An Innocent Cicisbeo, Chapter 3

[mithen]

Title: An Innocent Cicisbeo (3/5)
Characters: Clark Kent/Bruce Wayne; Wonder Woman, Perry White, Alfred Pennyworth
Fandom: DC Comics
Warnings/Spoilers: None
Rating: R
Word Count: 4600
Summary: Kal deals with the aftermath of his confrontation with the Earl of Gotham, and Bruce deals with some unexpected complications.
Notes: Written for the Unconventional Courtship challenge, and based on the summary for the Harlequin romance An Innocent Courtesan. "Cicisbeo" was an actual term of the time for a male "gallant and lover" of a married woman...I have manufactured a cheerfully pansexual Regency for the purposes of this story.



A letter from the Earl the morning after last night's debacle! He certainly hadn't wasted any time, thought Kal glumly. Well, better to get it over with quickly. He pushed the rest of his meal over to Steve, even the faint shreds of his appetite gone, and made his way through the corridors to Perry's office, ignoring the states of his co-workers.

"Is there a problem, Chief?"

"Don't call me Chief," Perry growled automatically. He held up a piece of heavy cream paper with a broken seal of black wax thick upon it. "This is from Wayne."

"Yes sir," Kal said blandly.

"You do understand he is a man of considerably more power than we're used to dealing with here?"

"Yes sir."

"This is not an enemy we can afford to make, Starr."

"No sir. I'm sorry, sir."

Perry sighed. "I'm the one who's sorry," he said. He tossed the paper down. "Bruce Wayne, Earl of Gotham, has requested he be your patron. He wishes to dine alone this evening."

"What?"

Perry pointed to his right. "There's a chair. Sit," he said, and Kal realized his legs had gone distinctly wobbly. He sat, feeling dazed.

"But--why?"

"He says he found you intriguing and wishes to know you better." Perry shrugged. "Perhaps he has a secret penchant for being humiliated by beautiful men."

"Oh God," said Kal.

Perry gave him a keen look. "You can turn him down," he said.

"But you said--"

"--We've made enemies before. We'll cope with it."

"But he could be an invaluable resource," Kal said. "He knows so many people. He probably is privy to reams of information without even realizing it."

"I won't force you to be bound to a man you can't stand."

I'm already more bound to him than you can imagine. Aloud, Kal said "I can handle him."

"You're sure?"

"I can handle him," Kal said more firmly.

Perry looked dubious, but finally nodded. "He informs us that he requires a private room for dinner with you at seven o'clock sharp. I guess you'd best get ready."

He's a valuable resource, Kal reminded himself as he left Perry's office and headed upstairs once more to stare blankly at his wardrobe for an hour. I'm doing this to help the people of London. That's all.

He changed outfits five times before the evening came, finally settling on a simple dark-gray coat with a red silk ascot and a dark blue waistcoat, the one concession to flash the lace at the cuffs--lace was old-fashioned, he knew, but he always loved the way it framed gestures.

And then he went to the private dining room to await the arrival of his husband and new patron.

"My Lord is in a hurry," Alfred murmured as he finished tying Bruce's cravat into the complex knot that only he could manage. All the other young Corinthians of London yearned to copy it, but the skill belonged to Alfred alone.

"The sooner I can get to the salon and finish dinner, the sooner I can make my excuses and slip away," Bruce said. "I really think this deal with Il Pianeta might work out," he added. Keeping all of his different excuses and alibis straight was starting to become difficult--when he was in polite society, he would use his "poor dear invalid husband" as a reason to leave early. When he was engaged in activities of the more...unsavory type, whether gaming, boxing, or tippling, he let people think he was slipping away to visit a lover--after all, no one thought flighty Bruce Wayne would actually be devoted to an ill husband. It had worked well so far--if his respectable friends suspected he had a lover, and if his dissolute friends suspected he actually cared about his husband, well then, each of them could believe they had uncovered Bruce Wayne's secret.

