thousand pieces.

“It’s a one off class. What are my chances of placing, let alone winning at a flower arrangement competition when I’m doing your style of arrangements, next to you?”

But to go to his biggest competitor for a masterclass?

“Clark, don’t ruin this for me, it was a gift and I want to try my hand at this too. I can’t stay behind the counter forever.”

Right. He swallowed his objections, smiling on the outside, faking cheer, “of course. In fact, go learn their secrets and bring them back with you.”

She kissed his cheek and went to grab her phone, texting her boyfriend, who no doubt had given her this vindictive gift.

To say he was in a foul mood when Bruce arrived would be the understatement of the century.

“Have you located the receipts?”

He looked Bruce dead in the eye and said, “no.”

Bruce’s narrowed eyes were nearly slits when he said, “fine, how about we work on production cost per value.”

Not having anticipated this, Clark nodded and allowed Bruce to follow him to the back. It was a little unnerving having Bruce watch his every move, calculating cost of flowers and materials against the final arrangement price and basically seeing dollar signs instead of beauty. He cut the string holding the bunch of pink baby roses, and filled the envelope shaped box, arranging them so they fit close enough, but there was enough of a gap between each.

Bruce’s frown deepened.

Clark tried to ignore it as he added some eucalyptus to frame the roses, just enough to act as a background that would bring out the pink. He chanced a look at Bruce, and found him still frowning. So he bit the bullet and asked, “something wrong?”

As if he was expecting it, Bruce answered, “it might be better to put large roses instead to make the box seem fuller and save on costs here, rather than these small flowers, which will take time to bloom and require a larger number.”

Clark grinned, because now he got to show off his favourite magic trick. He picked up one of the baby roses and moved closer to Bruce, “some arrangements, like those for a later date, benefit from having the roses closed, but in the event of someone needing it for say, Mother’s day on the day, all we need to do is caress the petals until they open up. It’s also easier to place the roses this way, without worrying about damaging or scarring the petals while filling in the space. If you really wanted to wait until you gifted an arrangement, you might want to go with a Tiger Lily instead. Roses are a little more forgiving.”

He took Bruce’s hand, placed it on the flower, and gently directed his fingers, dipping one inside the small space in the middle of the tightly wrapped petals, and slowly guided it to move in circles until the soft, silky, fresh petals started to open up, leaning away from the bud.

Instead of pulling his hand back, Bruce continued to touch the petals, rubbing one between his fingers, completely lost in the moment, not noticing that Clark’s hand was still holding both of his. And Clark was mesmerized by the sensuality on display, the way Bruce was feeling the texture on his skin, knuckling the outer petals.

The spell soon broke and Bruce seemed to come back to himself, pulling his hand back, and attempting to drop the flower into Clark’s outstretched palms.

Clark accepted it, only to then slot it into the top buttonhole of Bruce’s jacket.

He thought Bruce would bestow another angry look and barb at him, but he was surprisingly silent. Clark was just about to ask if something was wrong, when Bruce stood up and announced, “I’m going to check on the inventory status, it’s clear you know what you’re doing on this front.”

He was gone in seconds, and despite the day he’d had, Clark found himself smiling.

***

Bruce found himself unconsciously touching the flower petals in between data input, deciphering Clark’s chicken scratch handwriting, and checking if his values matched the invoices.

He noticed a spike in prices in certain entries, that had his eyebrows rising, so he made a note next to the cell, and then checked if he had the name of the provider since the price’s tripling.

It was the same. However, he noted that, while the previous invoices were handwritten, the new ones, bearing the same logo, were typed. That didn’t mean much exactly, but the coincidence made it suspicious.

He made another note, to track down the vendor and check the price himself as a potential client, and to see if he could get a further discount on account of being a loyal customer; one who was probably shelling more on a product that he could get cheaper somewhere else.

That was next on his list, check if Clark was getting good market markdowns, then he could see about any competition on this street, increase the promotional budget and cut back on the million avenues Clark was trying to sell to. He didn’t have nearly enough staff to be making deliveries, custom orders, online orders, and listing daily arrangements. Once they plugged the money leak, he’d slowly introduce a plan to grow. Not that profit was a sure thing in the very beginnings of a business, but, -and he might be a little biased now that he’s nose deep into the soft, velvety petals of the rose- Clark’s work deserved to be appreciated.

He swallowed thickly, caught himself and wondered when that thought had suddenly blossomed, then went back to his work. He looked up once and found a shadow reflected on the floor. He thought it was Clark, and called out to him, thinking he could get the vendor issue cleared out sooner, when the shadow left in a hurry.

It wasn’t until hours later and the beep of his alarm sounded, that Bruce finally gathered his notes and decided to look for Clark himself, since the man hadn’t checked in all day. He paused just once during his methodical packing, to wonder about the shadow at the door, and decided to lock the file with a password, just in case.

As he copied the file to his thumb drive, he wondered what possessed him to set ‘babyrose’ as the password, and ignored any thoughts that crossed his mind on the matter.

In the event, he didn’t catch Clark at all, and had to leave before he was late for his next appointment. He told himself he’d text once he had the time.

Just as he pulled up to his next client’s location, there was a ding of an incoming call. He curbed the weird thrill that raced through him when he thought it might be Clark. It’s not Clark, in fact, it’s his client calling to let him know that something had come up and could he please reschedule the visit? Pride and some self-preservation were the only reasons he didn’t say that he was already waiting outside the building. He hadn’t yet reached that safety net of choosing his clients and dropping others, he was still in first base.

The irony was, he’d left his entire life behind him, so he wouldn’t be stuck in first base, but seemed to have made no progress, and instead, regressed in all aspects. He turned the key once more, navigated the car back into the congestion he’d just left, and carried his dark cloud of musings with him.

He hates saying it even more than being it, but his sheltered upbringing in the lap of his family’s social climb to the top, meant that there were more rules to observe, more social cues to respect and respond to, and a shorter leash to walk with. He respected his parents dearly, held an appreciation for everything they had done for him, however...as blasphemous as it sounded, he had not been allowed to experience much; that wasn’t parent approved due to how controlling they were. Even as he neared his thirties. Even as he excelled at his work and in creating the perfect persona, the perfect partner to ladies who in turn would become socialites, further his career and bear him children, even then, the leash got shorter and tighter around his neck, and all he’d really wanted was to bite back as he choked and grappled for air.

But now that he has it, he scarcely knows what to do with it. He was not a betting man, but he would bet that Clark Kent, though knee deep in financial trouble, though mistrustful of professional help and comes off as an ignorant slob; he would bet Clark Kent knew how to let loose and be himself without worrying about being under the microscope of judgment.

Unbidden comes the image of Clark gently handling a flower, careful not to bruise the petals, caressing them, and a bitter laugh leaves him. Those flowers saw more affection in their short life, that he had his entire one.

Since he’d left, there had been times when his resolve had held, and he had braved the invitations masked in wrist flicks, quick winks and open appreciation. He’d even dismissed the lack of ambiance, that lack of pleasantries, the lack of intimacy in the way knowing someone might make the terror abate, might not make him clench the hand attempting to remove his belt, clench so hard that the person yelps and cusses him out for an asshole.

He tells himself there’s no shame in going home after bruising kisses, completely hard, but not able to stomach the thought of someone undressing him and giving him that same look of absolute disgust once Bruce is unwrapped for eyes to see.

Clark probably wouldn’t.

Bruce tells himself to shake whatever it was that had him so enthralled with Clark Kent, because, for all he knew, Clark Kent already found him a rigid and domineering pain, and knowing how he really was under all that armor, would absolutely ridicule him.

His phone beeps, concierge letting him know a package had arrived. In his current mood, that’s exactly what he wants, what he needs. The dashboard lets him know he has at least three hours of free time, should he choose to make a detour to his apartment and turn the day around.

So he sends a text to Clark, letting him know there were things he needed to discuss with him, and to pass by the office after closing.

Meanwhile, there was a package of delicate lace waiting with his name on it.

***

The knock is only seconds ahead of Clark’s inquisitive face peeking from behind the door, looking around for him, while holding a small offering.

