Fic: Exposure (DCU - Clark/Bruce) 1/1
Title: Exposure
Fandom: DCU
Pairing: Clark/Bruce
Rating: hard R
Word Count: 3,174
Summary: An accidental exposure to amber kryptonite has some really interesting effects.
Disclaimer: DC and WB own it all. I own nothing. Darnit.
Author's Note/Prompt: Written for the World's Finest Gift Exchange. Prompt F17:
I want to read a story from quirky_circe 's "Twenty Random Things About Kal-El"
"12.Kal wonders why every two-bit villain who gets his grubby hands on a chunk of Kryptonite heads straight for him. Only this time, the villain in question is Bruce, and the Amber Kryptonite he accidentally
exposes Kal to doesn't hurt him, just makes him blind stinking drunk.
Kal wakes the next morning with a horrible hangover and only vague flashes of yellow tutus, toilet-seat garlands, and dancing karaoke bears.
Bruce is banished to the sofa for a week."
Also, this is my first time writing Clark as "Kal". *crosses fingers*
Exposure
Bruce is down in the Cave when Kal finds him, hunched over a computer station and tightly focused on the data from his latest experiment. His eyes are narrowed as he scrutinizes the readings, eyes scanning each line carefully, and he's so absorbed that he doesn't even notice Kal sliding up behind him until the Kryptonian slips his arms around Bruce's waist and leans close to whisper in his ear.
“What's this?”
Panic explodes from Bruce's chest at the sudden presence, and he jumps, reaching out to slam the lid of a dark box closed. “Christ, Kal!” he grumbles, even as his lover pulls him in tighter. “Don't do that. This could have killed you!”
“Huh?” With a confused expression, Kal lets Bruce slip from his embrace. He looks down at the box, his brow furrowing as it becomes obvious he can't see into it. “Are you experimenting with kryptonite again?” he asks, turning his gaze back up to Bruce, his voice lowering slightly.
“No. Yes. Dammit, Kal,” Bruce huffs, crossing his arms defensively. Relaxing after a moment spent glaring at the taller man, he gestures to the data on the monitor. “This sample doesn't appear to be anything we've seen before. I was just running the usual battery of tests. So far, I haven't detected any of the catalogued types of radiation that other forms of kryptonite display.”
Finally absorbing the data himself, Kal ventures, “Amber kryptonite? Hmm... What about this one reading?” He draws Bruce's attention to a particular line of data. “I don't think I've ever seen an energy signature like that.”
“That has me concerned as well. I have no way of knowing how that might affect you, short of exposing tissue samples, or...” he hesitates at the suggestion, knowing it's a moot point already, anyway.
A slow smirk crosses Kal's face. “I guess it's a little late to wonder about the ethical ramifications, since it looks like I've already been exposed.”
Bruce eyes him briefly, then responds with the obligatory, “And?”
Kal shakes his head, still smiling. “And nothing. I feel fine.” At Bruce's wary look, he expands, spreading his arms wide, “Really! I didn't feel anything at all from it before you closed the case.”
“Still... I think we ought to run some tests on you, to be sure. We can use the equipment at the Fortress, to get more detailed results, and still be back in time for patrol if we don't find anything wrong.” Turning back to the computer station to set the data to be sent to the computers at the Fortress, he ignores the pout Kal gives him. “I want to take the jet, too, just in case, so why don't you-”
He's cut off when strong arms wrap around his waist again, Kal nuzzling into his neck. “I've got a better idea. Since I'm feeling perfectly fine, why don't we take the rest of the afternoon off, then go out instead? There's this fantastic Japanese place I've been wanting to take you to for a while, and after that, who knows?”
With lips brushing against a particularly sensitive spot on his neck, Bruce finds his ready rebuff dying in his throat. He digs in his heels, wanting to tell Kal no, that they need to check him out, but... the Kryptonian is working that special magic of his on the underside of his jaw that Bruce has never been able to fight. “Damn you,” he mutters, squirming against Kal's hot, wet mouth. “You'd better be fine...”
