Title: Your times of pleasure (Reference) (4500 words) Fandom: DCU (Post Superman/Batman #7) Summary: Tim can spot him all the way across the newspaper offices just from the shape of his jaw. Pairing: Clark/Tim Rating: Adult Notes: Glossing cheered, as did the Usual Suspect. For said aforementioned Usual Suspect in these matters. The process of getting to know and understand Superman is quite similar to the process of getting to know and understand Batman. In the latter case, Tim had to do all of the legwork himself, apart from the occasional somewhat illuminating conversation with Dick. In the former case, he has Bruce's files, which are as complete a record as anything could be, and he must be careful to remind himself that even Bruce misses things. Moreover, there's the issue of getting to know Superman as opposed to Clark Kent and also, arguably, Kal-El. Sometimes Tim wishes Bruce wore glasses. The glasses make visiting Metropolis as Henry Louis, theoretical potential journalism major, a little dizzying. He can see what he knows, but no one else seems to be able to, even though Clark Kent is right in front of them. Tim can spot him all the way across the newspaper offices just from the shape of his jaw. But he's been practicing, after all, for a very long time. Lois Lane is nearly as familiar -- the files, the wedding pictures -- and she's dodging her way out of the office behind a coffee cup when the guy running the work-shadowing program grabs her. "Hey Lois, this is Henry Louis -- thinking about coming to MetU in the fall, after his --" Tim smiles and lets himself, for right now, be Henry. "After I finish my correspondence course," he says. "In what, English Lit?" Lois gives him a quick look that feels beautifully familiar and says. "Look, kid -- I'm so glad to see fresh blood, new faces, important to the business, yadda yadda yadda -- go talk to Clark Kent. He's a stellar reporter." She gives him a little push and a vague wave. He makes himself stop and ask directions halfway across from a guy not that much older than him with a bowtie. Who wears a bowtie these days? "Hi, I'm -- with the intern program -- looking for Clark Kent?" "Uh -- right over there," the guy says, giving him a confused look and a better point than Lois did, "but I didn't think he signed up for it." "I'll figure it out." Tim does his best offhand smile and heads for Clark's desk. "Hello?" Clark says, and to his credit he only blinks too fast twice. "Can I help you?" "I'm here through the intern program," Tim says. "Henry Louis -- Ms. Lane sent me over here." "Ah." Clark shakes his hand in a deliberately weak grip. His fingers are too warm anyway. "I didn't actually sign up for an intern, but we'll fit you in somehow." "Cool," Tim says. "Thanks a lot." The intern program hardly knew he existed last week, but with a nudge from one of the Planet's big advertisers, they let him right in. Wayne Enterprises is good for a lot of things, and smoothing the little details of life is one of its main uses. Clark grabs him a chair from somewhere or other and says, "We're only going to be in here for a little while, until something happens. Um -- do you know about beats?" "Yeah," Tim says, even though his cover story identity probably wouldn't. "I'm really interested in Metropolis -- I mean, I'm not from here, but -- you guys have Superman, and that's pretty cool." He says it to get a reaction. Clark just smiles. "He certainly provides us with a lot of headlines." The urge to say, "And bylines," is something that Tim keeps under his breath. Clark puts a hand over his on the desk and squeezes gently. "That cough sounds pretty bad." "Gotham air, you know?" "So you're here --" "To see Superman, and learn about the Daily Planet and journalism and all that fun stuff." Tim says. "But --" he lifts his hands, waving off bad luck "-- not if it means an alien invasion or something." "Right." Clark gets out a notebook and a pencil. "Here -- until you learn to do a hundred words a minute on a BlackBerry, this is going to be your best friend." "I'm really good at Grand Theft Auto." Clark's mouth twitches a little. "That's a little less work than a BlackBerry." "How can it be?" Tim mimes playing a video game. "I mean, me and Conner, we can play for hours sometimes." "Kent!" a man yells from across the office. Clark gets up with studied clumsiness and knocks Tim's notebook onto his lap. "Oops, sorry." He raises his voice and says, "Yeah, Chief?" "That dead CEO's funeral is today. Why are you not there right now?" "On it! Sorry!" Clark grabs his coat and drops a couple pens out of his shirt pocket, then scrambles for him. He gives Tim an apologetic look. "I'd better go." "Hey, I'm supposed to come with you, right?" Tim gets his notebook and follows him. It's a lot like keeping up with Bruce Wayne on a Gotham street -- there are people trying to cut him off that never see him, and Clark's got a few things to handle on the way out of the office. Lois is gone somewhere, so that's not one of them. "Up for the stairs?" Clark asks, hardly glancing at him to make sure he's there. Of