“Rather than bleed money by giving away free gifts, why don’t you put the arrangement up for sale?”

“Rather than reject my gift and call it a waste of money, why don’t you just accept it and say thanks?”

Bruce pursed his lips, grinding out, “fair enough Mr. Kent, but don’t expect a discount or deductible.”

Clark rolled his eyes at him, placed the vase with the baby roses on the desk, before taking a seat.

“What do you have for me that necessitates a trip to your office after hours?”

Bruce felt the suggestive tones more than heard them, and he cursed his active imagination, which had plagued him all hours of this day and suddenly, the lace is digging into his flesh and he has to resist the urge to squirm, to adjust the elastic that is now pulling upwards. He hoped the flush wasn’t visible in the dim lights of the office. Perhaps going home and changing into the lacy thong had not been the best of ideas.

But then he recalled how it elongated his shape, how there’s a butterfly cut out that teases exposure, but only gave a glimpse of his tapered V, while his behind is very much exposed. For a moment, he’s glad he hadn’t opted for the one with the little accent of pearls, as trying to grind his possible erection into a form of submission with the heel of his hand would be painful no doubt. Especially as he now motioned for Clark to come closer, and opened the copy of the files on his laptop.

Clark, predictably, is confused, so Bruce highlights certain cells for him, and points to where he’s left some notes.

“There’s something about the accounts that isn’t adding up. Once I have the rest of the invoices and order slips documented, I can give you a more concrete idea. For now, I’ve locked the file against tampering, and I’ll be following a few leads. That’s primarily why I wanted you to see the copy here, and not the one at the office.”

“Tampering?”

“Did you happen to pass by at all after I went to work in the office?”

Clark frowned, face tilted backwards trying to recall, and Bruce waited patiently for him. He shook his head and Bruce is a bit alarmed now. “Someone was standing behind the door, possibly looking through the gap now that I think back. When I called out, they left in a hurry.”

He could tell that this bit of information worried Clark, who racked a hand through his hair, lost in thought once more. Bruce pressed on, “is there something I should know?”

Clark shakes his head like it’s nothing, and Bruce’s temper, hidden under layers of professional and filial patience, sparks. “I can’t help you if I don’t know what I’m missing. I won’t have you try to blame me for incurred loses when you know very well that I don’t have the full schematics.”

Either he saw the wisdom of his words, or Clark was finally ready to fire Bruce from the job, as Clark gave one sharp nod.

“I think, or I’m nearly sure it’s someone working for me.”

Bruce waited to hear more, and only prodded when it took Clark too long to say the rest. “I’ve had one of those days, you know? Like I can’t trust anyone around me, people I’ve known for years seem to be acting strange, and people I depend on are acting suspicious.”

He guessed that was about as much as he was getting out of Clark, who seemed to shut down after his confession. And Bruce doesn’t mean to turn a bad day worse, but he had to deliver one more piece of bad news. “The Daily Plant vendor you usually buy from; I gave them a call on the number listed in the old invoices, and they say they haven’t done business with you in nearly two months. I called the other number, the one on the new invoice, and you can take this with a grain of salt, but the man who picked up seemed to know even less that I do about flowers.”

Clark had his hands in his hair, gripping a little too tight at the ends, before he relaxed, with effort it seemed.

“That does not mean I hadn’t caught the wrong person on the phone, at the wrong time, and it doesn’t mean it’s one of the employees, but I thought you’d want to know and change vendors.”

A little over a minute, Clark said, “If I do that, and it is an inside job, won’t that alert them? Won’t I lose the trail?”

Bruce thought about it, now factoring in the fact that it’s more than a scam, and more of an operation. He leaned back in his chair, and felt the elastic lovingly pull in every direction, the feel of the sheer material on top, edged with lace, sliding over his nipples nearly had him in a full body shiver, enough that he was distracted for a moment and had to gather his thoughts once more.

Unfortunately, that was to deliver even more bad news, “consider that, the phone call may have already alerted them. In which case, I would suggest pretending nothing was wrong or has changed, and make arrangements with your bank to freeze any purchases. You might have to work with cash for a while. Or, you could stand to lose a bit more, and build a solid case by documenting this.”

There was just the slightest bit of hesitation in Clark’s expression, but it soon cleared and Bruce braced for the fact he knew which answer it would be, “option two Watson.”

And if Bruce wasn’t currently attempting to get his ensemble to behave, he would have told Clark where to shove his Watson. Up delusion creek that was.

That was that, meeting over, and Bruce waited for Clark to dismiss himself. Not that Bruce minded Clark’s presence, especially as he held on to the little secret on his person, and yes, maybe he felt that Clark’s visible conflict was in part due to all his revelations. Even a man as dense as Clark was about running a business, could only take so many tragic hits of reality.

His musings were interrupted by perhaps the loudest rumble of a stomach he’d ever heard. Clark looked up, sheepish, but soon his face lit up in a smile as a newer, and Bruce hopes, slightly less loud, stomach growl announced itself from his side.

“There’s a Japanese restaurant close by if you want to share a meal with me?”

Bruce looked at the neat script of his schedule for tomorrow, at the list of messages he needed to respond to, at the open worksheet that detailed Clark’s possibly failing business, and knew the answer was no.

But Clark had moved until he was crowding Bruce’s personal space, knees bumping into the leather of Bruce’s seat, right between Bruce’s own, nearly touching, and vibrating heat across Bruce’s almost sprawled form in the chair.

“Yes.”

***

Truth be told, eating was the absolutely last thing on his mind. Even though he’d invited Bruce to eat, even though he’d suggested the place, he couldn’t stop the thoughts from crashing and spinning in an endless loop. He should have asked to get take out, because sitting at the same place he’d taken his brigade to celebrate the opening of the shop, was a recipe for brooding and disaster. Except, there was something about the Bruce of after hours, slightly -or rather, hardly- rumpled, bit of color in his cheeks, the exposed column of his neck because of an open collar and a thawed magnetism that isn’t the usual cold demeaner. Though honestly, not much thawed.

He finds that he wants to ask Bruce if anything good has happened, despite the slew of disastrous finds he’d relayed not one hour ago, crushing Clark’s world. He doesn’t because it might very well be that Clark’s spiral into his darkest hour is the reason behind whatever sultriness Bruce has acquired in just a few hours.

A stray thought turns his head, what if Bruce was basking in the glow of a sexual encounter? What if Bruce’s strictness was only a professional front, and he was exactly the sensual type of man, who would get lost in the feel of a flower.

He stopped daydreaming when, upon blinking, he realized that Bruce was frowning at him. Probably because he’d been boring a hole into his face from staring so intently.

A little uncomfortably, Bruce said, “I apologize for ruining your day like that, I suppose I could have been more gentle when I revealed my news.”

And just like that, he felt like a bucket of cold water had been dumped over his head. He couldn’t believe he’d compartmentalized the disastrous news he’d received, in favor of ogling his accountant. Worst of all, the news was even worse than Clark had thought, because he hadn’t banked on the reality that he’d have to suspect his employees, especially Angie.

But there was no other explanation for who would be lurking near his office, when only she was working that afternoon. What could she possibly have had to do in the office? And why, when called forward, did she run?

He’d explicitly told her that Bruce was just a designer, so was it just fear of ruining his concentration? Or was it something else?

Bruce had brought up the word ‘tampering’ and now Clark can’t stop thinking about the fact that his dismal attempt at keeping a spreadsheet that was full of holes, like dates, petty cash, and updated inventory had helped make an attempt at screwing with his spreadsheets much easier for whoever it was siphoning his earnings.

The server asked if they were ready to order, and Clark rattled off his usual, still lost in thought. He’d need to see what flower orders he was making to that specific scam store, and he’d need to re-check the quality of what he had left in the shop.

Bruce was right too, he’d need to cut out a few ventures, especially if he wanted to keep his bleeding losses at a minimum and cut the need for so much inventory.

First things first, he’ll making sure to put in the orders himself, and see who noticed first, establishing who is contacting the fake front store, and whether it’s an accident or an agreement. He thinks of Lois going to his rival and tries not to see her screwing him by changing the vendor so his competition gets more for less in their same target market.