* * * * *
A handful of incidental orgasms later, they manage to make it out of the Manor and into downtown Gotham, to try out the Japanese place Kal recommended. It's a small restaurant tucked between a little book store and an antiques shop, and by the time they enter, Bruce is already letting Kal's accidental K exposure slide, enticed by the bold scents and the excitement sparkling in his lover's eyes and slight flush to his cheeks. Any other day, he might insist they examine Kal for possible effects from the exposure, intimidate him into submission, but today... how can he say no to that satisfied look on his face, the relaxed set of his shoulders? Stamping down the seed of worry nibbling at the edges of his mind, Bruce can't help but give in. If Kal wants Japanese food, he'll get it.
Once inside, they're seated in a quiet corner, somewhat hidden from prying eyes, and as soon as the waitress takes their initial drink order and scurries off, Kal starts inspecting the drink menu and not quite surreptitiously playing footsies with Bruce under the table. When his foot slides up the inside of Bruce's calf, the Bat can't help a little jump, excitement and surprise mingling in his expression. “What are you doing?” Bruce murmurs, making a show of laying out his silverware and tucking his cloth napkin over his lap.
“Nothing,” Kal grins, his cheeks still flushed - getting more flushed, as Bruce realizes - and his foot suddenly out of its shoe, toes wiggling up toward more intimate places beneath the napkin.
Bruce makes his protest with a noise somewhere between a growl and a whimper. “This is a public place, Kal,” he finally says, knocking his lover's foot away with a knee.
“Hmph. Fine,” Kal scowls, going back to perusing the drink menu as Bruce looks over the food choices. When the waitress returns with their sodas, the Kryptonian holds up two fingers, grinning from ear to ear, “Two Sake Bombs, please.”
Bruce's jaw goes slack, and he's barely able to place his order, staring at Kal until long after the waitress has gone again. After a few more moments of utter confusion, Bruce shakes his head and manages, his voice dropping to a near whisper, “What the hell? You know I don't drink when I have patrol!”
“Relax, Bruce,” Kal smirks. “I talked to Diana before we left, got us the night off. Tim's on point in Gotham tonight, and I got Dick to cover Metropolis.”
Sputtering on his soda, Bruce gives Kal a dangerous look, starting to wonder if there might be something wrong with his Kryptonian after all. He grabs up his napkin to wipe the soda up. “I don't get it. You don't take nights off on the spur of the moment. And you know I sure as hell don't.”
Kal shrugs, sipping his own soda while they wait for their orders. “Just felt like taking a break, that's all. After this afternoon, who wants to patrol? I just want to spend an evening out with you, taking it easy for once.”
With his eyes wary on Kal, Bruce tries to let the matter drop, turning over the thought in his head that the other man isn't himself. His behavior just... doesn't add up.
The drinks finally appear before them, and Bruce stews beneath his lover's raised eyebrows, trying to ignore the plea to just let go and relax. But his will is worn down by those sparkling puppy dog eyes, that innocent farm-boy expression. “Damn you,” he mutters, finally giving in and reaching for his drink.
* * * * *
Two hours after that first drink, Bruce is positive that something is wrong with Kal, but he's so loosened up by the drinks from the restaurant, the out-of-this-world sushi, and the lively, uninhibited manner of his lover that he doesn't have much defense left with which to fight it. When Kal finally drags him into a karaoke bar, grinning like a Cheshire cat and practically hopping with excitement, Bruce gives up the battle entirely.
The place is fairly dark and smoke-filled, the stench of cigarettes, too much beer, and a whole lot of leather and denim crowding out any redeeming smells the place might have once held, but Bruce isn't about to complain as Kal hauls him by the hand back toward the main stage. Seeing his Kryptonian having a good night off makes him happier than he could ever hope to express with words.
A round of beers later, and Kal is on the small stage singing “Yellow Brick Road”, his voice soaring and his vowels stretching to eternity. Bruce can only chuckle in amusement, endearment and alcohol warming him considerably. Then Kal's eyes fall on him from the stage, his hair falling, disheveled, over his glasses, and another grin splits his face wide open on the chorus of the song.
More cheap beer seems to make its way around the room, and before Bruce knows it, Kal is up for another song, this time with a group of very gruff looking bikers that can't seem to keep their hands off each other. With all their arms draped across neighbors' shoulders, Kal in the middle of the group, they begin a rousing rendition of “Somebody to Love”, swaying in time to the music.
