#whee...

“Actually,” Clark said, “I was wondering why you hadn’t been over to Metropolis lately.” He reached over to run his fingers along the velvet collar of Bruce’s coat, dark brows drawn together in thought. “It couldn’t be the gossip, right?” he asked as he began working at the cashmere scarf around Bruce’s neck, tugging it free.

“The gossip?” Bruce echoed, as though he didn’t have a clue. As if there hadn’t been innuendo-laden blind items about what Daily Planet reporter was receiving exclusives from what Gotham City industrialist. As if there hadn’t been one too many close calls with the paparazzi.

“Rumors anyway, whispers.” Clark held the scarf loosely in his hands now. His voice had dropped to an intimate register.

“Tawdry ones? Sordid?” Was it his imagination, or had Clark tightened his grip on the scarf? He didn’t imagine Clark trying not to smile at any rate.

“It’s just, I wouldn’t think you’d care about something like that.” Clark slipped the scarf around Bruce’s shoulders, both ends held, firmly, in his hands.

“I wouldn’t?” Assorted possibilities scampered through his mind. He shooed them all away. Maybe Clark wanted to strangle him, and God knew no jury in the land would vote to convict, but Bruce really didn’t think that was the deal here. Beyond that, he preferred not to anticipate.