He thinks of Chris who blatantly lied to him just to retrieve a phone number, and he thinks of Angie, who is the only person who could have possibly been spying on Bruce.

Bruce’s leg brushes his accidently under the table, and he’s brought out of his musings, looking up to see Bruce pretending the brush hadn’t happened, while smoothing out his napkin over and over again.

Clark found himself smiling at that, a habit he was all too aware started pretty recently.

The food arrived, small dishes arranged around their small table, a beer for himself and something a little more sophisticated for Bruce. Bruce whose fingers were holding the chopsticks so elegantly, soundlessly picking up food, no clack of the chopsticks against earthenware and no clink of the glass as he sipped and placed it back on the table.

He could watch the graceful symphony of utter silence and those lips when they part around a bite of food, flash of teeth and peak of a tongue, forever. He wondered what it would feel like to kiss Bruce, coax the stern mouth open until he could get a moan out of him.

Was Bruce supposed to completely change into someone so sexy, just by opening one button, and letting some of his hair fall into his eyes a little?

Or was he on the brink of infatuation now that he’d seen a different side of Bruce? Namely Bruce’s pointed gaze, his relaxed shoulders, and the way he had sat so openly in the office, that Clark had to try and fit himself in the available space and claim it.

All too soon, the meal comes to a close, and despite the fact what they’d said to each other could be condensed into a single sticky note, he’s half sure their glances, accidental touches, and subtle cues had carried a long conversation throughout the night.

They each pay separately, another conversation with hands rather than words, and Clark realizes he doesn’t want the night of furtive touches and looks to end, so he makes sure to voice his pleasure, without coming off as a creep, “sink or swim tomorrow, at least you’re stuck with me.” He gave a wink, out of flirtatious customer service habit, and was rewarded with a pursed lip from Bruce, who raised an eyebrow and said, “I expect to be paid in full, and I am not leaving until I am.”

Clark caught the edge of, sarcasm? Humor? In the tones and laughed, holding out a hand for Bruce to shake. “Scout’s honor.”

Bruce shook his hand, gave the smallest of smiles, and left.

Clark though, still had a bit more work to do, so he headed back to the store first, and left a note for what needed to be ordered.

***

They were both on tenterhooks, observing and keeping everything moving in the same order it had since Bruce’s discovery over a week ago now. But he’s fairly certain they were nearing the end. He walked into the shop, and Clark motioned him to the office, saying he’d follow soon.

There was an assortment of pastries waiting for him there, cradled into patterned wax paper, obviously freshly baked, because the smell had filled the office which always smelled must and like it needed airing out.

Clark walked in, holding a binder of what probably was, the last of his missing invoices and slips. He gave Bruce a wicked smile and a wink that somehow centered low in his belly. “Help yourself Mr. Elegant.”

It wasn’t in his nature to stuff his face in the presence of clients, but in the case of Clark, that ship had actually sailed, so he reached for a flakey croissant, filled with vanilla custard and dusted lightly with powdered sugar. He’s careful with handling it, even if his suit jacket is off, his pants aren’t protected.

He recognizes by now that he’s deeply attuned to textures, their feel, their sounds and reaction to touch, and the croissant is the same as he bites down and hears the crunch, feels the smooth cream on his tongue, and the little surprise of the sugar, that he’s desperately trying not to get on his nose.

“How do you make eating look so sexy?”

He chokes, sharp flakes lodging in his throat and quickly he places the pastry on a surface before he causes more damage than he can already see falling in crumbs over the keyboard and the floor. Clark grabs some of the tissues and the box, handing the former to him and depositing the mangled croissant in the later.

Bruce is still wiping his hands when Clark places a paper-cup with water in it for him, and he gratefully takes a drink. The mess is mostly gone, and he looks up from his inspections just in time to find his and Clark’s face nearly touching. He turns to stone, schools his features and won’t let an ounce of emotion come out. Clark blinks first, then sweeps his thumb across Bruce’s lips then licks it clean.

He wiggles his eyebrows and says, “you missed a bit of sugar there.”

Despite the pounding in his heart and the flush that is climbing up his neck, he tries to look stern while saying, “getting into my pa-..good graces won’t garner you a discount, as I’m sure I’ve told you before.”

Clark gave him that look, eyes gone wide, face somewhat chastened as his mouth turned down, and ridiculously, Bruce feels like he should pet him. A feeling that is quickly replaced with irritation because Clark is clearly playing him for a fool.

He reaches into the box, drags a finger over another mound of snowy confectionary and paints Clark’s cheek.

Clark blinks, and before he can open his mouth to ask what, Bruce smirks at him, “seems you also missed a bit.”

Bruce pretends he can’t see the flush and confusion on Clark’s face, and pretends that the act of teasing Clark back wasn’t as exhilarating as catching a glimpse of himself in the mirror when something new fits just right over the planes of his body.

At some point, Clark seems to get back to himself and moves until they’re as close as they were before, noses nearly touching.

Lois bellows Clark’s name and Bruce is treated to the rare image of Clark making an annoyed face that isn’t a direct result of being summoned by him, or being around him.

That little spark of confidence carries him through the rest of the day.

***

Bruce had sent him a single text that read ‘Done. You need to see this’.

Clark made sure his retreat into the office was as casual as he could make it, and the moment he walked in, Bruce’s grim face told him it wasn’t good news. Nor did the short explanation on why his business was a sieve.

“I’d suggest you go and count out how many orchids are left in stock, and cross-reference them with how many you’ve used since the order was made.”

By the end of his excursion, he was sure of it, the quantity of orchids in the order, didn’t match what he had on hand. Which meant that Bruce was onto something about there being a discrepancy between how much he was paying, versus what he was getting and then selling, seeing as he nearly always cleared specific flora. He tugged the mouse from under Bruce’s hand, and scrolled down to the peonies, thinking back to when he’d last made an order, then scrolled back up to check hydrangeas. The number was high, but he’d always attributed it to the fact he was buying multiple types and bunching them into one entry, but that didn’t account for the precisely round numbers when he was buying in dozens.

“I think you may have just found exactly how the money is disappearing.”

Bruce’s serious face finally held a hint of a smile, and for once, Clark wasn’t mad that this victory was garnered on his expense, seeing as Bruce had just validated his concerns, and he now knew where to set his trap. He was about to give his thanks, when Clark noticed something sticking out the back of Bruce’s collar. The electric blue satin thread was hard to miss against the crisp white shirt, and Clark had a pure moment of ‘oh shit’ when he realized what it was.

He wondered how the hell one of his decorating ribbons had ended up stuck there, of all places. Not wanting to have Bruce yell at him if he’d walked out of the place and found it later, he discreetly pinched the end of the ribbon and started pulling it out, yanking once he was sure Bruce hadn’t noticed the slide of the fabric.

Except, when he yanked it, there was resistance. And then there was Bruce, who’d whipped around, clamping a hand on his neck and glaring furiously back at him, face absolutely blistering red with anger.

That velvety voice turned to ice, grounding out a chilling, “what the hell do you think you are doing?”

He wasn’t quite expecting the venom in those words and was taken back enough to stammer out an explanation, “one of the ribbons caught in your clothes, I was just trying to pull it out. I swear!”

Bruce’s face, which had been full of anger before, paled. Suddenly, he pulled on his suit jacket, shoving folded sleeves back into constraining fabric, pulling his laptop and papers from the desk to dump into his briefcase.

This abrupt turn had Clark frozen in place, even when Bruce moved from behind the desk, brushed past him, and then disappeared through the door.

He was still reeling from what happened, when Lois found him and clucked her tongue at him for skipping out on work.

All through the rest of the day, Clark played back what had happened, over and over and came back blank each time. He’d thought they’d made some progress, had built a friendship. Maybe even a little bit more? That reaction seemed a bit more extreme than usual.