Let people discover one secret about you, Bruce had discovered, and they tended to stop looking for anything deeper.

"Forgive my impertinence," said Alfred, poker-faced as Bruce shot him a look that said Have I any choice?, "But I am curious why you chose to associate with that particular cicisbeo. Based on your account of last night, I would think you would prefer to spend your time with someone more...pliant."

Bruce busied himself with his various foppish gewgaws: the ornate snuff box, the ridiculous quizzing glass, the jeweled watch fob. After a moment he said, "I have my reasons, Alfred."

Alfred nodded and said no more, which somehow did not improve Bruce's mood. But what the devil those reasons are, I have no idea! he fumed to himself. He had gone looking for someone shallow and mercenary, regardless of sex: someone who he could trust to keep silent about trysts skipped and sordid evenings abandoned early because he paid enough. Another source of alibi, another way to hide his true nocturnal activities. Kal Starr did not seem in the least shallow, nor the slightest mercenary. And certainly not at all "pliant," he thought sourly, glaring at himself in the mirror. No, instead he was sharp and stinging, dismissive and downright rude.

He was also impossibly lovely, but surely that was not reason enough to choose such a patently unsuitable cicisbeo. Bruce Wayne, Earl of Gotham and secret vigilante of London, was not one to have his head turned by a pair of brilliant blue eyes and a sweetly curved upper lip. No, nor by hair that gleamed like satin, nor nimble and expressive hands, and not even by the most well-shaped legs of the ton.

Bruce Wayne frowned as he dabbed the latest, most offensively aggressive cologne on his wrists. Well, after tonight he would arrange to meet with a different courtesan or cicisbeo, and have no further dealings with Kal Starr's caustic tongue and insulting airs.

That would be a good thing.

Kal was already in their dining room when he arrived, sitting in an embroidered chair in front of the fire. He rose when Bruce came in, bowing deeply, but for a second Bruce thought he had seen a flash of wariness in his eyes. It made him look younger, and oddly familiar. But by the time he rose from his bow, his gaze was opaque once more. "My lord," he murmured.

"Forgive me," Bruce said without preamble. "We got off to a bad start last night, and I wished to make it up to you."

"There is nothing to forgive," Kal said. "I am but a humble cicisbeo, and it is not my place to question those such as my Lord."

He was technically correct, of course, but Bruce felt fresh annoyance prick him at his servile tone. "Oh, cease with the flattery," he snapped. "I am aware that you despise me." The Earl of Gotham was created to be despised, after all.

"I don't despise you," Kal said, dropping his eyes to the table laden with fruit, meat, and wine. Deftly, he poured a glass of sherry and handed it to Bruce. "I am merely curious about you."

"Of course," said Bruce, "It is your job to be solicitous and curious, witty but never prying, as careful with your conversation as with your excellent sherry." He saluted Kal with the glass and took a sip.

"If so," said Kal, "I failed rather spectacularly at my job last night, did I not?" His color was high once more. It suited him.

"Well, now is your chance to redeem yourself." Bruce gestured to the table. "Please be seated, and let us try to have an urbane and civil conversation."

Kal's lips were tight, but he sat down. "And how was my lord's day?"

Bruce helped himself to a bunch of grapes. "My day was boring," he said. The absolute truth: his regimen of physical training took four hours, followed by the study of French and German for three. Tedious at times, but necessary. "I spent much of it thinking of you." Also, somewhat annoyingly, the truth.

Kal's expression was more nettled than flattered for a moment; then it smoothed into more neutral lines. "I was similarly plagued by thoughts of you, my Lord."

A bark of laughter escaped Bruce. "A pretty verb to choose! And what did you think of? My noble brow? My stern yet passionate mouth?" He rolled a grape between his fingers before popping it between his lips.

"I choose not to answer that question, on the grounds that we are attempting to have a civil conversation," Kal said.

Bruce managed not to choke on his grape with an effort. This impudent--! "So let us leave me behind entirely as a topic of conversation. I wish to know more about you."