course he doesn't have to look at all, but for the sake of appearances, he has to. "Sure." It's a lot of flights to the bottom and Tim suspects him of using superspeed halfway down, but he's used to playing on flights at least this long with Dick, so he's got the one-hand-on-the-railing-and-pelt-for-it down as well as anybody. Clark gets well ahead of him and it might be cheating, or it could be body weight, potential energy to kinetic energy, and the way he swings around the corners like he's done this a thousand times. They burst onto the street and Tim has to run a little to catch up. "That was wicked," he says. Clark laughs and glances down at him through his glasses. "I thought you said you were from Gotham." "Well, yeah, but I have friends from all over." Tim falls into pace with him. "How far away is this funeral thing?" "A few blocks. I thought we'd walk." "That's cool. I don't have a lot of spare cash." Tim tugs on his MetU t-shirt and pats the notebook in his pocket. "So your beat is, what, white-collar business stuff?" "Sometimes," Clark says. "Last year I got broken back down to fashion." "Oh, burn." Tim laughs. "What'd you do?" Clark shakes his head and walks a little faster. "What I had to." "Right, Mr. Kent, sorry --" "Clark." He stops and puts his hand on Tim's shoulder, squeezing a little. "I've told you a hundred times -- Henry." "Right, sorry. Clark." Tim grins at him and they keep going. "But now you're back in the big time." "Really, Tim," Clark says quietly, "I'm not sure why you're here." "To learn how newspapers work," Tim says. "And?" "And how reporters think." That gets him an honest look over the glasses that makes him shiver. "Ah, I hoped it was something like that." "He didn't send me. I -- I sent myself." "Similar to your year abroad, then?" Tim tries to imagine Clark fighting Shiva and shudders even in the Metropolis sunshine. "Kind of." "You already know how reporters think," Clark says, giving him another sidelong glance. "No, I'm better at --" They pause at an intersection and Tim switches registers a little. "I really love, like, Robert Parker and that kind of stuff. Raymond Chandler and those A is for Animal or Assassin or Abraham Lincoln books." "Detective stories." Clark raises an eyebrow at him, tolerant and amused, but not quite the same softness as he'd have in the office. A minor victory, and Tim suppresses an answering smile. "Well, we can hook you up with the book review while you're here." "I guess, maybe." The light changes and they cross the street with a bunch of other people. There's a cathedral up ahead, so they could be almost there. "One of my friends really likes those, you know, 'The Cat who whatever' stories. Says they get pretty good reviews." Clark touches his shoulder and squeezes it nearly to the point of pain so quickly that Tim gasps a little. His face is still completely bland, but behind it, he's definitely laughing. "I never much cared for mysteries, myself." "I like figuring things out," Tim says, breaking the old, old habit of never saying what somebody already knows. "I'm sure," Clark says. "Well, you can help me figure out how to spin this CEO thing." "What happened?" "Two shots in the back of the head, they still haven't found the assassin." Clark hands him a press pass at the steps of the cathedral. "Here, put this on." "Gosh." Tim glances at him. "Where was Superman?" "Another planet, he said. With the Justice League." "Too far away to help out." Tim whistles softly. "So --" "So that's the story. Let's see what we can add to it." The inside of the cathedral is very dark after the street and Tim has to blink a few times to get his eyes adjusted to the light. Inside there are a few guards pushing the press people off to one side, hardly glancing at badges, and herding the people who are apparently grieving to the pews. Tim scans the crowd and says under his breath, "No one looks familiar." Clark pats his shoulder and whispers, "Just write down what you see." The widow, the bereaved children, the business partners -- none of whom know a thing, certainly not, but are willing to eulogize the departed at length -- they all get up and deliver their speeches in a more or less lachrymose fashion, depending on their personal relationship to the man. "Nothing yet," Tim says under his breath. But there's something -- a familiar sort of movement, even though the face that goes with it is not. A tall blonde woman with a press pass, leaning against the wall and drawing on a notebook -- something about her stance catches Tim's eye. He fakes a fall into Clark's side, tripping a little, and says, "Blonde -- in the corner --" "Sorry," Clark says, making it look like it was his fault, and then he pushes out through the crowd of journalists. "Bad timing, sorry, sorry." Tim ducks after him -- not because he thinks the blonde woman is going to be dangerous, but because he's supposed to be where the story is. When he gets to the entryway, Clark has completely disappeared. That's the story, after all, the one that gets told a thousand times. Clark vanishes, Superman shows up, and