He wondered if Bruce had an OCD about cleanliness. But then, he wouldn’t have touched any of the flowers, sat in that dusty desk for the past few of weeks, and he sure as hell wouldn’t have let Clark touch his lips like he had today. Maybe he thought Clark was taking too many liberties? Maybe he was angry that Clark had touched his clothes with unclean hands? Were the clothes the cut off?

Lois’s voice penetrated the cycle of thoughts and pointed accusingly at his hands. The floral basket for the funeral order was filled with yarrow. He sheepishly picked them out again, replacing them with carnations and forget-me-nots instead.

He just couldn’t get Bruce’s strange reaction off his mind, and more than once, had to huff and start removing excess foliage from the display arrangements. He looked down at the monstrosity he’d absently created and realized it was filled with blues. Maybe sending one out to Bruce would be apology enough.

Clark realized he’d fucked up way more than he thought he did, when the flowers were returned by an older man, the butler type to boot -who he finally recalled, was named Alfred- with a note that said all further communication was to be done through phone, as Mr. Wayne was far too busy to make personal visits.

He looked back at the man who seemed apologetic, but firm in returning the flowers, and tried to make a joke, “I guess this is his way of telling me to sell more, give away less?”

The man drove the final nail into his heart by saying, “that seems to be the case. Good day.”

He was left staring at the note for a long, long time afterwards.

Chapter Text

The phone pings with the sound of an incoming message, and Clark rushes to check it. Relief, however short, fills him when he sees Bruce’s name flash at the top of his notifications. He wasn’t being abandoned this late in their investigation, but he wasn’t exactly given the warm reception he’d cultivated with the man.

It had been a week from hell, trying to get through to his accountant, attempting to understand what the hell he’d done wrong so he could apologize for it, and setting his trap at the same time. All while watching as his cashbox drained, his employees acted shifty and his patience ran thin.

His only moments of sanity were those in which he sent Bruce little updates about the plan. The first seven had gone unanswered, but by the 8th message, there was finally hope. Hope in the shape of Bruce replying that Clark’s plan was so absurd and ineffective, that he must be deliberately trying to ruin all Bruce’s hard work.

In answer to Clark’s request for help, he’s told to invest in a security camera. The ‘you idiot’ was not voiced but strongly implied, but Clark couldn’t be sure without Bruce’s facial expressions telling him so.

One more chink in his pocket, but Clark bites the bullet of the cost of the small nanny cam and sets three up, in the most needed locations, namely the office, and the little nook where orders were recorded and employees kicked back and the corridor.

He waited exactly three days. Three torturous days of ignoring his instincts, pretending everything was hunky dory, of checking himself to make sure he wasn’t treating his employees with the obvious suspicion he felt towards them, just to be sure they’d all been in to work, had at least a single interaction with each other, and had been lulled into a false sense of security so they’d got about their daily routines.

At the end of the third day and after the bank cash drop made -Bruce’s berating demand- Clark finally sat down to look through the feeds he’d been collecting, setting each memory card down in a neat row and clicking the videos with dread.

He realizes how boring it is to watch endless hours of foot traffic and his apparently not so well played anxious walk to and from cameras around halfway through the first video.

So he starts texting Bruce. Random things he noticed, how he thought this detecting business would go much faster and be more interesting than it currently was.

After who knows how many texts, Bruce sends a single text that says “x4 to x10 and get on with it.” It takes an embarrassingly long time to get what that’s supposed to mean. And maybe one more text to Bruce to clear it up, because in his mind, those xs may have meant something else.

He’s close to giving up and just going to sleep, when he finally spots something.

Clark rewinds just a bit, and watches as Angie stands outside the office door, looking through the gap, and then walks hurriedly inside. The sick feeling in his stomach grows when he sees her sit behind the desk Bruce has spent so many hours working at, and then boot up the PC.

He can’t exactly see what she’d doing from this angle, nor was the camera quality sharp enough to pick up exactly what she would have been working on. She doesn’t really take long though, and soon enough she’s walking out of the office with arms full of papers and disappears off screen. He notes the timestamp so he can check the other camera later.

He shoots off another text to Bruce, that reads, “I think it’s Angie. She went into the office and did something on the computer. She might have been the person at the door that day.”

Bruce doesn’t reply, but Clark’s half resigned now to the fact he’d caught his embezzler to feel much of anything. He speeds through the rest of the video and sees Angie pop into the office two more times, again, quick and with arms full each time.

Which, the more he thought about it, didn’t make sense? Was she printing fake invoices? Was she printing his entire excel worksheet? Which, come to think of it, was actually locked, so there was no way to access it. Unless she’d made a copy before it was locked? Still, he was sure it wouldn’t require that many trips or that many papers to print it all.

The rest of the video was just him passing by to get to his apartment and doing more of his anxious walk of ‘I’m not suspecting anyone’, so he switched to the second camera, lined up the timestamps with Angie’s trips, and watched her dash into the breakroom where she stuffed the papers into an open folder, and on the last trip, stashed the folder into her backpack. At no point did she ever acknowledge the order slip, nor pick up the phone to make an order.

Whatever Angie was doing, didn’t seem to be what has his business sinking. Or at least, maybe this wasn’t one of those days.

Just as he was about to switch the second video off, Lois walked into the same room, took a picture of the order slip, then left the office, ending the feed.

Alarm bells started going off in his head as the worst case scenario started to present itself. He tried to reason that by that time, they’d already filled in the orders, had already started working on arrangements, so there was no reason to panic and escalate a simple, possibly innocent act, into an accusation.

He hesitated before he texted Bruce again, but left it there in short fragments of speech, just to be sure he hadn’t dreamt it.

As he was loading up the second day’s video, his phone rang, making him slightly jump. He picked up the phone, and upon noticing the name on the screen, quickly hit accept.

The timbre tones he’d missed so much breathed into his ear with intimate familiarity and some of his guilt since he was spying on the people in his shop, took a step back. Which didn’t last long once Bruce said, “what exactly makes you suspect Lois? She’s your only full-time employee, right?”

Sighing because this was not the conversation he’d hoped to have with Bruce after his long silence, he told him what was really on his mind, “she took a picture of our orders that day, which in itself, not suspicious right? Except she’s been getting flower arrangement lessons at my only rival within a 50-mile radius and this feels like she’s feeding him information on what sells in our shop and what inventory I need to make my arrangements. Which is...”

“Ridiculous.”

Clark had to move the phone away from his ear for a second to stare incredulously at the phone in lieu of Bruce. “Come again?”

Bruce was silent for a beat, that Clark attributed that to the fact he could have used a different expression than come again, but soon seemed to shake it off, “every single type of flower arrangement you do, and what flowers were available in your shop for exchanging, are still up on that delivery site, even if you’ve posted the notice that operations have paused. Why would Lois have to go through the trouble of taking a picture of something she could easily find out and share without the risk of running into you as she does it?”

Annoyingly, he had a point. “I guess that’s possible.”

He could have sworn that Bruce harrumphed through the phone, but was distracted by something on the feed. “Hold on, I think there’s something..weird? On the video.”

Going back to the specific clip, he watched as Chris looked at the list, picked up the office phone and dialed a number he seemed to know by heart. He placed the handle back in its cradle without having a conversation or putting the handle to his ear at all. Then he whipped out his phone and called someone. He noticed a small paper in his hand, that Chris put back into his pocket after his mouth started moving, clearly speaking to someone. He turned so his back was to the door and the order was in front of him. He clicked off and then left the office.

“Well?”

Startled because he’d forgotten Bruce was on the phone, he asked a question instead of explaining, “what does it mean when you call a phone number but hang up without speaking once it connects, then calling another number?”

“Are you sure it connected?”

Clark frowned, “Chris didn’t even have the handle anywhere near his ears, so I assume a conversation was never intended to happen.”

“Do you have a call back service?”

Something was slowly clicking into place, and a little distracted, he replied “yeah. Just a sec,” while he loaded the feed from the other camera, both dreading and hoping he was right. It was nearly an hour later on the feed, that he spotted Chris going into the office, and printing out a single sheet of paper.

He rubbed his eyes and sighed, “it’s Chris.”