"Me, my Lord?" For some reason, Kal looked more nonplussed than Bruce had seen him yet.

"Yes, you. How does one as lovely and accomplished as yourself spend his days? I am aware of how you spend your nights."

Kal flushed once more. "I often escort the Princess Diana around town--to symposiums or to picnics."

"How charming. As you said last night, many of the employees of Il Pianeta engage in--shall we say--philanthropic activities as well. Miss Lane with her schools, Mister Olsen with his debtor's prisons." He smiled. "From the conversation I had with him, I assume that Mister Lombard, as divine a dancer as he may be, does not see fit to engage in public works."

"And there you would be wrong yet again," Kal retorted. "Steve is quite active in the Anti-Slavery Society and has been working diligently to get the Slavery Abolition Act passed." He nearly smiled at Bruce's expression. "Even those without the most sparkling of wit can see that slavery is a great injustice, my Lord. You must cease underestimating us."

"Indeed, I begin to suspect I must." Bruce took another sip of sherry. "And you? What is the cause for which you nobly fight?"

"My lord mocks me," said Kal with an ironic bow.

"Struth, I do not."

"Be that as it may, I spend some of my time at the local Foundling Hospital. The children there are often in need of diversion, and I sing them songs and make puppet shows for them. Being a foundling myself, I--"

Kal broke off, looking vexed, and stood to pick up a poker and arrange the logs in the fire.

"You were a foundling?" Bruce said. "Did you grow up in such a place?"

"I...was luckier than they," Kal said, looking intently at the fire. "I was taken in by kindly folk, who raised me as their own. Unlike so many in this world, I have never known poverty and deprivation."

"Your empathy does you credit," murmured Bruce. "Tell me about them."

"About--about the foundlings?" Kal's mouth quirked in something close to a smile. "My lord, that is hardly appropriate dinner conversation between an Earl and his chosen consort."

"I am nothing if not inappropriate," Bruce replied. He smiled into his sherry. "Indulge my fanciful whim."

Kal sat down once more and, after some hesitation, began to talk about the children at the hospital. His voice warmed as he talked about Conner and Chris, Karen and Kara: their laughter when they saw him, their small illnesses and interests, the various tragedies which had brought them all to their lonely fate. "I wish I could take them all away from the smoke and grime of the city--children should be able to climb trees and chase butterflies and catch frogs," he said, his eyes faraway.

"You did not grow up in London," Bruce said, and Kal's eyes snapped back to his, the annoyed look on his face again.

"I did not. I was fortunate enough to grow up with space to run and play."

"If you had such a happy life in the country, what brought you here, to this life?"

Kal's face had gone closed-off, remote. It gave him an austere beauty where before he had been vivid and engaging. "I prefer not to discuss it, my lord."

"Very well," Bruce said easily, although he found himself suddenly very curious indeed. "We all have our secrets."

The clock on the mantel chimed, and Bruce bit back an exclamation as he pulled out his watch. Eleven o'clock already? He had meant to stay just long enough to establish a routine, then slip out early by the discreet back exit without being noticed. "I must be going, I fear," he said, standing.

"I am sure my lord has other...companions that demand your time," murmured Kal as he rose as well..

"None as charming or handsome as you," Bruce said, and was surprised to see Kal look away, color high in his cheeks again. On a sudden whim, he took Kal's chin in his hand. "I would see you smile again before we part," he said.

His fingers were resting against the pulse of Kal's neck; he felt it fluttering beneath his touch. "I see no reason to smile at parting from you, my lord," said Kal.

"Pfah," said Bruce. "A pat phrase with no emotion behind it--you are better than this, my Kal."

Kal drew back, his eyes cold. "I am not yours, my lord. You have purchased my time and my company, not my body--nor my soul."

For a long moment they stared at each other, the fire crackling low in the fireplace, and Bruce felt his mouth go strangely dry at the brilliance in Kal's eyes. "I admit defeat," he said at last, bowing slightly. "But I shall return."