Finally in hysterics and feeling the urge to drag his lover into a dark corner and fuck his brains out when Kal finishes and hugs his good-byes to the bikers, Bruce is feeling entirely too entertained to say no when the Kryptonian suggests they find a place to go dancing. He can't wait to see what kind of friends Kal might make at a club, and finds himself entirely too eager to grind against him on the dance floor.
So off they set, shuffling down the sidewalk for several blocks until they find a trendy-looking dance club, Kal throwing his arms wide in anticipation of the scene inside when they see the short line of people waiting to get in, their flashy costumes making Nightwing's first uniform pale in comparison. Bruce doesn't think they'll get in, considering their nondescript attire, but leave it to Kal to make friends with the bouncer at the door, only slightly slurring his speech as he assures them entrance.
Inside, the dance floor is everything the outside view promised, and more, and Bruce is once again dragged into the middle of the melee. Flashing lights of all colors bounce over the top of the crowd, costumes and goth-wear creating a broad-spectrum sea with islands of black. There's everything from superhero knock-off costumes to yellow tutus to strappy black leather and painted on latex.
And for some reason all Bruce can smell is strawberries and cream, the air thick with some kind of enticing incense and pulsing to a pounding dance beat. All around them, bodies writhe with the beat, sweat glistening with the combined body heat and all sorts of glitter, and Bruce can't help but grab Kal closer to him, moving with him to the music and grinding his pelvis against Kal's ass. His lover presses back against him, arms everywhere, his head thrown back in bliss, and they seem to dance like that forever, tangled together and moving as one.
Some interminable amount of time later, Bruce is so hard he can't see straight, and Kal is practically laying against him, his movements taking on a jerking quality that Bruce can only interpret as sexual. His mind is fogged and far too happy to come up with any other solution, so he grabs Kal's hair and brings his lover's ear close to his lips. “Want you. Now,” he growls desperately, thrusting his hips against the Kryptonian.
“Want you, too,” Kal whimpers back, turning to grab his hand and drag him toward the restrooms.
It takes a while to navigate the crowd with Kal tripping over his own feet, but they finally get there and hole up in the handicapped stall of the men's room, falling all over one another as they stumble against the wall. Hands are everywhere, mouths on mouths and skin, licking sweat and tasting each other greedily, hips thrusting in need and erections straining to be set loose. Bruce manages to prop Kal up to the wall, hands digging into firm shoulders, his lover's fingers fumbling over the clasp on the Bat's pants, and all he wants is Kal's mouth on him, or his own cock buried deep inside the Kryptonian. But Kal lurches forward suddenly, his hands curling around his waist and a hand finally coming up to cover his mouth.
Bruce barely has enough time to get out of the way before Kal throws himself at the toilet, hurling violently, and the billionaire is sobered instantly at the sight, his libido finished.
Kal doesn't throw up.
He's never been drunk and he's never thrown up, at least, not as long as Bruce has known him.
Insanely strong hands grip the toilet seat and snap it from the basin as glasses are lost to the mess in the bowl, hair dripping with sweat and lips quivering with the unexpected acidic sting of vomit, and Bruce finally gathers himself to lean over and brush the hair back and retrieve the sick-covered eye wear, soothing Kal with gentle murmurs of, “It's okay, shh, we'll get you home. I'm right here.” His hand sweeps wide circles across a broad back shaking with shock and upset. “I'm here, Kal. It's okay.”
Bruce can't believe he let himself forget about the K exposure, and wonders what exactly it did to make Kal so unbelievably drunk, silently praying his lover doesn't remember this in the morning.
* * * * *
When the first sounds of the day penetrate the pain-filled fog wrapped around his brain, Kal can't help but whimper wordlessly, pulling the covers around his head more tightly to keep out the light of day glaring at him from the bedroom window. Then the jack-hammer starts, veins pulsing in agony in his temples, and he shivers against the fevered feeling of aching muscles. Wha-?
A hand settles on his back, warm and heavy, and he groans at the ache in his spine that wakes beneath the touch. His head feels on fire, and he can't get his bearings.
“Kal?”
The Kryptonian makes a noncommittal grunt as the covers are pulled back slightly and Bruce's face peeks at him, forehead wrinkled with worry. “Mph,” he reiterates, pulling the covers back over his face.