Bruce’s voice was like an anchor to Clark’s thoughts, echoing what he must have suspected had happened, judging by his call back question, “he printed the fake invoice, didn’t he? I should call the original vendor and see if they have a phone harassment issue.”

Both were quiet. Clark, trying to collect his thoughts, mind racing, trying to come up with a new plan of action, and Bruce? Well, who knew with Bruce?

“Are you alright? Can you handle it from here?”

Clark laughed, a short bark of mirthless, air expulsion and said sarcastically, “why wouldn’t I be alright? I just found out my employees are acting shifty, one is actively stealing, and two I don’t know what the hell are doing, and..,” he cut himself off, swallowing the ‘my accountant freaked out on me and left me chasing after crumbs of communication.

Possibly psychic, or not wanting to encourage whatever tirade Clark wanted to launch into, Bruce said, “things can only look up from here, you can absolutely turn it around. Your business is not suffering because you are without talent, and once this issue is resolved, you will be the better for it.”

Pretty words that probably should have made him less depressed about the prospect of going down to work and getting some damn answers, except that the words were also incredibly telling of the fact Bruce had no intention of coming back or setting foot in the shop again. “You’re talking like you won’t be there to see it.”

The loaded silence split apart with Bruce’s, “I’ll send you the invoice soon, you can mail the check to the office.”

What more could Clark say? Was there any point bringing up what the hell had happened that day? Probably not. “Okay. Guess that’s all there is to say then?”

“Goodnight, Mr. Kent.”

And fuck if that didn’t hurt Clark to hear as it was followed by silence and the reality of three confrontations waiting for him in less than five hours.

“’Night.”

***

Bruce massages his temple as another message pops on the screen of his phone announcing that Clark had just one more update to give him.

It’s not out of annoyance though, it’s out of exasperation that the man wasn’t going to give up. Made entirely worse by the fact Bruce felt a smidgen guilty over his grand, not so maiden-ly escape from the flower shop a few weeks ago by now.

A smidgen because he realized, quite quickly, that Clark in fact did think he’d plucked an excess length of ribbon from Bruce’s shirt, and that his secret was safe and would stay safe as long as Clark never imagined him in sheer, blue, bikini tops, or happened to accidently catch another of Bruce’s oversights.

There’s a tinge of regret in having cut short their acquaintance, even if it was getting entirely too unprofessional, entirely too familiar, and entirely too tempting to confide and seek acceptance from the closest thing he’d had to a peer in a very long time.

Which is exactly why he took the incident as the wakeup call it was, stopped communications, and began to steer the relationship back towards its correct course. The professional course. The course where he sat behind a desk and worked magic with numbers, gave sound advice on how to handle new ventures or avenues of profit and how to balance books so taxes aren’t a daunting task.

Having his secret safe, however, wasn’t the exhale of overwhelming relief that he believed it would be, not, when locking himself away at work to expel the tension caused by the threat of discovery, meant feeling the walls once more close around him, the space caging him, and the pressure of his parent’s words pressing down on him.

He feels the edge of the undergarment, seeking comfort in its silkiness, which was keeping the rather over-starched shirt from sticking to his skin, acting as a repellent. He gets away with it because, the color is matching the shirt, and the texture in the shirt hides it, especially as the edges are smooth and hardly leave a line, and his jacket is never removed in the company of others. Which brings his thoughts right back to Clark, who’d charmed him out of his jacket, charmed him into sharing a meal, charmed him into dropping his guard a little, not because he believes Clark to be someone especially exceptional, but because it felt like Clark could see him, could read right through his soul and drag him into the light. Because Clark could identify how starved for attention, for touch, Bruce really was.

It was the first time he’d been seen for himself, for Bruce and not for the Wayne name and what it meant to the rest of the people residing in the corporate world.

The piece of fabric bringing him joy is suddenly too restrictive, too tight, digging into his skin, sucking all the air out of the office.

He doesn’t take his jacket off, instead, he invites more pain by reading through the latest in Clark’s life.

There are hints of bemusement in the texts, particularly where Clark describes his ambush on both Angie, and on Lois. Lois, who turns out, really was acting as an undercover spy because she was one. For Clark. Which Clark found out when she berated him for thinking she’d ever betray him that way, and who colored crimson to the tips of her hairline when he brought up the list she’d secretly photographed.

Another mystery was solved when he saw that she’d been hard at work trying to imitate his color scheme for an arrangement she was hoping to submit for a competition. Clark had even attached a picture of the monstrosity, which, while colorful, was asymmetrical, bending oddly in some areas, and had either too short or too long stems. Somewhat like an ill organized class photograph where height was an afterthought. Clark had offered to teach her for free, if she stopped with the rival flower shop spy nonsense. No luck so far.

Angie’s shiftiness was also far less sinister than either he or Clark expected. Honestly though, he’s a tad mad at himself for not recognizing the signs of a starving college student making use of a resource available to them. Namely, the fact Angie was using Clark’s computer and printer to print school work, lecture notes, and coupons to cut later on, thinking he wouldn’t notice since the stack of papers was hidden somewhere behind the desk and Clark refilled the tray maybe, once every month, not really realizing he was digging further and further into the box to retrieve them.

Which left Chris.

Not much to say there except that, Chris had taken badly to being exposed, and the confrontation had turned hostile. No wonder, once Bruce found out who the supposed supplier was. He allowed himself a brief upward turn of the mouth, it was good to know he still held some clot when it came to previous clients, even if he didn’t intend on poaching them from his family.

It was surprisingly easy to get the records and find out they were dealing with a small time crook, who roped in a kid with a chip on his shoulder. Chris would fashion the fake invoices on his computer, call the original vendor just so the call was on record if anyone hit call back, which Clark frequently did, when a customer asked for a specific arrangement or flower and Clark had to go back and check for. Then Chris would call his accomplice, who’d buy the flowers much cheaper, inflate the price, and bring them around the shop.

Clark hadn’t noticed since the van was incredibly similar to the one he was used to seeing, and he had admitted himself that the book-keeping had fallen to the wayside so that was another reason. Chris had left in an undignified huff and since, had started to harass Clark and his business. Things like knocking over the overflowing bin in the back to hinder deliveries and get Clark into trouble with a fine, spraying messages on the windows and exposed brick of the shop’s side.

Bruce found himself wondering if Clark had done anything to stop these attempts since, other than finally reporting them when Bruce not so subtly called him an idiot for not wanting to take action against a ‘kid’ when Chris was the reason Clark had been a hair trigger away from losing his business and that what was happening was vandalism, not petty harassment. Either the thought had sobered him up, or he’d really gotten mad, because he hadn’t texted Bruce about the matter since.

And there he was, lamenting the fact he probably entirely drove him away, like he’d wanted and intended. He blames the melancholy on the fact he had also made some changes to his own business, though reluctantly. Starting with cutting off, and rejecting the big client who’d given him the run around these past few weeks, rescheduling right at the last moment and completely wasting Bruce’s time when commute took so long. He didn’t want to believe his family might have a hand in this brand of harassment, but it seemed he’d turned into a skeptic.

He's sighing, looking out the window and wondering about his next step after, wondering if he should cut Clark loose too, for his own professionalism and sanity, when he spots it.

There’s smoke. And it was coming from the direction of Clark’s shop. Clark’s flower shop, where Clark also resided.

Bruce doesn’t remember bolting out of his chair, nor does he remember leaving the office, but he’s out on the street and running towards the shop without a single glance back.

Without his jacket.

***

When Clark woke up to the musty air in his apartment above the store, he immediately knew that the power was out. He barely remembers the trip from the bed to the shop, to the back where the generator was kept, all he remembers is the shocking read on the thermometer, and the instant panic.

He used the generator to power the cooler and bringing an extension cord to connect his fridge upstairs. Hopefully the generator would power the two until he could get someone to see what the problem was. He sighed, ever since he fired Chris, he’d been getting harassed none stop. He’d taken Chris’ last wages in lieu of making a police report and returning all the money he’d lost. He’d thought that was a fair exchange, rather than make Chris completely unemployable by having it on his record.