As he let himself out into the foggy streets of London, he realized he was already planning on coming back tomorrow night.

He returned the next night, and the next, and the next: never staying as late again as he had that first night, never touching Kal again. They talked about the opera, about politics, about sport--it turned out Bruce was a surprisingly perceptive observer of London social life, and his canny imitations of various people made Kal choke with unexpected laughter ("There's that smile," Bruce had murmured the first time). He regaled Kal with tales from his travels in Europe when he was a younger man, shared hints on fashion, and played cribbage and chess with cutthroat intensity. "I hate to lose," he had grumbled after Kal checkmated him in the first game.

"You must resign yourself to it, my lord," Kal had laughed.

He would excuse himself early and slip out with the hood of his cloak pulled up as if he didn't want to be seen leaving: off to visit another gambling parlor, Kal supposed, or perhaps one of his lovers. Not that he--Kal--cared at all what he did with his time.

And then one night he did not come.

Kal spent the evening with Diana, trying to make witty conversation. From the looks she was giving him, he suspected he was failing utterly.

"You are watching the door more than you are watching me," she said eventually, a half-smile on her face.

He bowed deeply. "A thousand apologies, princess."

"No matter," she said. "Perhaps it is for the best." She leaned closer to him, whispering in his ear. "I have a lead on that child pickpocket gang."

Kal brightened dramatically: at last! They'd been gathering information about the gang that preyed on homeless children, recruiting them into the ranks of thieves and pickpockets, for months.

"I spoke with one of the poor souls, a young girl," said Diana. "A pretty child with golden hair named Stephanie. She told me that no one knew the name of the boss of the gang, but that the children all called him the Duck, for he was short and waddled, and had a big nose." She smiled at Kal. "Does that sound familiar?"

Kal grinned at her, remembering how Oswald Cobblepot had been banned from Il Pianeta for rude and impertinent behavior, how he had squawked his disapproval. "It does indeed, princess."

"I say perhaps we should pay Mr. Cobblepot a visit this evening, don't you?"

They trailed Oswald Cobblepot from his preferred gaming-hell through the streets of London to his home, but found nothing overtly suspicious about his behavior. "I could get him to confess in a moment," Diana whispered fiercely, smacking one fist into her hand, but Kal put a hand on her elbow.

"But we don't know where he's keeping the children," he whispered warningly, for Stephanie had run off and disappeared into the fog as if terrified at her own daring after talking to Diana. "His henchmen could just move them." He looked up at Cobblepot's apartment, shrouded in shadow. "If only we could risk breaking into his place--wait, what's that?"

"What's what?" Diana peered up into the night.

"I thought I saw someone slipping out his window." Kal ran down the alley, looking up at the buildings, but the mysterious figure was already gone. "Damn this fog!"

"Kal," said Diana's voice behind him. "We have a problem."

He looked down to realize they were surrounded by a ring of silent figures, masked and hooded--and tiny. Children. Knives glinted in the dim moonlight.

"We don't want to hurt you," said Diana. "And you cannot hurt us. Please--we're trying to help you--"

One of the children lunged forward, and she caught his wrist, sending the knife clattering to the ground.

"This is no life for children!" she said, letting go of him. "Please, you must trust us. Do not let evil command your destiny."

Kal noticed that several of the children were hesitating, hanging back slightly. But not all of them. "Time to go before they get themselves hurt," he said to Diana. With two leaps they were outside the circle and running down the road.

"What kind of monster preys on children like that?" Diana demanded angrily as they ran. "We must stop him!"

"I couldn't agree more," Kal said. "Soon, princess."

A knock on Kal's door. "Lord Wayne is here and asking--once again--for you," said Steve.

Kal cursed the way his spirits rose. He checked himself in the mirror: everything was in place. By the time he reached their private room, his demeanor was composed as well.

"A pleasure to see you again, my lord," he said, bowing.