He feels the bed spring back when Bruce retreats and gets up, whispering something to Alfred about strong, black coffee and buttered wheat toast, and his head explodes all over again with the pain of too many noises, cloth scraping against cloth and bare feet shuffling over carpet, heavy breaths taken through nostrils and jumpy heartbeats. A few moments later it's water crashing through the faucet in the bathroom, the coffee grinder in the kitchen screaming with industrial terror, and the maniacal thrum of the heating elements in the toaster, finally overtaken by the deafening clank of a plate and a cup against the counter top.
Kal thinks for a moment he might throw up, but manages, with a lot of effort, to fight down his nausea, keeping himself secure beneath the covers.
Shoes crash against the hard wood tread of the stairwell as the roar of toilet flushing drowns the rest of the world in the violent rush and gurgle of water.
He starts to shiver again.
Then Bruce is beside him, sitting down on the edge of the bed and leaning down close, his hand on Kal's shoulder. “Kal, you need to wake up. Come on. Coffee's waiting.”
“Unnhhh...” he groans painfully, his own voice too loud in his head.
“I know you don't feel good, but you need to drink some coffee,” Bruce says more quietly.
Kal moans again, shifting slightly. His head throbs.
“Please trust me. It's the only thing for it.”
For it? For what?
An unpleasant flicker of memory hits him, and he feels disoriented for a moment, the bed spinning around him. Was he... at a bar?
Finally, he finds his voice, realizing his throat is parched as his tongue works against the roof of his mouth tasting bile and beer. “Wh-what happened?” he croaks out hoarsely, letting Bruce tug the corner of the covers out from around his head.
He's blinking heavily, squinting at the blinding morning sun when Bruce answers him, “You were exposed to kryptonite.”
“Huh? I don't rememb-”
“It was amber kryptonite. We didn't think there had been any effect, until...” Bruce trails off, looking away guiltily.
Another flash of memory strikes Kal hard, and he squeezes his eyes shut.
“What do you remember?”
“Um...” Kal searches his memory, trying to pick apart the vague flashes. “Um, there were... yellow tutus... and a toilet seat... um... karaoke... dancing... teddy bears?” He feels like he could die, wants to slink away and never look at the light of day again.
Bruce's half-hearted chuckle is unnerving. “I suppose 'teddy bears' would be a nice, innocuous way of putting it. You were drunk, Kal. I still haven't determined whether it was a direct effect of the kryptonite, or the kryptonite made you vulnerable to alcohol intoxication. Either way, you were blind, stinking drunk. And then you threw up in the bathroom of a club.”
“That explains the toilet seat garland, at least,” Kal groans, covering his eyes with a hand. “But...”
“I know,” Bruce soothes, helping him to sit up and handing him the cup of coffee. “I should have picked up on it sooner. Unfortunately, I mistook your flushed complexion for a nice, post-coital glow, and after you convinced me to start drinking, I forgot all about the exposure.”
Kal nearly chokes on his coffee at that, his head still splitting open. “Wh-what!? You knew there was something wrong and you didn't do anything about it?”
Looking away, Bruce can't seem to face him. “I'm sorry. I tried to convince you to let me run tests, but you were so damned insistent that you were fine, and...” He exhales heavily.
“That in itself should have told you something wasn't right. When have I ever argued with you trying to ensure my health?” Bitter anger and a small helping of disbelief and shock course through him with every throb of the jack-hammer in his head, and he can see the shame crossing Bruce's features. Unable to stop himself, he plows forward in his hurt, “Every two-bit criminal that gets hold of a piece of kryptonite invariably comes looking for me, and I have to suffer it's effects from you. God, Bruce...”
With a tight smile and no ready reply, Bruce rises from the bed and heads toward the door. Pausing, he tosses back over his shoulder, “Guess I'm banished to the sofa, aren't I?”
“For a week,” Kal whispers bitterly, before downing the rest of his coffee and slamming the cup back down on the tray next to the bed with a deafening clank. When Bruce slips out the door and pads down the hall, Kal throws himself back down on the pillows, angling his face toward the sun with tightly shut eyes, desperately fighting the pounding in his brain. At the very least, the light might help take the edge off of his first - and only, ever - hangover.