Guess he hadn’t been firm enough. Guess he should have also changed the locks. He hoped this new trouble wasn’t due to Chris as well, because this kind of criminal behavior was no longer a level of harassment he could ignore. He sighed again, making a phone call to get this sorted out before he lost any more money.

Thankfully, not all the stock had withered and cooked inside the cooler, though some of the arrangements from the day before had slightly wilted. He’d mostly cleared through the excess stock yesterday, so it wasn’t a big hit, just a huge annoyance.

The rest of the day hadn’t gotten better either, not with Angie out for good, out of her own sense of guilt, and not with Lois turning in atrocities and trying to pass them off as arrangements, before she too had clocked out to go on her not so sneaky ‘spy’ business as she referred to it as.

All things considered, working on his own in silence, without the worry of being taken for a fool, without the constant doubts and mental exercises and loops, without the stress of checking in, was a blessing. Probably. Maybe it would have been better if he wasn’t out of power and relying on a tiny generator while waiting for someone to come and check out just what the hell had caused his electricity to vanish. Maybe it would have gone better if he wasn’t itching to touch his phone and firing off a text to tell Bruce about his day, about how he’s doing since cutting out the gazillion venues he was selling to and no longer had to constantly be on his phone to check and reply to them.

He'd also, at some point, would like to know just what the hell had happened. Was an answer too much to ask for?

He stayed like that for most of the day, internal monologuing, getting up to check who walked into the store when he heard the bell at the door, ushering in the electrician and showing him the fuse box, leaving him to sort out if something had short-circuited at some point.

Clark went back to his musings after the disturbing news that someone had tampered with his electric box and pulled at least one electrical wire from somewhere, forcing the breaker to constantly disconnect so as to avoid an electrical fire from a fried fuse.

Not an accident then. Just his luck.

It wasn’t long after that the electrician had left, sticking him with a sizable bill, having had to canvases the whole place for the faulty wire. If Clark ever got his hands on Chris again, he’d be taking it out of his hide.

Once he heard his fire alarm going off, he cursed and yelled to the high heavens. The humidity probably triggered the wretched thing, and now he had to go turn it off before the sprinklers exploded all over his shop and he got a fine for a false alarm.

Except, not much had changed since the electricity kicked back in, and even if his cooling system had coughed up some dust as it restarted, that didn’t explain why the alarm was going off.

He sprinted to the apartment upstairs, checking to see if the issue was up there, but there was nothing, not even a stir or change in the stale air. The electronics were buzzing like normal, the kitchen area dark, and so was the bathroom. He rushed back down to utter mayhem, with the sprinkles blasting, alarm going off like crazy, and the shrill of his mobile’s ringtone joining the orchestra of musical disaster.

Still, he couldn’t locate the fucking fire that was the cause of all of this, and he was getting soaked as he manically ran from corner to corner. He turned towards the front and was met with Bruce’s frantic gaze.

Clark barely asks, “how-” when Bruce cut him off quickly.

“I saw from the office. I think it’s coming from the back.”

And sure as hell, the moment he pulls the backdoor, the giant receptable of organic material is shooting fire, the flames licking at the side of his door, getting closer to setting whatever varnish or paint on fire.

Together with empty flower buckets they start to put the fire out, but since it triggered the sprinklers, at some point, Bruce abandons him and rushes to save the files in the office, where the deeds, physical invoices and the computer is, telling Clark to let him take care of unplugging all the electronics as not to cause an electrical fault as well.

Soon the sounds of the sirens can be heard in the distance, a little too late as the fire was out, leaving an ashy, sooty mulch where flower cuttings and stems once resided.

He walked back in to check in on Bruce and his breath catches in his throat. Bruce is drenched to hell and back, and that’s when Clark sees the faint outline of what he’s wearing under his white shirt.

He doesn’t think twice before he takes off his apron and tries to wrap it around Bruce, telling him to go up to his apartment upstairs and wait until he’s talked to the firemen.

Bruce’s face is a study in emotions, chief among them is resignation and dread. So Clark grips the hand closest to him and squeezes, his words coming out in a rush, “please don’t leave. Please wait for me.”

The short nod is all the confirmation he needs to finally loosen his grip on the man and let him go.

It takes -what feels like anyway- hours with the firemen, trying to ascertain the cause of the fire. All he can think about is the endless thrumming of his heart, knowing that Bruce is inside, waiting for him, probably undressing, revealing whatever surprise Clark hadn’t caught more than a glimpse of on top, and none under tight but dark suit pants. Probably something thin enough that Clark hadn’t seen a clear outline. He swallowed thickly and tried to focus on what he needed to do for now, to get his shop open again while an investigation took place.

His neighbor, the guy who operates the small café, pops in and mentions that he’s actually got one camera trained that way, since they both share the back area, and the interrogation redirects that way for a while. And just maybe, Clark deliberately doesn’t mention the witness hiding in his flat, soaked to the bone, and sexy as all fuck so that the moment he’s allowed to go inside, he doesn’t have to come back out again.

***

‘Unsure’ was beginning to feature too heavily in his thoughts. He’s half chastising himself, half relieved that he’d jumped into action, that he’d followed a surprising instinct to protect, regardless of the fallout and the harm to himself. Not because he had a death wish, nor out of poor self-preservation, but because at that one, stark moment, his goal was clear, sure, and so were his feelings, laid bare for him not to confuse or walk away from.

He'd thought of Clark, unsuspecting, in possible danger, and his body had told him what he’d tried to deny all this time.

But now, standing in the middle of Clark’s apartment, sopping wet and a touch cold, he can’t see where this is headed, other than down the road to disappointment and hard truth. He tried not to recall how Clark had looked when he’d spotted Bruce’s clothes, tried not to wonder what Clark thought as he took off his apron and covered Bruce with it. Tried not to hope that Clark’s ask that he not leave, wasn’t going to turn into Clark taking pity on him, affirming his ‘weirdness’ only to say it’s not for him.

Bruce is not the kind of man who has a lump in his throat as he waits for someone else to make a move, he’s not the kind of man who waits around for possible rejection. But he remembers those gentle hands holding a small flower, eyes twinkling as they assess an arrangement, and the man who wouldn’t even properly punish a thieving employee out of pity, and having that kindness, any part of it, bestowed on him? Makes it harder for him to swallow properly.

And if it was all going to end tonight, it’s not like he hadn’t started over once before, he could do it again. This time though, he wasn’t going to grovel and ask for understanding, regardless of how he’s constantly made to feel, like it’s shameful and wrong, this time, he would use the knowledge that he’s thrived despite his family’s warnings and predictions, to stand his ground.

Which is why, he’s entirely too calm, even when, lost in his thoughts, he doesn’t hear Clark come up behind him, and only notices because suddenly, there’s a pair of strong, tan arms circling his middle from behind.

A ‘thank you’ is whispered from behind, muffled by the wet skin of his neck, and despite himself, there’s a shudder when he feels that puff of air on the chilled spot. “Do they need a testimony from me? Should I head back down?”

Clark doesn’t really move away, but he’s no longer close enough to be mouthing Bruce’s neck, “I may have deliberately not mentioned you or that there was anyone inside the building currently.”

If it wasn’t unbecoming, he would have rolled his eyes, as it were, he compensated with a small shake of his head. Except, now he second guesses the meaning in the words, better to be sure, better to rip off the band aid now than wait and see, even though it feels like a sharp stab of ice in his chest when he says, “is it because you’re too worried they’ll take a single, telling look and lump us together?”

And maybe it was a bad idea, because now his chest feels constricted, breath wheezing as he takes it in quietly and around Clark’s tightening grip around him.

“No. Why would you even say that? I just thought of how you’d feel going down there with wet clothes, when you stopped talking to me on the assumption I knew your -frankly really hot- secret, and I thought we were on good terms. Being seen next to you would only drive up my stocks.”

“Which stocks are they? The circus freak show stocks?” It stung as he said it, but Clark was sounding so ludicrous that someone had to be the voice of reason, even if Bruce was ultimately offering himself at the altar of ridicule.

Except, maybe that had the opposite effect, as the arms withdrew.