Bruce bowed as well, then hissed slightly under his breath. "I missed your companionship last night," he said, sitting down.

He moved gingerly, and Kal felt his eyes narrow, but he kept his voice cool. "Oh, I doubt that, my lord. After all, I am far from your only companion."

"No, you are merely the one I enjoy the most," retorted Bruce. His face was pale, and he took a gulp of cognac with a shaking hand. "Damn it," he muttered. "Alfred was right, as always. I should have stayed home. But--" He broke off, said slightly more loudly, "But I did want to see you."

"You are ill, my lord."

"I am not ill," Bruce snapped.

"Indeed you are not," Kal exclaimed as he saw scarlet seeping into the white cloth of his shirt. "You are injured!"

Without thinking, he knelt to undo Bruce's jacket. Bruce pushed him away, but Kal snarled wordlessly at him.

"I must get you medical attention," he said, but Bruce shook his head.

"I won't see some butcher. I'm fine, damn you!" He tried to pull his jacket closed again. "Not here, someone might see--"

"Come to my room then," Kal said impatiently. "No one shall interrupt us there, and I can tend your wound, you impossible, stubborn, bacon-brained goose."

Bruce started to laugh, then caught his breath. "Very well," he said, paling further. "If it will convince you to stop plaguing me."

Kal hustled him to his room and sat him down in the armchair. "Don't move. I'll fetch hot water."

By the time he returned, Bruce was slumped in his seat, but he raised his head as Kal came in and smiled. "If it isn't my angel of mercy," he murmured.

"Shut up," Kal retorted.

"My brusque, impertinent angel of mercy."

Kal ignored him as he untied Bruce's cravat, pulled aside his shirt, and undid the bloody bandage, frowning at the gash in his shoulder: nothing life-threatening if cared for, but it looked painful. "What the devil did you get into?"

"I'm afraid I offended the wrong person," Bruce gritted as Kal dabbed at the wound with a wet cloth.

"You should stick to offending cicisbei and cyprians; we are less likely to stick knives in you," Kal said. He wound a fresh linen bandage around the wound, tying it off neatly. "Take off your shirt and I shall wash the stains out of it, so as not to ruin your immaculate image."

Bruce slipped out of his jacket, waistcoat, and shirt, and Kal took it and dipped it in a ewer of cold water, scrubbing at the stains. "You're very efficient. And not at all squeamish," Bruce said.

"This is nothing compared to--" Kal clamped his mouth shut on the "--butchering-time on the farm," he had been about to say and went back to scrubbing grimly. "That should do it," he said instead, and hung the dripping garment above the fireplace to dry. He poured a shot of whisky from his private store and handed it to Bruce. "Drink."

Bruce looked like he was going to argue, then shrugged and downed the alcohol. "That's good," he said appreciatively, and smiled up at Kal, who was abruptly acutely aware that the man in his chair was bare to the waist. The firelight played across surprisingly well-carved muscles, caressing skin criss-crossed with white traceries of scars, and Kal looked away quickly and went to fold his waistcoat.

"This is quite lovely," he said, picking up a locket that had been tucked away in a breast pocket. "And what picture does it hide, that you keep it so close to your heart?" He aimed a roguish smile at Bruce, but was startled to find that Bruce's eyes were solemn and level. "A secret lover, perhaps? Maybe more than one?"

Unable to resist, he flipped it open, then frowned at the image within: a miniature painting of a man and woman dressed in a style from decades ago, a small boy with pale blue eyes between them. "Are these your parents?" What kind of dissolute rake keeps a portrait of their dead parents next to their heart? "Is this...you?"

Bruce held out his hand, and Kal dropped the locket into it. "It was a long time ago," he said, gazing at it for a moment before snapping it shut and placing it on the side table.

Kal poured another shot of whisky and offered it to Bruce. "I don't--" Bruce hesitated. "I don't usually drink that much." He sighed when Kal made a scoffing noise. "I suppose you have no reason to believe me," he murmured.