never the twain shall meet. Tim sighs and looks out into the street. He could have left the building. It might be something totally unrelated, a capsized cruise ship or a plane on its way into the Himalayas nose-first. "Right," he says. He hears a gun go off, echoing wildly in the ceiling, and turns around, far too late. When he sees Superman toss a crumpled gun to the side and pick up both the blonde woman and the man she was aiming for, he has to smile. There's something about the smooth confidence that he wants for himself, and something about the invulnerability that will never stop being beautiful. It doesn't matter how many pieces of Kryptonite get thrown at him, though even Bruce's files are incomplete on that score. He's still invulnerable and perfect. Tim is used to wanting perfection -- to mirror it, to possess it, and to give it the worship that is its due. He is prepared, intellectually, for the rush of desire. It does not send him to his knees in thoroughly pagan worship on the threshold of the cathedral. It just comes close enough to make him gasp. Superman has to take the perpetrator out past where Tim is standing, and being that close to him ought not to make his knees any weaker. He's only been standing next to the man for well over an hour. He knows himself well enough to duck into the shadows when Superman leaves, followed by the herd of reporters barking questions at him. Where and when and how, who and what and why, as if he knows. It's their job to know why, and if they don't, they're worse reporters than Henry Louis the confused student who is totally lost in their crowd, banged and pushed and carried along because there's nowhere to be but following Superman until he nods to them, says, "The police will answer all further inquiries," and outdistances them all in a heartbeat. It leaves Tim with nowhere to be and no quick way to get any farther. Ten minutes later, Clark Kent stumbles down the cathedral steps. "Sorry about that. Did I miss anything?" "Only Superman," Tim says, watching every piece of his guise fall back into place. "Huh." Clark pushes his glasses up his nose. "Well, that wasn't the story I was looking for, but I hope someone got a good picture." Henry would stare at him. Tim just laughs. "I'm sure someone did, but no one gave me a camera." "That was an oversight." Clark pats his shoulder. "Hungry?" "Yes." Tim gives him an honest look for a moment. "Ah." Clark starts down the street. "We could go out -- but it's not a paid internship, is it?" "No. I'm not that good." Clark chuckles. "Well -- my apartment's not far. Come over for lunch." "I -- if you're sure," Tim says, but he's sure. "Oh, it won't be a problem." They're off again, with Tim careful to stay enough behind to  pretend he doesn't have the map memorized. "As long as you don't mind vegetarian." Clark gives him an embarrassed sort of look, sideways. "I don't think there's any meat in the house." "I'll make do." Tim pats his shoulder, feeling as though he's daring far more than he knows he is. "I wasn't expecting company," Clark says, and he turns up another street. Tim smiles a Henry smile. "It's cool that you'll let me come over. I mean -- I appreciate it. A lot. Is Ms. Lane going to be there?" Clark shakes his head slightly. "I'm sure she'll be out, pestering someone for an interview." "Too bad," Tim says, meaning it and not meaning it. "I mean -- your stuff is great, but -- she's --" "I understand, really." Clark grins at him with pride for Lois, and for him. "She's one of a kind." "So are you," Tim says under his breath, knowing Clark hears every word. "Maybe I'll get to talk to her later." Clark squeezes his shoulder and takes the stairs to the apartment building two at a time. As he looks for his key, he says, "I'm sure she'd be glad to meet you." "We sort of met," Tim says, and then says, "Thanks," as Clark holds the door for him. "In passing, you know." "Well. We'll have to find a time for you to actually talk to her, then." Clark presses the elevator button and manages to look patient while they wait for it, which is more than Tim or Henry can do. Once the elevator arrives, he has to restrain himself from hitting the button, for all Clark does it by reflex. "I'm looking forward to it," Tim says. "At the moment, I'm looking forward to lunch rather more," Clark says, glancing over his glasses. Tim laughs. "Well -- yes, that too." Clark goes too fast into the apartment once the elevator arrives, but there's no one to see, and no one to see Tim save himself from stumbling. The apartment smells like Clark, in a particular undertone that matches no air freshener known to humankind. Tim knows that smell from time spent working with Kon. He knows it all the more intimately when Clark closes the door behind him at speed, pushes him against it, and kisses him with all the perfection he's been waiting for since the cathedral. Since he first saw Superman fly across the sky. Tim puts his arms around Clark's neck -- Superman's -- Kal-El's, perhaps, even -- and  chokes back the groan. Knows, from his shiver and from every file, how