Make It Believable
Title: Make It Believable
Fandom: DC (or whatever verse comes to mind)
Pairings: Bruce/Clark, Bruce/OMC (one sided)
Characters: Bruce Wayne/Batman; Clark Kent/Superman; mentions of Lex Luthor, OC
Word Count: 4,168
Rating: PG-15
Warnings: Mild Violence, Language, Cross Dressing *hides*
Synopsis:
“Oh, what marvelous costumes you two have!” someone remarked. “You should certainly win best costume. A romantic gesture…that has to be it. Correct?”
Clark smiled a little too easily and the body next to him cowed a little and tried to hide. Clark’s quick hand on that back kept him UP and at his side, and blushing horribly under that mask. “You can say that.” What else could you say to a swooning princess looking at the Fanciful looking Pirate and his lovely Tavern Wench clinging so sweetly to his side?
Written for bradygirl_12's 2011 DCU Fic/Art Halloween Challenge
I spent three hours coming up with this. Seriously. It would NOT go away. :)
Make it believable:
There were certain things that could be done, and certain things that could not be done. It all depended on whom one asked, and usually they only asked for what could be done in confidence or confidentiality. Asking meant that the task at hand could be handled with little to no problem, which was always a good thing when it came down to the wire. Asking also meant that there was a certain amount of trust between the two people involved, or it could have been a way of distraction on the asker’s part to ensure that other plans weren’t ruined irrefutably. Either way, asking anything meant the expectation of the assumed answer in the positive, a deliverance of that positive, and smiles all around when the asking was over, done, and put to rest with a suitable outcome.
Clark had no idea why he decided to let Bruce ask him anything. Most times it was to do something only he could do, which meant bending something, smacking someone into the stratosphere, or talking about future plans that had nothing to do with them hanging out. It was all about the league, the sidekicks, and the legion, the situations that could or would arise, suspicions of certain activities within known criminal areas, or business nonsense that made little to no sense to Clark despite his being a reporter. He didn’t know why Perry liked to send him out to interview the man time and time again, and he didn’t know why Bruce put up with it or allowed him to question him so freely about his ongoing billion dollar namesake. He was sure no one wanted to talk about their day job, Bruce least of all. The man had so much going on, he really didn’t know where he found the time to drill him about the protocols of the league or get on him about not keeping better tabs on Luthor.
Hey, he had better things to do. Like eating an actual burger that wasn’t made by some zit-faced teen popping their gum.
That was the last time he headed to Wonder Burger.
When Bruce asked him to do something though, Clark didn’t mind it. It meant that Bruce didn’t completely count him as a moron, and moron in Bruce’s book was ignored or openly mocked with those remarks that made the Dark Knight’s mood and mouth infamous. Booster Gold could contest to that. He often did, and often was sent running when that cape flapped his way. The new Blue Beetle tried to warn him off of it, but that Golden walking ego wasn’t up to keeping his mouth shut but for so long. It made for interesting talks; talks that Clark never wanted to be the subject of if he could help it. It was bad enough that he was counted as a boy scout in that man’s eyes. Green. Naïve. Whatever someone wanted to label it.
It rubbed him wrong in so many ways that nodding and doing anything that man asked just seemed like the lesser of two evils.
So naturally, when Bruce said he had a request, Clark had nodded and said, “What can I do for you this time?” He was mentally priming his muscles or his chest to fall into the regular roll of all brawn and hidden brain, but Bruce had hesitated a bit. He hadn’t outright said anything, just nervously looked to the left of him and said, “I need you to do something…important for me.” Important? Him? Really?
Alarms anyone? Anyone aside his common sense?
Clark, like the curious puppy-yes he was willing to admit it because denial was a river in Africa and of no use to him HERE-he tended to be, opened the door wide with, “What could be so important that you need ME of all people to help you?” Why not Dick, or Tim, or one of his other undercover cohorts? It was the unsaid line, but one Bruce met with a nervous rub to the back of his neck and a slight wince that had Clark blinking owlishly.
In soft, unnerved, and uncertain tones, Bruce laid out the problem, and Clark literally choked on his spit.
Bruce Wayne, Billionaire Playboy that could land any model, any woman, and any person who wasn’t asexual to spread their legs willingly from no more than a look, needed a date-yes folks, that’s what he said- to the Halloween Masquerade Ball being hosted at a Hotel in Metropolis of all places. It was by invitation only, guests allowed to R.S.V.P themselves and their date.
Who was throwing it?
“I hope everything is to your liking.”
Lex Luthor.
He nodded at the dashing Prince Charming, glad for the mask he had on his face. He was one of several waiters that were spread about handing out those little bits of nothing on bits of crackers, plenty of Champagne, and the occasional fattening treat when they were brought out. Those died quickly by slick hands coming from all sides, while the daintier fishy smelling thousand dollar topped crackers were left alone for the most part.
Clark was sure that it would probably be the last time Luthor decided to hand out his good caviar in the attempt to be civil.