* * * * *
Fandom: DCU
Pairing: Clark/Bruce
Rating: hard R
Word Count: 3,174
Summary: An accidental exposure to amber kryptonite has some really interesting effects.
Disclaimer: DC and WB own it all. I own nothing. Darnit.
Author's Note/Prompt: Written for the World's Finest Gift Exchange. Prompt F17:
I want to read a story from quirky_circe 's "Twenty Random Things About Kal-El"
"12.Kal wonders why every two-bit villain who gets his grubby hands on a chunk of Kryptonite heads straight for him. Only this time, the villain in question is Bruce, and the Amber Kryptonite he accidentally
exposes Kal to doesn't hurt him, just makes him blind stinking drunk.
Kal wakes the next morning with a horrible hangover and only vague flashes of yellow tutus, toilet-seat garlands, and dancing karaoke bears.
Bruce is banished to the sofa for a week."
Also, this is my first time writing Clark as "Kal". *crosses fingers*
Exposure
Bruce is down in the Cave when Kal finds him, hunched over a computer station and tightly focused on the data from his latest experiment. His eyes are narrowed as he scrutinizes the readings, eyes scanning each line carefully, and he's so absorbed that he doesn't even notice Kal sliding up behind him until the Kryptonian slips his arms around Bruce's waist and leans close to whisper in his ear.
“What's this?”
Panic explodes from Bruce's chest at the sudden presence, and he jumps, reaching out to slam the lid of a dark box closed. “Christ, Kal!” he grumbles, even as his lover pulls him in tighter. “Don't do that. This could have killed you!”
“Huh?” With a confused expression, Kal lets Bruce slip from his embrace. He looks down at the box, his brow furrowing as it becomes obvious he can't see into it. “Are you experimenting with kryptonite again?” he asks, turning his gaze back up to Bruce, his voice lowering slightly.
“No. Yes. Dammit, Kal,” Bruce huffs, crossing his arms defensively. Relaxing after a moment spent glaring at the taller man, he gestures to the data on the monitor. “This sample doesn't appear to be anything we've seen before. I was just running the usual battery of tests. So far, I haven't detected any of the catalogued types of radiation that other forms of kryptonite display.”
Finally absorbing the data himself, Kal ventures, “Amber kryptonite? Hmm... What about this one reading?” He draws Bruce's attention to a particular line of data. “I don't think I've ever seen an energy signature like that.”
“That has me concerned as well. I have no way of knowing how that might affect you, short of exposing tissue samples, or...” he hesitates at the suggestion, knowing it's a moot point already, anyway.
A slow smirk crosses Kal's face. “I guess it's a little late to wonder about the ethical ramifications, since it looks like I've already been exposed.”
Bruce eyes him briefly, then responds with the obligatory, “And?”
Kal shakes his head, still smiling. “And nothing. I feel fine.” At Bruce's wary look, he expands, spreading his arms wide, “Really! I didn't feel anything at all from it before you closed the case.”
“Still... I think we ought to run some tests on you, to be sure. We can use the equipment at the Fortress, to get more detailed results, and still be back in time for patrol if we don't find anything wrong.” Turning back to the computer station to set the data to be sent to the computers at the Fortress, he ignores the pout Kal gives him. “I want to take the jet, too, just in case, so why don't you-”
He's cut off when strong arms wrap around his waist again, Kal nuzzling into his neck. “I've got a better idea. Since I'm feeling perfectly fine, why don't we take the rest of the afternoon off, then go out instead? There's this fantastic Japanese place I've been wanting to take you to for a while, and after that, who knows?”
With lips brushing against a particularly sensitive spot on his neck, Bruce finds his ready rebuff dying in his throat. He digs in his heels, wanting to tell Kal no, that they need to check him out, but... the Kryptonian is working that special magic of his on the underside of his jaw that Bruce has never been able to fight. “Damn you,” he mutters, squirming against Kal's hot, wet mouth. “You'd better be fine...”