clearly Clark hears it. "I didn't think you'd accept the invitation," Clark says, smiling at him. Tim licks his lips and leans up for another kiss. "I didn't think I was so unsubtle about my desires." Clark laughs and kisses him and laughs, still, his shoulders shaking. "It's good for you to get out of Gotham now and then." "To restore a sense of perspective?" Tim presses his lips against Clark's and opens his mouth, letting himself taste, feel, have this. "To hone your subtlety." Clark lifts him a little and it's too easy to settle his legs around Clark's waist and kiss him again, to be flown to the bed. He toes his shoes off on the way. The bed smells even more of Clark, and also of a light perfume that either belongs to Lois or is her. Tim unbuttons Clark's shirt with one hand, willing it not to shake when he finds the uniform he already knows is there. He has his own belt, stripped down to the essentials, and Clark says, "Robin," in his ear when he finds it in the process of unfastening Tim's pants. "Without it I'd be naked." Tim undoes it in the right sequence to avoid unpleasant and unnecessary consequences and lets Clark lift him, one handed and effortless, to get his pants and underwear out of the way. "No." Clark cups his hip. "You're still Robin without it." Tim buries his face in Clark's chest for a moment, as much to make a point as to distract from his blush. "And without this --" It fulfills as many long-standing fantasies to kiss the top of the S as it does for Clark to pull him up into another kiss after he does it. "You can see through it as well as anyone," Clark says in his ear. "Really." Tim tucks his hand in Clark's tights. So easy, and so bizarrely thin after years of Batman's armor. Even Dick's old shorts are thicker than this fabric. Clark rolls them over with no apparent effort and Tim ends up straddling his hips, entirely aware that Clark is floating, and that gravity still applies to him. It's just less important than Clark's hand on his hip, holding him up just enough that he can get Clark's tights down and wrap a hand around him. "You've been working on it a long time," Clark says, thrusting into his grip. Tim braces one hand on his chest, letting his fingers splay over the yellow and red and thinking dizzily of his old sheets. "I don't come to Metropolis that often." He moves sideways to straddle Clark's thigh and kneel on the bed. "Proximity isn't necessary for accuracy -- oh Tim --" Clark squeezes his hip in the same quick motion that he used on his shoulder, out in the street. It makes Tim catch his breath and stroke him harder, moving down the bed and leaning in to taste him. "It certainly doesn't hurt." Clark laughs, chokes on it. "I knew you before you were ever in Metropolis." "You have certain advantages," Tim says, letting himself smile as much as he wants to, letting himself push Superman's tunic up and run his hand over perfect skin. "And you -- ohh --" The sound of Clark losing his words makes Tim have to suck him harder. He knows absolutely that there's no such thing as hard enough, and that it's all in the context, not the execution. Clark's warm fingers at the back of his neck are not pushing his head down. They're sliding over to measure his pulse. "You use your advantages mercilessly." The truth burns through him as quickly as the touch and makes him groan. Opening his throat a little does as much for himself as it does for Clark, who is still several inches off the bed. Enough that Tim can get a good grip on his ass and pull him in, make himself feel the truth of what he's doing and taste the alien perfection of who he's doing it to. "Exactly like that -- oh, yes --" Clark takes the invitation exactly as Tim offers it, not a millimeter farther, and meets him with another thrust. "Impeccable --" and it's the right word, for there's no way this could be sinful. And the wrong word, for there's no way it could be anything but as Clark groans and writhes, absolutely aware of how much and how far he can go. "Tim -- Robin -- oh, yes --" His voice is harsh, not Clark's, not Superman's, and it's the impetus Tim needs to make himself take this farther, deeper. Clark comes with a deep, shuddering sigh, stroking the back of Tim's neck irregularly as he chokes a little and swallows, trying to maintain the illusion of perfection. "Oh, Tim," he says, after he has taken another breath. "Come here." He buries his face in Clark's chest again and holds onto him, catching his breath, until Clark tugs on his shoulder and pulls him into a kiss, licking his lips, his tongue, teasing at him until he can't hold back a shiver. "That was what I expected," Clark says. Tim raises his eyebrows. "Oh? Should I be insulted?" "You're perfect," Clark says, and touches his mouth. The urge to lick his thumb is too strong to deny, but he pulls it away after a moment. "So careful. So studied." Clark flips them over again, as effortlessly as Superman can do that sort of thing, and runs his hand up Tim's thigh. "Your control is addictive." "To a fault," Tim admits, spreading his legs and pushing against Clark's hand for