The bald man in the King’s Outfit was nowhere to be seen at this point in time. It was a silent relief, but unnerving all the same when another body pushed against his and stayed there with that warmth that was scalding compared to the sun. That was the other part of this was just so bizarre he decided he was better off not thinking about the significance of the theme. Everyone here was in attire from a story or fable, ranging from knights to squires, to noblemen and maidens, and of course the occasional princess and her glass slippers. Of course the one person who did wear those actual glass slippers had indeed broken one, which had sent her flying off to the hospital with her husband in tow saying, “I told you your extravagant nonsense would cost you a limb.”
It wasn’t funny then. It was humorous now.
So what fable were they from that had Clark pulling at his shirt and the body next to him curling deeper into the hooded cape around his face?
“Oh, what marvelous costumes you two have!” someone remarked. “You should certainly win best costume. A romantic gesture…that has to be it. Correct?”
Clark smiled a little too easily and the body next to him cowed a little and tried to hide. Clark’s quick hand on that back kept him UP and at his side, and blushing horribly under that mask. “You can say that.” What else could you say to a swooning princess looking at the Fanciful looking Pirate and his lovely Tavern Wench clinging so sweetly to his side? Said Tavern wench was trying desperately not to bolt, but it was hard to do so when someone that could bend steel had a hold of that somewhat slender waist. Not that he was thinking that as he curled his fingers around the natural curve where that bodice was tied.
The princess-snow white he believed-gave them a parting smile and walked off with her date. Remarkably it was a dwarf…in the literal and figurative sense. What was a man of about five foot even and dressed to look like Dopey took her by the arm and hopped off to join the festivities of the livelier of the guests here.
Clark kept his hand were it was, staring down at the slightly shorter body with his hands pressed together tightly before him like a good demur wench. Grayish blue eyes looked into his own, falling to the firm line that was his mouth trying not to twitch upwards.
For the record, it was all Bruce’s idea. Every last bit of it. And he said so, which got him a nice elbow in his side.
Clark didn’t say anymore about it being Bruce’s fault, but he did voice the question he’d asked three times and got no answer to. “Why couldn’t we come as a pair of Kings? Or Jacks? Or something else?” That face turned a marvelous scarlet and Clark shoved the thought of how lovely that shade looked on those cheeks. “Hell, we could have been Tom and Jerry for all I care….but this? Please explain why.”
“…they were the only costumes I could get on such short notice,” came the slightly perturbed albeit defeated reply. “And…I was hoping you’d fit in…this.”
The loud snort that came from Clark was well deserved. “My shoulders are too broad thanks.”
“I realize this.”
“I suppose you’re glad for the masks at least.”
Bruce shifted closer as his way of saying yes without having to actually say it. That and someone else was approaching, someone quite unwelcome to their little ball of discomfort standing there as if this were an everyday thing. Clark quickly scanned the area, finding the one body that made Bruce tense under his grip and the reason why he was pulled into this little unsightly debacle they were in right now.
Apparently even the Dark Knight could be frightened at times. He had reason to be when he had proof that someone who didn’t know the answer to “no” meant just that and was slightly psychotic. Bruce had said so anyway. He didn’t know the person that was the bane of Bruce Wayne’s existence or want to know them. Was it not enough that he was pretending to be the man already in the costume?
Squaring his shoulders, he gave the patented smile of the billionaire at the woman quickly approaching him, stalling momentarily, and then stomping his way without a care for who she shoved out of the way. She was a lovely creature with an ugly face ruining it as rage flew out of her hazel eyes and into his own.
Just as she was two feet from probably pushing her hand into his face, she did that with someone else, slapping them so hard that drinks flew into the air and hit the ground with a shatter that had several of the waiters running to clean it up before the liability claims could start. They stared in slight horrified fascination as Princess Guinevere turned from her Lancelot to stare at the angry crying face of Marie Antoinette as she spat out something uncouth and left crying against her gloved hand.
Lancelot kindly removed Guinevere’s arm from his and walked off to find the other Knights waiting for him with their shaking heads.
The mythical queen gathered the fabric of her dress, hitched it up enough to walk off, and left with her nose in the air to hide the tears of shame and the mark on her face.
Clark turned to his wench. “Does that happen a lot?”
“You wouldn’t believe me if I told you.” He sagged just a bit and rested his weight on Clark’s arm. “I need a drink…”
“So it wasn’t-“
“No. I don’t know who it is…but I want them to leave me alone.”
It was really odd to hear him say that, no odder than seeing him in a form fitting dress that billowed out to hang in neat but unkempt drapes of fabric just brushing the tops of those knee high boots. The two inch heels weren’t that much different than his normal boots, but a different fit that had Bruce standing upright and trying valiantly not to sway but so much. The peasant blouse of a wench from the ports of Tortuga did not cover anything above the shoulder. The shoulders were meant to be seen as was the bust line that would have surely been a bit much to look at had it been Diana in that dress.