* * * * *
A handful of incidental orgasms later, they manage to make it out of the Manor and into downtown Gotham, to try out the Japanese place Kal recommended. It's a small restaurant tucked between a little book store and an antiques shop, and by the time they enter, Bruce is already letting Kal's accidental K exposure slide, enticed by the bold scents and the excitement sparkling in his lover's eyes and slight flush to his cheeks. Any other day, he might insist they examine Kal for possible effects from the exposure, intimidate him into submission, but today... how can he say no to that satisfied look on his face, the relaxed set of his shoulders? Stamping down the seed of worry nibbling at the edges of his mind, Bruce can't help but give in. If Kal wants Japanese food, he'll get it.
Once inside, they're seated in a quiet corner, somewhat hidden from prying eyes, and as soon as the waitress takes their initial drink order and scurries off, Kal starts inspecting the drink menu and not quite surreptitiously playing footsies with Bruce under the table. When his foot slides up the inside of Bruce's calf, the Bat can't help a little jump, excitement and surprise mingling in his expression. “What are you doing?” Bruce murmurs, making a show of laying out his silverware and tucking his cloth napkin over his lap.
“Nothing,” Kal grins, his cheeks still flushed - getting more flushed, as Bruce realizes - and his foot suddenly out of its shoe, toes wiggling up toward more intimate places beneath the napkin.
Bruce makes his protest with a noise somewhere between a growl and a whimper. “This is a public place, Kal,” he finally says, knocking his lover's foot away with a knee.
“Hmph. Fine,” Kal scowls, going back to perusing the drink menu as Bruce looks over the food choices. When the waitress returns with their sodas, the Kryptonian holds up two fingers, grinning from ear to ear, “Two Sake Bombs, please.”
Bruce's jaw goes slack, and he's barely able to place his order, staring at Kal until long after the waitress has gone again. After a few more moments of utter confusion, Bruce shakes his head and manages, his voice dropping to a near whisper, “What the hell? You know I don't drink when I have patrol!”
“Relax, Bruce,” Kal smirks. “I talked to Diana before we left, got us the night off. Tim's on point in Gotham tonight, and I got Dick to cover Metropolis.”
Sputtering on his soda, Bruce gives Kal a dangerous look, starting to wonder if there might be something wrong with his Kryptonian after all. He grabs up his napkin to wipe the soda up. “I don't get it. You don't take nights off on the spur of the moment. And you know I sure as hell don't.”
Kal shrugs, sipping his own soda while they wait for their orders. “Just felt like taking a break, that's all. After this afternoon, who wants to patrol? I just want to spend an evening out with you, taking it easy for once.”
With his eyes wary on Kal, Bruce tries to let the matter drop, turning over the thought in his head that the other man isn't himself. His behavior just... doesn't add up.
The drinks finally appear before them, and Bruce stews beneath his lover's raised eyebrows, trying to ignore the plea to just let go and relax. But his will is worn down by those sparkling puppy dog eyes, that innocent farm-boy expression. “Damn you,” he mutters, finally giving in and reaching for his drink.
* * * * *
Two hours after that first drink, Bruce is positive that something is wrong with Kal, but he's so loosened up by the drinks from the restaurant, the out-of-this-world sushi, and the lively, uninhibited manner of his lover that he doesn't have much defense left with which to fight it. When Kal finally drags him into a karaoke bar, grinning like a Cheshire cat and practically hopping with excitement, Bruce gives up the battle entirely.
The place is fairly dark and smoke-filled, the stench of cigarettes, too much beer, and a whole lot of leather and denim crowding out any redeeming smells the place might have once held, but Bruce isn't about to complain as Kal hauls him by the hand back toward the main stage. Seeing his Kryptonian having a good night off makes him happier than he could ever hope to express with words.
A round of beers later, and Kal is on the small stage singing “Yellow Brick Road”, his voice soaring and his vowels stretching to eternity. Bruce can only chuckle in amusement, endearment and alcohol warming him considerably. Then Kal's eyes fall on him from the stage, his hair falling, disheveled, over his glasses, and another grin splits his face wide open on the chorus of the song.
More cheap beer seems to make its way around the room, and before Bruce knows it, Kal is up for another song, this time with a group of very gruff looking bikers that can't seem to keep their hands off each other. With all their arms draped across neighbors' shoulders, Kal in the middle of the group, they begin a rousing rendition of “Somebody to Love”, swaying in time to the music.