Then he was physically turned, and upon meeting Clark’s gaze, the intensity in them made his, downcast. “Do you really believe that?”

When he didn’t answer or offer up an explanation, Clark lifted Bruce’s chin up so he wasn’t looking fixedly at Clark’s Adam’s apple. “Do I take your response to mean this was the reason you put some distance between us?”

And like that, the charade was up, perhaps sooner than Bruce expected, because their eyes met and Clark confirmed whatever it was he thought he knew about Bruce. Probably repressed, cold and unyielding and the thought unstuck his tongue from the roof of his mouth, prompted by sudden, silent anger -at himself really before anyone else-, “If I can’t stand to look at myself, how do you expect me to show others my shameful self? How can I advise you after you lose all respect for me? Do you think I can endure knowing you find me appalling, but still smile in my face out of pity? That you see me as lesser than?”

Clark shook his head, and what looks to be crushing pain, is etched in every feature as he said, “you helped me see I needed to pull my head out of my ass and actually learn how to manage my business, now let me return the favor. Let me help you realize that there’s nothing about this that is shameful, disgusting or unlovable. Baby, you don’t know just how sexy you look, or how hard I’m trying to hold myself back. I want to show you, can I?”

Can he? Bruce’s affliction, his confusion doesn’t lessen, but it’s overpowered by the overwhelming hope in those words. He lies to himself, tells himself there is a chance, no matter how slim, and if it turns into the absolute disaster he knows it will? He can always walk away, right?

Lump still in his throat, he nods.

***

Clark mouths the delicate skin and whispers “you’re beautiful,” before he kisses Bruce’s neck. And when he’s not rejected, he continues, taking off the clinging, flimsy, wet shirt and kissing the center of Bruce’s chest, right in the dip of his bralette, fingering the edge, and looking for permission to explore.

Bruce has an arm covering his mouth and nose, but his eyes are a little teary, even as he watches Clark love on him.

He kisses the fabric some more, mouthing a line from the bra to the waistband of Bruce’s pants. He begs Bruce with a please, to let him see, and Bruce covers his whole face before nodding.

Clark sees the sexy white pair with the ribbons on each side and ruching in the back, and he helps Bruce get out of the pants entirely. He kisses all the exposed flesh and then mouths Bruce’s package in the soft fabric, and doesn’t stop, even when Bruce humps his face, hands now down and gripping Clark’s hair so tightly he feared he’d go bald.

Bruce shoots in his delicate underwear and his knees buckle with the power of the orgasm, and Clark is there to catch him, to see him come apart, and his own underwear is a slick mess, responding to the vision in white in front of him. To the stoic face, the rumbling voice, all transformed by the power of pleasure. Clark holds him, and kisses him, and both loves and hates that this gift has only ever had him to enjoy it; heart in pain for Bruce who’d repressed this irresistible part of himself, denying himself for so long, and wicked joy that he’s going to be the one to show Bruce everything, to enjoy every pleasurable, blissful first.

He's lost in the possibilities of everything, when Bruce tugs his hair, making him look up. “I’m not sure what other plans are running through your head, but maybe a shower first?”

So they get in the shower, and Clark crowds Bruce against the cold tile, sharing the spritz of warm water turning lukewarm as the heater tries to make up for lost time, but is barely able to heat whatever they were already using. Clark makes up for the water by soaping Bruce from head to toe, latching on his skin now that it’s bare, fingers tracing the faint outlines left by fabric and elastic, massaging the skin.

He gets an unexpected surprise in the form of a foamy dollop of soap, working his own length. He laughs, having wondered how long it would take Bruce to shed his submissive act, and is rewarded with a tighter grip that has him groaning and pushing into the fist pulling him closer to Bruce.

The moment is right, charged with desire and infinite sensation, not to mention an explosion of adrenaline from a long, disastrous day where Bruce rushing to check up on him is at the pinnacle. He brushes sudsy fingers along Bruce’s cheek, crushes their mouths together and pours these feelings into him in short, breathless gasps.

It takes no time at all for him to spill all over Bruce’s hand and stomach. In good time too, as the water starts to threaten towards the icy.

They’re a little more conservative with the use of water after that.

***

He’s grabbing an extra towel for himself when he spots Bruce at the sink, hand washing the stain on the white panties, being careful, hands reddened from the cold water.

“Oh, you should’ve told me I missed them. I haven’t run the cycle on your clothes yet, I’ll just chuck them in too.”

Bruce turned to him, eyes murderous like he’d never seen them before, not even when he was chasing Clark around for the invoices and when he first checked that embarrassing excel sheet. It was the chastisement of a lifetime, invoking such artful words as, “ignorant flower obsessed ill-attentive brute” and a sermon on the need to, “delicately handle fabrics so they don’t stain, scuff or rip entirely by disintegration, and ruining the elasticity by overstretching and heat. All of which is simply common sense.”

Then Bruce seemed to catch himself and he’s so stoically embarrassed afterwards, face the color of a prune that Clark can’t resist how fucking cute he is, and he has him again, towel ripped off, still wet bodies, scrabbling on the bed, rubbing together. Clark snakes a hand further down, pushing it in the small space between them, stroking hard flesh and watching Bruce’s reaction, not believing people had left the sensual man alone, staring as he practically shakes from stimulation. And Clarks wants to see what more he can do, wants to see how Bruce opens up to his fingers, how far he would let Clark in, so he keeps brushing Bruce’s hole every once in a while, gauging his reaction.

The first few passes, he sees Bruce freeze, he doesn’t object, doesn’t voice a rejection. In fact, he barely breathes and Clark is worried it’s more than nerves and decides to stop. Except, Bruce shakes his head, flushed red from collarbone to chest and holds Clark’s hand in place.

His mind is blown. Completely and utterly.

Bruce is absolutely silent, and Clark is in awe of the gift he’s being given, so he decides to return the favor, to show his appreciation. He brushes up his seduction skills, and talks dirty.

He mumbles filthy little promises of later times, kissing up Bruce’s jaw as he tells him about how he’d love to “finger this tight bud through some sexy lingerie, one of those open backed ones? Mmm where I could slip my fingers through easily and give you some love. Work you over until you’re making a mess that I’ll taste through the fabric, my tongue digging the silky material in, and rubbing it all over your sensitive cock.”

Bruce’s breathing becomes labored, and Clark grins against the thin skin of his neck, his finger having made a trip back towards their cocks, gathering as much slick as he can before slowly, finally breaching Bruce’s hole.

There’s a gasp, a half swallowed cry, and Clark knows it’s now or never, quickly lowering himself so his mouth is inches away from Bruce’s cock. Bruce shoots the moment his cock is in Clark’s mouth. Clark’s long finger is pegging his prostate, while he’s sucking the head of Bruce’s cock, pulling off only when he’s absolutely dry and shaking.

He is seconds behind, fisting his dick, eyes trained on the sight of Bruce with his eyes shut tight and his body quivering, shivering in the aftermath of his orgasm.

He feels it to his core, knows this is right where he’s meant to be, right who he’s meant to be with and he can’t wait to have this again.

***

The shop is closed for a few days while the investigation about the fire is ongoing and Clark submits his camera feed. Time that Bruce spends on recruitment, time that Bruce spends chastising Clark for sending rather inappropriate images and suggestive messages, to his work cell of all the audacious things.

He sends one more scathing response, asking Clark to, “please behave,” and that he was, “not going to deign to respond to the question,” of what underwear Bruce was wearing today and in which color, let alone take a secret photo in the bathroom. The sheer nerve.

Clark had gotten bolder after that first night together, which he believes is mostly because Clark is absolutely bored, now that all he does all day is twiddle his thumb while the whole shop gets a facelift.

Chris had given up the location of his accomplice, who ran the scam, and Clark was reimbursed for every penny, plus repairs due to insurance. That meant that, during the process of insurance investigation and gathering evidence and due to some damage caused by the electricity going out and then the sprinklers exploding in help, the shop had to stay closed for a few weeks to undergo renovation and repair water damage. At first, Bruce was so relieved that Clark had insured the business, as per his insistence before, that he took the shop’s downtime as a tentative opportunity to be with Clark before things were hectic once more. Except that now, Clark was living the high life while doing some of the reno himself to save money and to stay on the insurance’s budget. Meaning, he had entirely too much free time these days. Days he was using to the full, basically tormenting Bruce, overcharging his nerve endings until he lost track of who he was, and what he was protesting mere moments before as he lay in a heaping mess of sweat and liquid limbs.