It was the reason behind the hood currently hiding that face somewhat, but not enough to keep the long haired wig he’d placed on his head out of sight. Ringlet of gold fell on either side of his face, giving him a much softer look than anyone was accustomed to seeing. The bit of make-up he wore didn’t hide the fact that Bruce was a man, but it made him look like someone else, not the pensive snarky man who kept to himself unless he needed something broken down or in half or whatever.
Right now he wasn’t looking at Bruce Wayne. He was looking at a very nervous man trying not to rub his temple in disgust because for once he couldn’t figure out who thought it was a good idea to stalk him.
That’s right. Bruce Wayne had a stalker. Not the fan type that openly blatantly could be seen and lost in moments, but the type that tended to break into one’s home, steal something of value like his father’s pocket watch, something menial like cologne, something strange and perverted like his unclean underwear, and leave an obvious trace that this person had been there by leaving some wayward note describing all the disgusting things they wanted to do to him.
Normally, Bruce would have taken care of it without anyone knowing. But this wasn’t a normal stalker. This was someone he didn’t know, someone that knew him well enough to know his schedule, where he’d be, and just what he was doing at all times of the day. Leaving your office for lunch meant coming back to a stack of paperwork, not someone’s scrawled handwriting on a vase of black roses telling him that he’d be seeing him soon. It didn’t mean going to the car and seeing something he’d been looking at in a store sitting in a box on the passenger’s side with a clump of the hair of a girl attacked to occupy it.
This person was smart. Smart enough to get himself invited to this event and know just what Bruce would come as.
It was the only reason he’d come to Clark and asked him to be his date, just so they could find the bastard and take him out without the messy aftermath of police, hospitals, and trials and money draining nonsense. But since the costumes didn’t fit the way Bruce thought they would, Clark was stuck being the strange looking Bruce costumed Jack Sparrow and Bruce was stuck as the lovely Elizabeth Swan.
It could have been worse. They really could have come as Tom and Jerry.
“I’m going to get you something to drink,” Clark said. “You don’t move.”
“Believe me, I don’t plan on it,” Bruce muttered. “These boots are killing me.”
“Then sit down where I can see you. I’ll be back with some…punch.”
“Whatever. Just…make it believable.”
Like swaying himself to the far winds was believable. Like the Good Samaritan and damn good actor he could be, he put on his best put upon air, swirled his hands in a dismissive manner, and did Jack proudly on his way to the punch bowl. He stared back to see Bruce cough into his fist, but the soft laughter was there.
He found himself wishing Bruce would do that more often.
Clark also found himself elegantly moved to the side by a wayward hand that belonged to none other than Lex Luthor.
“Bruce…”
“It was a dare,” he said, mimicking Bruce’s daytime voice perfectly. “We both lost, but we’re going to make the best of a strange situation. Unless you have something vital or kingly to say, allow me to get the lady a drink and myself…a bottle of RUM.” He effortlessly lifted his arm from the grip of Lex’s confused form and swirled around him with a frivolous bow and a tip of his hat. The King Midas-it should have been no surprise that he’d pick that-hosting this gala event gave a rare non evil smile that made him look human, which was just as much of a shock as Bruce laughing outright at the madness that the two of them made.
He quickly made his way to the punch bowl, sniffing the air subtly. That stalker was very good at what he did, getting in and out of places that no person should have ever gotten into, but there was one thing that separated that person from the rest of the lot. Only two people in here were privy to wear the soft subtle scent of custom made cologne that was developed as a means of tracking people. Not a third body, unaware of the significance of what was stolen on a whim, designed for his nose and his nose alone.
Clark elegantly swiveled to the right of him, coming face to face with his Elizabeth Swan and a Zorro Character sweetly holding her from behind.
The wide eyes looking at him from behind that mask alerted him to the weapon that was surely pressed into her/his backside.
Yet another reason to hate and love capes. They HID everything.
“That was quicker than I thought,” he mused quietly. “Although…I thought this would happen.”
Zorro said nothing. He kept smiling. Ms. Swan, however, was not. He was gritting his teeth in a way that could only be brought about by a blade.
A knife. Joy.
“Must we do this?” Clark asked, once again bringing about the perfect replica of Daytime Bruce. “I thought I’d made it obvious that I wasn’t interested. You should have caught on when I changed my costume, and when I denied your attempts to woo me with some poor girl’s hair.”
“She was saying awful things about you,” Zorro remarked. “She’s lucky her hair was all I took.”
“Oh really? You know, this isn’t the place to do this.”
“No…it’s not. Shall we journey to the balcony? I’ll, of course, escort this lovely creature here.”
“Certainly.”
There was an open balcony not too far from where they stood. Zorro, an arm draped around Ms. Swan’s shoulders, led the way without a care in the world, as if it were the most natural thing to be leading someone by knife to an open air with the possibility of a thirty story drop in the works. Lex had rented out the top floor for this party, one that was getting into the swing of things with the music taking people into full party mode to accompany the alcohol flowing in their veins. Even Lex was preoccupied with his own schmoozing, which allowed them to go unnoticed even after they found themselves outside in the cool October air.