Finally in hysterics and feeling the urge to drag his lover into a dark corner and fuck his brains out when Kal finishes and hugs his good-byes to the bikers, Bruce is feeling entirely too entertained to say no when the Kryptonian suggests they find a place to go dancing. He can't wait to see what kind of friends Kal might make at a club, and finds himself entirely too eager to grind against him on the dance floor.
So off they set, shuffling down the sidewalk for several blocks until they find a trendy-looking dance club, Kal throwing his arms wide in anticipation of the scene inside when they see the short line of people waiting to get in, their flashy costumes making Nightwing's first uniform pale in comparison. Bruce doesn't think they'll get in, considering their nondescript attire, but leave it to Kal to make friends with the bouncer at the door, only slightly slurring his speech as he assures them entrance.
Inside, the dance floor is everything the outside view promised, and more, and Bruce is once again dragged into the middle of the melee. Flashing lights of all colors bounce over the top of the crowd, costumes and goth-wear creating a broad-spectrum sea with islands of black. There's everything from superhero knock-off costumes to yellow tutus to strappy black leather and painted on latex.
And for some reason all Bruce can smell is strawberries and cream, the air thick with some kind of enticing incense and pulsing to a pounding dance beat. All around them, bodies writhe with the beat, sweat glistening with the combined body heat and all sorts of glitter, and Bruce can't help but grab Kal closer to him, moving with him to the music and grinding his pelvis against Kal's ass. His lover presses back against him, arms everywhere, his head thrown back in bliss, and they seem to dance like that forever, tangled together and moving as one.
Some interminable amount of time later, Bruce is so hard he can't see straight, and Kal is practically laying against him, his movements taking on a jerking quality that Bruce can only interpret as sexual. His mind is fogged and far too happy to come up with any other solution, so he grabs Kal's hair and brings his lover's ear close to his lips. “Want you. Now,” he growls desperately, thrusting his hips against the Kryptonian.
“Want you, too,” Kal whimpers back, turning to grab his hand and drag him toward the restrooms.
It takes a while to navigate the crowd with Kal tripping over his own feet, but they finally get there and hole up in the handicapped stall of the men's room, falling all over one another as they stumble against the wall. Hands are everywhere, mouths on mouths and skin, licking sweat and tasting each other greedily, hips thrusting in need and erections straining to be set loose. Bruce manages to prop Kal up to the wall, hands digging into firm shoulders, his lover's fingers fumbling over the clasp on the Bat's pants, and all he wants is Kal's mouth on him, or his own cock buried deep inside the Kryptonian. But Kal lurches forward suddenly, his hands curling around his waist and a hand finally coming up to cover his mouth.
Bruce barely has enough time to get out of the way before Kal throws himself at the toilet, hurling violently, and the billionaire is sobered instantly at the sight, his libido finished.
Kal doesn't throw up.
He's never been drunk and he's never thrown up, at least, not as long as Bruce has known him.
Insanely strong hands grip the toilet seat and snap it from the basin as glasses are lost to the mess in the bowl, hair dripping with sweat and lips quivering with the unexpected acidic sting of vomit, and Bruce finally gathers himself to lean over and brush the hair back and retrieve the sick-covered eye wear, soothing Kal with gentle murmurs of, “It's okay, shh, we'll get you home. I'm right here.” His hand sweeps wide circles across a broad back shaking with shock and upset. “I'm here, Kal. It's okay.”
Bruce can't believe he let himself forget about the K exposure, and wonders what exactly it did to make Kal so unbelievably drunk, silently praying his lover doesn't remember this in the morning.
* * * * *
When the first sounds of the day penetrate the pain-filled fog wrapped around his brain, Kal can't help but whimper wordlessly, pulling the covers around his head more tightly to keep out the light of day glaring at him from the bedroom window. Then the jack-hammer starts, veins pulsing in agony in his temples, and he shivers against the fevered feeling of aching muscles. Wha-?
A hand settles on his back, warm and heavy, and he groans at the ache in his spine that wakes beneath the touch. His head feels on fire, and he can't get his bearings.
“Kal?”
The Kryptonian makes a noncommittal grunt as the covers are pulled back slightly and Bruce's face peeks at him, forehead wrinkled with worry. “Mph,” he reiterates, pulling the covers back over his face.