"Your shoulder will be hurting you quite a bit. This will dull the pain."

After a moment, Bruce shrugged and took the glass, downing the alcohol with a slight grimace. "Thank you," he muttered.

Silence fell in the room for a while. Bruce was gazing into the flames, his chin propped in his hand, his eyes half-closed. He looked relaxed in a way Kal had never seen, and in that vulnerability Kal could suddenly see a bone-deep exhaustion.

Discomfited, he stood to pick up the whisky bottle, and Bruce made a bleary gesture. "I shouldn't have any more," he said. "Or I'll start telling you how beautiful you are."

"How terrible," Kal said drily. "We must avoid such a horrific outcome." Bruce chuckled, looking at him with his chin still propped in his hand, as Kal put the bottle back in his cabinet. His cheeks were somewhat flushed, a stark contrast to his usual pale, icy hauteur, and without thinking Kal put a hand to his forehead.

"I'm not fevered," Bruce said. He reached up and took Kal's hand in his, bringing it down to rest on his bare chest. "But you are kind to worry about me. I have never given you any reason to."

He hadn't released Kal's hand; Kal could feel warm skin beneath his touch and fought a sudden urge to splay his fingers wide, to encompass as much of that chest as possible. "Of course I worry about you, my lord. You are my patron, after all. You pay well for the privilege of me worrying about you."

He expected a witty retort, but Bruce just gazed up at him. "You can call me 'Bruce,' you know," he said suddenly. "I...would like that."

The words were like a slap across the face: against his will, Kal suddenly heard his husband's voice from his memory, harsh and cold: I would prefer you call me by my proper title--A rustic like you--everything about you betrays your lack of breeding--I could never be seen in public with you--

His hand clenched into a fist and he pulled away from Bruce's touch. He glared down at the man in the chair before him, and Bruce's gaze went wary and hurt at the abrupt motion. Anger warred with pity in Kal's breast--and with other emotions he dared not label--and he suddenly found himself with his hands planted on Bruce's thighs, leaning over him.

"And what else would my lord like?" he snarled into Bruce's startled face. "Would he like this?"

Without letting himself think about it further, he brought his mouth to Bruce's.

It was nothing like their first, hesitant kiss in the chapel four years ago: it was fierce and bruising, and Bruce threw himself into it as if hurling himself off a ledge. Kal felt hands clutching at his shoulders and he lost his balance, collapsing onto Bruce's bare chest without breaking the kiss, skin and scars hot beneath his roving hands. He could feel Bruce's hardness pressing through the layers of cloth between them, and the sensation woke a desperate triumph in him, and an even more desperate hunger. He let his hands slip beneath the waistband of those exquisitely, tauntingly tight breeches, and--

With something close to a gasp, Bruce grabbed his hands and stopped them in their descent. He struggled to his feet, and Kal could see fresh blood seeping through the bandage on his shoulder. "I should be going," he said.

Pride and lust drove Kal to his feet. "I have no other guests this evening," he said, drawing close to Bruce. "You may stay."

Bruce's eyes flicked to Kal's crotch, where his straining buckskins left no doubt as to his own interest. Then he closed his eyes and took a deep breath. "This was not part of our contract," he said, his voice thick, and grabbed his still-damp shirt from the hook.

"Perhaps I would like to re-negotiate," Kal said, letting his hand trail from Bruce's navel downward, skimming across the tempting bulge with just the most fleeting of caresses.

"I must go," said Bruce, yanking his shirt over his head, grabbing his jacket. He threw his ascot around his neck without even bothering to tie it, leaving him looking thoroughly rumpled and debauched, with his hair askew and his cheeks aflame. Seizing his cloak, he nearly bolted from the room, pausing only to look back and say "Farewell" before the door closed behind him.

The briefest of pauses, and yet the yearning and hunger in his eyes was so plain that Kal felt elation thrill through him. He would be back.

And Kal would no longer be the one cozened and abandoned, left powerless and alone.