Clark closed the door behind him, frowned, and grabbed Zorro by his neck so quick that Zorro couldn’t keep a hold of the knife in his hands. It fell to the floor in a clatter, kicked to the side by a pair of boots that were still killing their wearer. Bruce quickly moved out of the way, a little shocked to have Clark grab him with his free hand and toss him behind his back. He remained there, staring at the squirming figure looking desperately at the hand that would not let him go.
“I understand that it’s Halloween,” Clark spat, no longer disguising his voice, “I also understand that people like you seem to like to think that Halloween means putting on the mask that will hide one’s face long enough to get what they want tonight. Guess what? This isn’t a fairy tale. I am not Jack Sparrow, nor am I man you want to mess with.” Zorro was speechless. It was probably because Clark was crushing his windpipe a bit. “I will drop your ass from here, catch you, drop you again, and keep doing it until your nose is so close to the damn ground you’ll be kissing it voluntarily when I decide to stop playing with you.”
Clark usually was a man of open ended threats that meant nothing more than to scare, but he was shocked again that night when he found himself saying it, and meaning it. This character…this masked man who couldn’t have been anything more than a deluded invert bent on a fantasy, had unnerved the one person who did the unnerving, and that didn’t sit well with Clark…at all.
Zorro, no longer amused by this, managed to croak out, “W-who…who are you?!”
To which Clark, just as no longer amused by this, answered, “A very pissed off Pirate that belongs to a very wealthy billionaire who has had enough of you and your nonsense. Saavy?”
Bruce may have thought he was a simpleton, or a naïve moron, or some crazed puppy that just went with the flow, but Bruce was important to him, and no one, especially some crack pot man who couldn’t get a grip was going to do anything to shake the brooding man he’d come to know and love over the years.
“That won’t stop me!” Zorro spat. “He’ll come to his senses. He’ll see that I love him enough to do anything for him-ggah!!”
Omitting that his brain decided then and there to have an epiphany, he took out his frustration on the hapless man…and dropped him like he said he would. “Like Hell.”
Moments later, people were abuzz with the news of a daredevil Zorro being saved from his own stupidity by Superman.
It was actually J’onn doing the saving; none too pleased about having to haul away a screaming Zorro wailing that a pirate had dropped him and swung him from his boots for several moments. It did not help that he smelt of urine and alcohol, and a lot of that had to do with him being scared by that Pirate and Ms. Swan pouring a whole bottle of Champagne over his swinging form. It probably didn’t help him that he was also high as a kite, and that several people aside Clark were dressed as pirates at the party. J’onn, mimicking Superman tonight, shook his head at the hapless form screaming for his mother and dragged him off to the police station where Zorro would be in for a nasty shock.
Bruce had never been so glad for home surveillance, and when “Zorro” got to the police station, he would be faced with a slew of charges that would keep him out of sight and mind for a very long time.
The ordeal over, much quicker than they thought it would be, Clark and Bruce still in costume decided to do as the rest of the crowd did about fifteen minutes after it was all over. They shoved it out of their hands, their heads, and focused on the rising heat of Bruce’s cheeks when Clark wrapped his arm around that waistline again.
It had a lot to do with some drunken men making their way over to the lovely form beer goggles had created, and that epiphany shoving itself so hard to the forefront of Clark’s head that he just went with it. His wench turned into his side, and the men seemed to take a hint and decided to find some fairies to openly molest with their eyes.
“You said to make it believable,” Clark said to the unspoken look given to him. “I think I’m entitled to do that the rest of the night.”
Bruce batted his eye lashes at his “Jack”, unable to keep the light smile from his eyes. “And tarnish my reputation?”
“Oh, I deserve that much.” Yes, he deserved a lot for being a good dog and doing as he was told while not being the Pirate he portrayed, waving about a bottle of rum, and somehow manipulating the wench against him-okay, Elizabeth was an aristocrat of sorts but she was annoying after awhile-to take that cape off and show him just why he wasn’t Jack. A gentleman he could still be…for a while anyhow. “Now…how about we make a round about the room and end it with a kiss?” He waggled his eyebrows at his “Elizabeth”, hands flourishing to the dance floor. “Saavy?”
Bruce’s eyes were a little wider than his mouth before he let out a laugh and had Clark shutting up when he proceeded to do just that. Yes, he’d said to make it believable…it didn’t get much more believable than Clark flush against him, bending him backward, and kissing the lipstick off of his mouth after a solid moment.
Such was the magic of Masks, Halloween, and Alcohol. No one would remember too much, the crazy people usually were freaked out by the uncanny, and Swans got to kiss Pirates without caring how tomorrow would be viewed.
So Clark shouldn’t have been surprised to hear Bruce ask him to do it again next year…and this time they went as The Scarecrow and Dorothy.
Clark didn’t think straw could itch so much, and he didn’t think that he’d drool seeing Bruce in that skirt.
But that was another Halloween Story for another time.
