The bat lost a bet

ᴄʜᴀᴘᴛᴇʀ ᴠ

Clark slammed Bruce into the bed, fists twisting the front of his pyjamas and the collar tightened like a noose around Bruce’s throat.

“Do you know how long it took me to find that place!” Clark squeezed the words out through clenched teeth, “And you have to go and ruin it all. You...you...childish immature spoilt brat!”

In retaliation, Bruce snarled and jabbed a Batarang at Clark’s face. He hissed sharply in pain as it was wrenched from his grasp and his hands pinned above his head. Bruce glared, eyes bloodshot and bleary, and then just gave up, too fucking tired to care. He had not slept in days and was about to turn in when Clark had burst through the open French doors and tossed him onto his bed.

Bruce’s eyes drifted shut. The softness of the sheets and the cosy warmth of Clark’s body heat were too sleep-inducing. However, his reaction only ended up enraging Clark further.

“Don’t you dare avoid the issue by falling asleep!” Clark yelled, letting go of Bruce’s hands to shake him like a rag doll, “I know the culprit is you. I just can’t understand why must you be so extreme just because I had...”

Clark froze at an ominous click of a gun cocking and ready to fire. He looked to the doorway and caught sight of Alfred standing there, a pump-action shotgun pointed steadily at his head.

“Good morning, Mr Kent,” Alfred greeted him pleasantly, “Will you kindly please remove yourself from Mr Wayne. It has been such a chore coaxing him to go to bed, and I will not have you undo the efforts I have made.”

Before Clark could make his reply, Bruce butted in, voice slurred and mind hazy with fatigue.

“He’s lying, Clark,” Bruce patted Clark’s cheeks absent-mindedly, “Alfred did not coax me. He drugged me with that last cup of...”’

Whatever else Bruce wanted to say was cut off by a huge loud yawn, and his eyes slipped close once again.

Clark, still seething with anger, defiantly jerked Bruce awake, eliciting a despairing moan from him. He eyed Alfred mockingly.

“You can’t hurt me with that.”

“Oh, I beg to differ, Mr Kent. These bullets are quite unique. They are rigged to explode and disperse enough kryptonite crystals to make you very miserable for a long while. Unfortunately, it will not be lethal though as per the request of Mr Wayne. That is how in love he is with you.”

Bruce immediately told Alfred to shut up, protesting in a jumble of words that he did not and would not have such feelings for Clark. Ignoring him, both Alfred and Clark stared quietly at one another, each waiting for the other to make the next move, and neither willing to be the first to do so. The tensed silence stretched and stretched when out of the blue, a soft snore disrupted their standoff stalemate.

The two of them looked at Bruce and found him utterly gone, body limp, head lolling back, finally succumbing to the siren call of sleep. Clark glowered, pissed and frustrated as another snore drifted through the air. He had yet to settle his score with Bruce, and now, his anger was without a target to vent on.

“Mr Kent,” Alfred called out as he flicked the safety on and rested the rifle on his shoulder, “Shall we leave Mr Wayne be and have a cup of tea instead? He really does need to sleep as he had gone without it for close to 52 hours.”

At Alfred’s words, Clark finally noticed the signs of Bruce’s exhaustion – dark circles beneath his eyes, cracked and dry lips and a pale worn-out demeanour. Assuaged by guilt and bugged by a surge of concern for him, Clark gently laid Bruce down and shifted off him to sit at the edge of the bed.