Days that Clark spends opening Bruce up with his tongue, because he’d worn a panty with a peekaboo gap over his hole, days he spends worshiping every part of Bruce’s body, when he walks in tired, and dressed in lace garters to match the sexy black lace panties that don’t even cover half his ass cheeks.

Days that Bruce spends more on his back than his feet, and more naked than dressed. Not that he doesn’t start out clothed. In fact, he’s depleted his existing inventory of lingerie, broken into every tissue-papered box and ruined at least one pair of lace bikini briefs, that Clark’s massive hands had unapologetically ripped through one night.

He’s not the type to blush, to color aside from bites and bruises, but he has no other explanation for why his face is so constantly warm to the touch these days. But if he had to guess? It is probably because at some point during their vigorous but unintentional untucking of the sheets, their fights over which color complimented Bruce’s skin more, and which show was more important, the news or the DIY channel, Bruce had stopped waiting for the other shoe to drop, for pity or disgust to make a sudden, sharp appearance.

Though yellow and black are more his colors, he still buys the ensemble in red, because, he reasons, blue would just give Clark a bigger head, and act as a reminder of the ribbon.

So, in answer to the warmth, he deduces that he’s perhaps a tad thankful -though still mostly annoyed by Clark and his lack of business planning, his poor book-keeping, and his complete disregard for personal space- and decides to show how thankful he is with a meal.

Except, not wanting to elicit Alfred’s help in planning said meal, in case he is subjected to the third degree level of interrogation he usually doles out, he decides to prepare it on his own.

Who knew tomato paste was so vindictive and spiteful? Were Bruce not running out of time he had dedicated to a shower and setting the dinner down in an elegant manner, he might have attempted to better understand why tomato puree thought so highly of itself that it hissed and spat as it sizzled on the pan, making him focus on defending himself with the pot lid, rather than on the pasta which had reduced so much that the lack of liquid had scorched the bottom and made some still firm bites of pasta stick.

The take out service arrived within thirty minutes. He told himself it was the thought that counted. He told himself that the other surprise he’d prepared for Clark would make up for the fact whatever dinner he’d planned, was scraped in the trash and replaced with food scooped out of a container.

And it does, because Clark’s eyes are liquid fire as they take in the sight. There are a dozen roses on the top, and one huge rose decorating the front of his panties, the detail so intricate, that Clark seems to forgets himself and fingers the lines as if bringing another bud to bloom.

He plays with Bruce’s nipples, snaps the elastic of the panties, fingers Bruce over the rose and they both watch as a string forms from the wetness under the fabric, caught on Clark’s fingers, and Clark licks it all, then leans down, face between Bruce’s legs, and sucks him through the lace.

He keeps the panties to the side, working a thumb first, causing Bruce’s breath to hitch and then he’s full. So full and stuck between wanting and knowing, stuck between surprise and hope it’ll always be this way, that it’s not a fluke and he won’t have to go back to that desperate place where the walls are so heavy as they stacked above him.

Bruce feels wide open, his emotions, his aches and his hole a sensitive bundle of nerves and the itching, scratching of skin and then they’re making love, Bruce’s stocking covered feet -garter long surrendered and detached as Clark bit the smooth flesh- slide over Clark’s back. Clark murmurs how he loves the smoothness sliding down to rest on his ass, how Bruce’s toes are branding him, digging into his skin, while the face in front of him is so lost to the pleasure, a picture of desire that half of is hiding in the pillow; so Bruce tries to hide the rest. But Clark leans down to nip and tease the only exposed ear, and Bruce’s face turns back to him, flushed, teary and they kiss. Long and deep as their pace slows down once more, sweat rolling down their bodies, fire rising up.

He won’t beg, but the fabric is cutting lines in his skin, the friction of the lace is killing him, abrasive on the wet head of his cock as Clark’s body shoves the edge of it with his every push and maddening drag along his walls. But perhaps a cry, a sob, or a prayer slips out between shudders and moans, because Clark releases Bruce’s straining dick, rolling the waist down and loosening the fabric enough that he can pull Bruce out, and starts to jerk him off, fist tight and mimicking his thrusts, and Bruce wraps his arms around Clark’s neck so they’re just that much closer to being one person, while Clark’s cock is buried to the pubes and balls inside Bruce’s tight, tight hole.

Then he comes, and it’s glorious, blinding, painful in the way it wheezes out of him in absolute relief and overwhelming affection.

He’s still heaving, trying to get his breath back, get his body to stop shaking so much, feeling the tendrils of doubt, regret and disgust as they try to push their way through what he knows is a rush of endorphins that like to make everything seem easy, rosy, smooth and attainable until it makes way for crushing reality.

But then Clark moves closer to him, with that sunny grin, those wicked hands and eyes, full of promise, and in contrast to all that seduction, slowly, carefully, peels off the stockings, rolls them all the way down and folds them neatly.

He takes the panties down next, stretches them the tinniest bit so they won’t scratch against still sensitized skin, loose garters then the bralette.

They’re skin to skin, surrounded by lace and ribbons, by Bruce’s armor, separated into pieces. But that’s alright, because Clark envelopes him, chases thoughts of rejection away, and in that moment, Clark becomes Bruce’s sanctuary, becomes his armor.

***

Clark goes to visit Bruce’s office, holding a huge bouquet of roses, and a small, wrapped gift box. He hasn’t walked into the office in ages, but he’s not surprised that the door is closed. Bruce had managed the great feat of expanding the business enough that he needed several extra hands, his employees now crowding over cubicles while Alfred entertained with refreshments, offers of taking things off your hand and summoning his employer, because his true calling had turned out to be, a butler. Who knew?

Not that he needs Alfred’s help to locate Bruce.

When he pushes the door open, Bruce is there, a vision of stern competence and intelligence, and it’s enough to make Clark’s heart palpitate. Because, under all that poise and elegance, an outfit just for their eyes was squeezing every bit of curve.

“I wasn’t expecting you today, Mr. Kent. To what do I owe the pleasure?”

Bruce’s eyes were trained on the bouquet rather than Clark, that is, until he reached back behind him and locked the office door.

Instead of protesting, Bruce raises an elegant eyebrow, but otherwise, doesn’t rebuff Clark, nor asks him to open the door. So Clark produces the box, and makes sure Bruce can see exactly how slim it is, and small, despite being rectangular.

He places it on the desk in front of Bruce, whose eyes have a touch of heat in them, telling him without words that Bruce approved.

“Open it.”

What comes out of the box, to Bruce’s clear amazement is a ruffled pantie with a white lace top, that has the smallest nipple covering triangles Clark had ever seen, and they’re connected with a string which ties in the back rather than a clasp. Clark clears his throat as he watches Bruce brush the material with tentative and careful fingers, whatever speech he’s rehearsed nearly escapes him, but he makes an effort to say it around the lump in his throat.

“The flowers are actually the bigger part of the gift. I thought long and hard about what to make to show you exactly what you mean to me. After a few attempts, I realized I’d gone about this the wrong way, the same way I’d gone about it when you first showed up at my door. So I’m now going to make a lovely flower arrangement with your body as the central piece, making sure every inch of you is kissed by velvety petals. Even if I have to spend days covering you in them.”

Bruce beckons him with a finger, spreading his legs on the chair in invitation while holding a finger to his mouth in a request for silence and Clark moved into the space that’s now his, drops down to his knees and unzips Bruce to see a bright red satin thong. He reaches with his mouth to snap the fabric against Bruce’s skin, while Bruce slides one hand inside his own shirt, and grips Clark’s hair, hard, with the other hand.

Clark grins, in that way only Bruce could make him grin.

He’d always said, a gentle hand and love were the secrets to a beautiful bloom.