Yeah...a Halloween Story that might pop up real quick. :)
Fandom: DC (or whatever verse comes to mind)
Pairings: Bruce/Clark, Bruce/OMC (one sided)
Characters: Bruce Wayne/Batman; Clark Kent/Superman; mentions of Lex Luthor, OC
Word Count: 4,168
Rating: PG-15
Warnings: Mild Violence, Language, Cross Dressing *hides*
Synopsis:
“Oh, what marvelous costumes you two have!” someone remarked. “You should certainly win best costume. A romantic gesture…that has to be it. Correct?”
Clark smiled a little too easily and the body next to him cowed a little and tried to hide. Clark’s quick hand on that back kept him UP and at his side, and blushing horribly under that mask. “You can say that.” What else could you say to a swooning princess looking at the Fanciful looking Pirate and his lovely Tavern Wench clinging so sweetly to his side?
Written for bradygirl_12's 2011 DCU Fic/Art Halloween Challenge
I spent three hours coming up with this. Seriously. It would NOT go away. :)
Make it believable:
There were certain things that could be done, and certain things that could not be done. It all depended on whom one asked, and usually they only asked for what could be done in confidence or confidentiality. Asking meant that the task at hand could be handled with little to no problem, which was always a good thing when it came down to the wire. Asking also meant that there was a certain amount of trust between the two people involved, or it could have been a way of distraction on the asker’s part to ensure that other plans weren’t ruined irrefutably. Either way, asking anything meant the expectation of the assumed answer in the positive, a deliverance of that positive, and smiles all around when the asking was over, done, and put to rest with a suitable outcome.
Clark had no idea why he decided to let Bruce ask him anything. Most times it was to do something only he could do, which meant bending something, smacking someone into the stratosphere, or talking about future plans that had nothing to do with them hanging out. It was all about the league, the sidekicks, and the legion, the situations that could or would arise, suspicions of certain activities within known criminal areas, or business nonsense that made little to no sense to Clark despite his being a reporter. He didn’t know why Perry liked to send him out to interview the man time and time again, and he didn’t know why Bruce put up with it or allowed him to question him so freely about his ongoing billion dollar namesake. He was sure no one wanted to talk about their day job, Bruce least of all. The man had so much going on, he really didn’t know where he found the time to drill him about the protocols of the league or get on him about not keeping better tabs on Luthor.
Hey, he had better things to do. Like eating an actual burger that wasn’t made by some zit-faced teen popping their gum.
That was the last time he headed to Wonder Burger.
When Bruce asked him to do something though, Clark didn’t mind it. It meant that Bruce didn’t completely count him as a moron, and moron in Bruce’s book was ignored or openly mocked with those remarks that made the Dark Knight’s mood and mouth infamous. Booster Gold could contest to that. He often did, and often was sent running when that cape flapped his way. The new Blue Beetle tried to warn him off of it, but that Golden walking ego wasn’t up to keeping his mouth shut but for so long. It made for interesting talks; talks that Clark never wanted to be the subject of if he could help it. It was bad enough that he was counted as a boy scout in that man’s eyes. Green. Naïve. Whatever someone wanted to label it.
It rubbed him wrong in so many ways that nodding and doing anything that man asked just seemed like the lesser of two evils.
So naturally, when Bruce said he had a request, Clark had nodded and said, “What can I do for you this time?” He was mentally priming his muscles or his chest to fall into the regular roll of all brawn and hidden brain, but Bruce had hesitated a bit. He hadn’t outright said anything, just nervously looked to the left of him and said, “I need you to do something…important for me.” Important? Him? Really?
Alarms anyone? Anyone aside his common sense?
Clark, like the curious puppy-yes he was willing to admit it because denial was a river in Africa and of no use to him HERE-he tended to be, opened the door wide with, “What could be so important that you need ME of all people to help you?” Why not Dick, or Tim, or one of his other undercover cohorts? It was the unsaid line, but one Bruce met with a nervous rub to the back of his neck and a slight wince that had Clark blinking owlishly.
In soft, unnerved, and uncertain tones, Bruce laid out the problem, and Clark literally choked on his spit.
Bruce Wayne, Billionaire Playboy that could land any model, any woman, and any person who wasn’t asexual to spread their legs willingly from no more than a look, needed a date-yes folks, that’s what he said- to the Halloween Masquerade Ball being hosted at a Hotel in Metropolis of all places. It was by invitation only, guests allowed to R.S.V.P themselves and their date.
Who was throwing it?
“I hope everything is to your liking.”
Lex Luthor.
He nodded at the dashing Prince Charming, glad for the mask he had on his face. He was one of several waiters that were spread about handing out those little bits of nothing on bits of crackers, plenty of Champagne, and the occasional fattening treat when they were brought out. Those died quickly by slick hands coming from all sides, while the daintier fishy smelling thousand dollar topped crackers were left alone for the most part.
Clark was sure that it would probably be the last time Luthor decided to hand out his good caviar in the attempt to be civil.