the feeling warmth and strength. "I could try again." "Not just now." Clark nuzzles his thigh. "The worst part of your control is that I want you to lose it." Tim shivers. Lets himself shiver. Shivers again. "I could," he says, and he lets his breath hiss out at the first touch of Clark's tongue, too warm and too slick against him. In him. "If you let it go," Clark says, breath damp and damning and a blessing against him, "is it lost?" Another lick, superfast after the words, and Tim moans. "Possibly." Clark hums against him and it sends heat up his back, spreading through his body in patterns he's sure are visible in infrared. "Possibly?" he asks. "I --" he gasps, involuntarily. "There's a -- a -- spectrum." "Ahh," against his thigh. "Loss of control as a nonabsolute." Tim tries to say, "Yes," but it comes out as a squeak. He lets it -- it comes out as a squeak. "Yes," he says, and doesn't try to talk, which is its own sort of control, when Clark licks him again, spreads him open a little wider. Until he can find the edges of the feeling. "There are -- degrees." The sound Clark makes manages to be a contented hum and a question all at the same time. Tim shivers and waits, waits for long, shuddering breaths, until he can almost speak normally. "Is it possible -- is it -- to, to let  -- go completely?" "To be forced to let go, yes," Clark says, in a pause that is not long enough to contain all of the words. Tim groans and fists his hands in the sheet, smelling Lois's perfume even over his own sweat. He tips his hips up and Clark cradles them in his hands, holding his weight so that it's nearly effortless for Tim to thrust, to brace one foot on the bed and let Clark fuck him with his tongue. "But to let go," he objects. "With -- oh fuck --" not what he meant to say, at all "-- with free will -- totally --" Clark doesn't stop. Doesn't let him go. Doesn't, above all, say, "Shall we find out?" It doesn't stop Tim from hearing it with the last of his verbal mind that's clinging to itself for existence. It melts into pure knowledge of this, of the impossible, alien heat pounding through him and his own toes irrelevantly curling in mid-air as if they could push on it. There's nothing there to hang onto, and that's perfect and vertiginous as the slick, relentless feeling in him, on him. He feels his stomach muscles tense. Clark speeds up, and the frame of reference he thought he had is gone with the inevitability of having to feel this. Wherever he is, because he's floating now, literally as well as figuratively, and somewhere he's screaming, too, and coming, helpless in the face of it. He doesn't feel Clark let him go in any significant sense. The next touch he's aware of is Clark's chest pressed against his and his hands running down Tim's sides, gentle as anything could be. "Oh," he says, not at all sure what he meant to say, and Clark kisses him. His mouth still tastes alien, but in a way that's becoming increasingly familiar. Tim whimpers and Clark lets him go, nuzzling his jaw. "Was that what you expected?" "Uh," Tim says, and then, when he remembers what the words mean, "In a way, yes." "Oh?" Clark's hands help him find the disparate parts of himself again and bring coherence to the overexcited signals from his central nervous system. "What way is that?" "I --" Tim locates his own hands and hugs him. "I expected -- to be --" he shrugs. "Overwhelmed." "I see." Clark kisses him again. "High flattery." "You're Superman. Among other things." Tim smiles ruefully and burrows into his arms a little more. "Anything else would be shocking." "Then --" Clark rubs his back. "The shock itself is not surprising." Tim shivers and finally makes contact with his toes again. "Not in itself. Just as letting go of control requires control." Clark smiles. "Ah. More circular logic." "Not entirely." Tim stretches a little, trying to get everything back in its normal alignment physically, if not psychically. "There are some variables that have no -- controls." The way Clark winces makes it perfectly clear that he is also beaming. "And in your estimation --" "Hypothesis," Tim corrects him. "In your hypothesis, then," with a slight nod, "I am one of those?" "You have a great deal of control," coming back on the other side of the pun. Tim touches Clark's mouth and feels him relax the muscles enough that it's soft. "Perhaps under the right circumstances, you could relax it." Clark, but not entirely Clark, raises his eyebrows, then relaxes into a smile. "Robin," he says, and it is a complete thought. "I expect," with a teasing emphasis, "that it would be well worth whatever preparations -- and precautions -- are necessary." Clark kisses him again. "Perhaps." "At the moment," Tim says, sitting up despite the protestations of various muscles, "it might be prudent to write that story." Clark chuckles and sits up. "After lunch, I think." Tim smiles. "Perhaps something more nourishing, yes." Clark laughs and brings him sandwiches in bed an instant later. "Yes. Keep your strength up." "I expect I'll need it."
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