He feels the bed spring back when Bruce retreats and gets up, whispering something to Alfred about strong, black coffee and buttered wheat toast, and his head explodes all over again with the pain of too many noises, cloth scraping against cloth and bare feet shuffling over carpet, heavy breaths taken through nostrils and jumpy heartbeats. A few moments later it's water crashing through the faucet in the bathroom, the coffee grinder in the kitchen screaming with industrial terror, and the maniacal thrum of the heating elements in the toaster, finally overtaken by the deafening clank of a plate and a cup against the counter top.
Kal thinks for a moment he might throw up, but manages, with a lot of effort, to fight down his nausea, keeping himself secure beneath the covers.
Shoes crash against the hard wood tread of the stairwell as the roar of toilet flushing drowns the rest of the world in the violent rush and gurgle of water.
He starts to shiver again.
Then Bruce is beside him, sitting down on the edge of the bed and leaning down close, his hand on Kal's shoulder. “Kal, you need to wake up. Come on. Coffee's waiting.”
“Unnhhh...” he groans painfully, his own voice too loud in his head.
“I know you don't feel good, but you need to drink some coffee,” Bruce says more quietly.
Kal moans again, shifting slightly. His head throbs.
“Please trust me. It's the only thing for it.”
For it? For what?
An unpleasant flicker of memory hits him, and he feels disoriented for a moment, the bed spinning around him. Was he... at a bar?
Finally, he finds his voice, realizing his throat is parched as his tongue works against the roof of his mouth tasting bile and beer. “Wh-what happened?” he croaks out hoarsely, letting Bruce tug the corner of the covers out from around his head.
He's blinking heavily, squinting at the blinding morning sun when Bruce answers him, “You were exposed to kryptonite.”
“Huh? I don't rememb-”
“It was amber kryptonite. We didn't think there had been any effect, until...” Bruce trails off, looking away guiltily.
Another flash of memory strikes Kal hard, and he squeezes his eyes shut.
“What do you remember?”
“Um...” Kal searches his memory, trying to pick apart the vague flashes. “Um, there were... yellow tutus... and a toilet seat... um... karaoke... dancing... teddy bears?” He feels like he could die, wants to slink away and never look at the light of day again.
Bruce's half-hearted chuckle is unnerving. “I suppose 'teddy bears' would be a nice, innocuous way of putting it. You were drunk, Kal. I still haven't determined whether it was a direct effect of the kryptonite, or the kryptonite made you vulnerable to alcohol intoxication. Either way, you were blind, stinking drunk. And then you threw up in the bathroom of a club.”
“That explains the toilet seat garland, at least,” Kal groans, covering his eyes with a hand. “But...”
“I know,” Bruce soothes, helping him to sit up and handing him the cup of coffee. “I should have picked up on it sooner. Unfortunately, I mistook your flushed complexion for a nice, post-coital glow, and after you convinced me to start drinking, I forgot all about the exposure.”
Kal nearly chokes on his coffee at that, his head still splitting open. “Wh-what!? You knew there was something wrong and you didn't do anything about it?”
Looking away, Bruce can't seem to face him. “I'm sorry. I tried to convince you to let me run tests, but you were so damned insistent that you were fine, and...” He exhales heavily.
“That in itself should have told you something wasn't right. When have I ever argued with you trying to ensure my health?” Bitter anger and a small helping of disbelief and shock course through him with every throb of the jack-hammer in his head, and he can see the shame crossing Bruce's features. Unable to stop himself, he plows forward in his hurt, “Every two-bit criminal that gets hold of a piece of kryptonite invariably comes looking for me, and I have to suffer it's effects from you. God, Bruce...”
With a tight smile and no ready reply, Bruce rises from the bed and heads toward the door. Pausing, he tosses back over his shoulder, “Guess I'm banished to the sofa, aren't I?”
“For a week,” Kal whispers bitterly, before downing the rest of his coffee and slamming the cup back down on the tray next to the bed with a deafening clank. When Bruce slips out the door and pads down the hall, Kal throws himself back down on the pillows, angling his face toward the sun with tightly shut eyes, desperately fighting the pounding in his brain. At the very least, the light might help take the edge off of his first - and only, ever - hangover.
* * * * *