The bald man in the King’s Outfit was nowhere to be seen at this point in time. It was a silent relief, but unnerving all the same when another body pushed against his and stayed there with that warmth that was scalding compared to the sun. That was the other part of this was just so bizarre he decided he was better off not thinking about the significance of the theme. Everyone here was in attire from a story or fable, ranging from knights to squires, to noblemen and maidens, and of course the occasional princess and her glass slippers. Of course the one person who did wear those actual glass slippers had indeed broken one, which had sent her flying off to the hospital with her husband in tow saying, “I told you your extravagant nonsense would cost you a limb.”
It wasn’t funny then. It was humorous now.
So what fable were they from that had Clark pulling at his shirt and the body next to him curling deeper into the hooded cape around his face?
“Oh, what marvelous costumes you two have!” someone remarked. “You should certainly win best costume. A romantic gesture…that has to be it. Correct?”
Clark smiled a little too easily and the body next to him cowed a little and tried to hide. Clark’s quick hand on that back kept him UP and at his side, and blushing horribly under that mask. “You can say that.” What else could you say to a swooning princess looking at the Fanciful looking Pirate and his lovely Tavern Wench clinging so sweetly to his side? Said Tavern wench was trying desperately not to bolt, but it was hard to do so when someone that could bend steel had a hold of that somewhat slender waist. Not that he was thinking that as he curled his fingers around the natural curve where that bodice was tied.
The princess-snow white he believed-gave them a parting smile and walked off with her date. Remarkably it was a dwarf…in the literal and figurative sense. What was a man of about five foot even and dressed to look like Dopey took her by the arm and hopped off to join the festivities of the livelier of the guests here.
Clark kept his hand were it was, staring down at the slightly shorter body with his hands pressed together tightly before him like a good demur wench. Grayish blue eyes looked into his own, falling to the firm line that was his mouth trying not to twitch upwards.
For the record, it was all Bruce’s idea. Every last bit of it. And he said so, which got him a nice elbow in his side.
Clark didn’t say anymore about it being Bruce’s fault, but he did voice the question he’d asked three times and got no answer to. “Why couldn’t we come as a pair of Kings? Or Jacks? Or something else?” That face turned a marvelous scarlet and Clark shoved the thought of how lovely that shade looked on those cheeks. “Hell, we could have been Tom and Jerry for all I care….but this? Please explain why.”
“…they were the only costumes I could get on such short notice,” came the slightly perturbed albeit defeated reply. “And…I was hoping you’d fit in…this.”
The loud snort that came from Clark was well deserved. “My shoulders are too broad thanks.”
“I realize this.”
“I suppose you’re glad for the masks at least.”
Bruce shifted closer as his way of saying yes without having to actually say it. That and someone else was approaching, someone quite unwelcome to their little ball of discomfort standing there as if this were an everyday thing. Clark quickly scanned the area, finding the one body that made Bruce tense under his grip and the reason why he was pulled into this little unsightly debacle they were in right now.
Apparently even the Dark Knight could be frightened at times. He had reason to be when he had proof that someone who didn’t know the answer to “no” meant just that and was slightly psychotic. Bruce had said so anyway. He didn’t know the person that was the bane of Bruce Wayne’s existence or want to know them. Was it not enough that he was pretending to be the man already in the costume?
Squaring his shoulders, he gave the patented smile of the billionaire at the woman quickly approaching him, stalling momentarily, and then stomping his way without a care for who she shoved out of the way. She was a lovely creature with an ugly face ruining it as rage flew out of her hazel eyes and into his own.
Just as she was two feet from probably pushing her hand into his face, she did that with someone else, slapping them so hard that drinks flew into the air and hit the ground with a shatter that had several of the waiters running to clean it up before the liability claims could start. They stared in slight horrified fascination as Princess Guinevere turned from her Lancelot to stare at the angry crying face of Marie Antoinette as she spat out something uncouth and left crying against her gloved hand.
Lancelot kindly removed Guinevere’s arm from his and walked off to find the other Knights waiting for him with their shaking heads.
The mythical queen gathered the fabric of her dress, hitched it up enough to walk off, and left with her nose in the air to hide the tears of shame and the mark on her face.
Clark turned to his wench. “Does that happen a lot?”
“You wouldn’t believe me if I told you.” He sagged just a bit and rested his weight on Clark’s arm. “I need a drink…”
“So it wasn’t-“
“No. I don’t know who it is…but I want them to leave me alone.”
It was really odd to hear him say that, no odder than seeing him in a form fitting dress that billowed out to hang in neat but unkempt drapes of fabric just brushing the tops of those knee high boots. The two inch heels weren’t that much different than his normal boots, but a different fit that had Bruce standing upright and trying valiantly not to sway but so much. The peasant blouse of a wench from the ports of Tortuga did not cover anything above the shoulder. The shoulders were meant to be seen as was the bust line that would have surely been a bit much to look at had it been Diana in that dress.
It was the reason behind the hood currently hiding that face somewhat, but not enough to keep the long haired wig he’d placed on his head out of sight. Ringlet of gold fell on either side of his face, giving him a much softer look than anyone was accustomed to seeing. The bit of make-up he wore didn’t hide the fact that Bruce was a man, but it made him look like someone else, not the pensive snarky man who kept to himself unless he needed something broken down or in half or whatever.
Right now he wasn’t looking at Bruce Wayne. He was looking at a very nervous man trying not to rub his temple in disgust because for once he couldn’t figure out who thought it was a good idea to stalk him.
That’s right. Bruce Wayne had a stalker. Not the fan type that openly blatantly could be seen and lost in moments, but the type that tended to break into one’s home, steal something of value like his father’s pocket watch, something menial like cologne, something strange and perverted like his unclean underwear, and leave an obvious trace that this person had been there by leaving some wayward note describing all the disgusting things they wanted to do to him.
Normally, Bruce would have taken care of it without anyone knowing. But this wasn’t a normal stalker. This was someone he didn’t know, someone that knew him well enough to know his schedule, where he’d be, and just what he was doing at all times of the day. Leaving your office for lunch meant coming back to a stack of paperwork, not someone’s scrawled handwriting on a vase of black roses telling him that he’d be seeing him soon. It didn’t mean going to the car and seeing something he’d been looking at in a store sitting in a box on the passenger’s side with a clump of the hair of a girl attacked to occupy it.
This person was smart. Smart enough to get himself invited to this event and know just what Bruce would come as.
It was the only reason he’d come to Clark and asked him to be his date, just so they could find the bastard and take him out without the messy aftermath of police, hospitals, and trials and money draining nonsense. But since the costumes didn’t fit the way Bruce thought they would, Clark was stuck being the strange looking Bruce costumed Jack Sparrow and Bruce was stuck as the lovely Elizabeth Swan.
It could have been worse. They really could have come as Tom and Jerry.
“I’m going to get you something to drink,” Clark said. “You don’t move.”
“Believe me, I don’t plan on it,” Bruce muttered. “These boots are killing me.”
“Then sit down where I can see you. I’ll be back with some…punch.”
“Whatever. Just…make it believable.”
Like swaying himself to the far winds was believable. Like the Good Samaritan and damn good actor he could be, he put on his best put upon air, swirled his hands in a dismissive manner, and did Jack proudly on his way to the punch bowl. He stared back to see Bruce cough into his fist, but the soft laughter was there.
He found himself wishing Bruce would do that more often.
Clark also found himself elegantly moved to the side by a wayward hand that belonged to none other than Lex Luthor.
“Bruce…”
“It was a dare,” he said, mimicking Bruce’s daytime voice perfectly. “We both lost, but we’re going to make the best of a strange situation. Unless you have something vital or kingly to say, allow me to get the lady a drink and myself…a bottle of RUM.” He effortlessly lifted his arm from the grip of Lex’s confused form and swirled around him with a frivolous bow and a tip of his hat. The King Midas-it should have been no surprise that he’d pick that-hosting this gala event gave a rare non evil smile that made him look human, which was just as much of a shock as Bruce laughing outright at the madness that the two of them made.
He quickly made his way to the punch bowl, sniffing the air subtly. That stalker was very good at what he did, getting in and out of places that no person should have ever gotten into, but there was one thing that separated that person from the rest of the lot. Only two people in here were privy to wear the soft subtle scent of custom made cologne that was developed as a means of tracking people. Not a third body, unaware of the significance of what was stolen on a whim, designed for his nose and his nose alone.
Clark elegantly swiveled to the right of him, coming face to face with his Elizabeth Swan and a Zorro Character sweetly holding her from behind.
The wide eyes looking at him from behind that mask alerted him to the weapon that was surely pressed into her/his backside.
Yet another reason to hate and love capes. They HID everything.
“That was quicker than I thought,” he mused quietly. “Although…I thought this would happen.”
Zorro said nothing. He kept smiling. Ms. Swan, however, was not. He was gritting his teeth in a way that could only be brought about by a blade.
A knife. Joy.
“Must we do this?” Clark asked, once again bringing about the perfect replica of Daytime Bruce. “I thought I’d made it obvious that I wasn’t interested. You should have caught on when I changed my costume, and when I denied your attempts to woo me with some poor girl’s hair.”
“She was saying awful things about you,” Zorro remarked. “She’s lucky her hair was all I took.”
“Oh really? You know, this isn’t the place to do this.”
“No…it’s not. Shall we journey to the balcony? I’ll, of course, escort this lovely creature here.”
“Certainly.”
There was an open balcony not too far from where they stood. Zorro, an arm draped around Ms. Swan’s shoulders, led the way without a care in the world, as if it were the most natural thing to be leading someone by knife to an open air with the possibility of a thirty story drop in the works. Lex had rented out the top floor for this party, one that was getting into the swing of things with the music taking people into full party mode to accompany the alcohol flowing in their veins. Even Lex was preoccupied with his own schmoozing, which allowed them to go unnoticed even after they found themselves outside in the cool October air.
Clark closed the door behind him, frowned, and grabbed Zorro by his neck so quick that Zorro couldn’t keep a hold of the knife in his hands. It fell to the floor in a clatter, kicked to the side by a pair of boots that were still killing their wearer. Bruce quickly moved out of the way, a little shocked to have Clark grab him with his free hand and toss him behind his back. He remained there, staring at the squirming figure looking desperately at the hand that would not let him go.
“I understand that it’s Halloween,” Clark spat, no longer disguising his voice, “I also understand that people like you seem to like to think that Halloween means putting on the mask that will hide one’s face long enough to get what they want tonight. Guess what? This isn’t a fairy tale. I am not Jack Sparrow, nor am I man you want to mess with.” Zorro was speechless. It was probably because Clark was crushing his windpipe a bit. “I will drop your ass from here, catch you, drop you again, and keep doing it until your nose is so close to the damn ground you’ll be kissing it voluntarily when I decide to stop playing with you.”
Clark usually was a man of open ended threats that meant nothing more than to scare, but he was shocked again that night when he found himself saying it, and meaning it. This character…this masked man who couldn’t have been anything more than a deluded invert bent on a fantasy, had unnerved the one person who did the unnerving, and that didn’t sit well with Clark…at all.
Zorro, no longer amused by this, managed to croak out, “W-who…who are you?!”
To which Clark, just as no longer amused by this, answered, “A very pissed off Pirate that belongs to a very wealthy billionaire who has had enough of you and your nonsense. Saavy?”
Bruce may have thought he was a simpleton, or a naïve moron, or some crazed puppy that just went with the flow, but Bruce was important to him, and no one, especially some crack pot man who couldn’t get a grip was going to do anything to shake the brooding man he’d come to know and love over the years.
“That won’t stop me!” Zorro spat. “He’ll come to his senses. He’ll see that I love him enough to do anything for him-ggah!!”
Omitting that his brain decided then and there to have an epiphany, he took out his frustration on the hapless man…and dropped him like he said he would. “Like Hell.”
Moments later, people were abuzz with the news of a daredevil Zorro being saved from his own stupidity by Superman.
It was actually J’onn doing the saving; none too pleased about having to haul away a screaming Zorro wailing that a pirate had dropped him and swung him from his boots for several moments. It did not help that he smelt of urine and alcohol, and a lot of that had to do with him being scared by that Pirate and Ms. Swan pouring a whole bottle of Champagne over his swinging form. It probably didn’t help him that he was also high as a kite, and that several people aside Clark were dressed as pirates at the party. J’onn, mimicking Superman tonight, shook his head at the hapless form screaming for his mother and dragged him off to the police station where Zorro would be in for a nasty shock.
Bruce had never been so glad for home surveillance, and when “Zorro” got to the police station, he would be faced with a slew of charges that would keep him out of sight and mind for a very long time.
The ordeal over, much quicker than they thought it would be, Clark and Bruce still in costume decided to do as the rest of the crowd did about fifteen minutes after it was all over. They shoved it out of their hands, their heads, and focused on the rising heat of Bruce’s cheeks when Clark wrapped his arm around that waistline again.
It had a lot to do with some drunken men making their way over to the lovely form beer goggles had created, and that epiphany shoving itself so hard to the forefront of Clark’s head that he just went with it. His wench turned into his side, and the men seemed to take a hint and decided to find some fairies to openly molest with their eyes.
“You said to make it believable,” Clark said to the unspoken look given to him. “I think I’m entitled to do that the rest of the night.”
Bruce batted his eye lashes at his “Jack”, unable to keep the light smile from his eyes. “And tarnish my reputation?”
“Oh, I deserve that much.” Yes, he deserved a lot for being a good dog and doing as he was told while not being the Pirate he portrayed, waving about a bottle of rum, and somehow manipulating the wench against him-okay, Elizabeth was an aristocrat of sorts but she was annoying after awhile-to take that cape off and show him just why he wasn’t Jack. A gentleman he could still be…for a while anyhow. “Now…how about we make a round about the room and end it with a kiss?” He waggled his eyebrows at his “Elizabeth”, hands flourishing to the dance floor. “Saavy?”
Bruce’s eyes were a little wider than his mouth before he let out a laugh and had Clark shutting up when he proceeded to do just that. Yes, he’d said to make it believable…it didn’t get much more believable than Clark flush against him, bending him backward, and kissing the lipstick off of his mouth after a solid moment.
Such was the magic of Masks, Halloween, and Alcohol. No one would remember too much, the crazy people usually were freaked out by the uncanny, and Swans got to kiss Pirates without caring how tomorrow would be viewed.
So Clark shouldn’t have been surprised to hear Bruce ask him to do it again next year…and this time they went as The Scarecrow and Dorothy.
Clark didn’t think straw could itch so much, and he didn’t think that he’d drool seeing Bruce in that skirt.
But that was another Halloween Story for another time.
Yeah...a Halloween Story that might pop up real quick. :)