Author's note/disclaimer: They're not mine and they're not gay. But sometimes, Batman hates being Bruce Wayne. Bit of influence here from the Nolanverse as well as the "All-Star Superman" series.

I've stolen Bruce's anecdote here right out of the Batman: the animated series episode "Avatar." Bruce's voice as he says the little line that gives this story its title is just …so… perfect. God bless Kevin Conroy.

It's Deductible

Champagne, string quartet. Camembert. And they called it a "business meeting." Clark shook his head and pushed up his glasses as Jimmy snapped pictures.

Lois tugged on his sleeve. "Clark, look! It's that Russian guy who just bought that house on the Riviera!" she rummaged in her purse, seized her tape recorder. "I'm gonna go talk to him for a minute."

"But--"

She rolled her eyes. "Yes, yes, alleged connections to Intergang, funding nuclear weapons research in Kaznia, tall dark and handsome, the whole nine yards." She glanced over her shoulder and eyed the man up and down; he was at least as tall as Clark. "Hm. Or maybe ten yards, in his case."

Clark fought the urge to puff out his chest in protest and the result was that his shoulders slumped in a perfect pantomime of a whimper. Lois pointed her finger right between his eyes. "Stop it," she commanded, and turned him towards the food table. "I'm just going to ask about the house. Go get me some of that punch and then you can swoop in and rescue me. Give me five minutes!" She gave him a little push and then she was off.

Lois Lane, star reporter. A regular bloodhound when it came to sniffing out stories. Clark watched her get to work with unmasked admiration. That smile, that sparkle in her eyes. The obvious willingness of the Russian to talk to her, despite being well-known for shunning the press. With Lois's talent, Clark wouldn't be surprised if 'how many full-sized baths?' led to a front-page exposé on nuclear arms.

The Russian dipped forward and kissed her hand.

Clark narrowed his eyes, abruptly recalling that Lois had said something about swooping in and rescuing, which was certainly in his area of expertise.

He headed for the punch bowl.

"…So he says to me, 'Bruce, you can be quite the humanitarian. It's commendable. It's inspiring.'"

He took a sip of his champagne, smiled. "And then I said, 'it's deductible.'"

The small crowd that had gathered around Mr. Wayne broke into laughter. Mr. Wayne was being exceptionally charming today. Sociable. They loved it when he was sociable. Everyone was pleased by his presence, amused by his anecdotes, flattered by his finesse. He was on top of his game.

Another impressive player shouldered his way into the circle then, a man built as squarely as any superhero, even if the girls sometimes failed to look far enough past his hairless head and ugly face to notice.

"Bruce, I thought that was you. Glad you could make it." He stuck out his hand, and Mr. Wayne clasped it.

"Lex," he said, his light-hearted tone leaving no doubt that the encounter was a pleasant surprise. "You knew I couldn't pass this up."

The handshake became a test, and Bruce mentally growled at his own carelessness. His real reason for attending the event was to put to rest Luthor's suspicions about the Batman's identity. The subtext of his statement had been unintentional—he would have to be more careful.

Now Luthor was attempting to crush his hand in one of the oldest silent challenges known to man. Bruce refused to step up; he kept his grip as soft and dignified as it always was, letting Lex feel like the alpha male.

Predictably, once he'd been given that inch, Luthor took a whole mile. Smug, he dropped Bruce's hand, only to sidle up next to him and wrap an arm around his back. Bruce forced his posture to relax as Lex shook his shoulder. "It's been a while, hasn't it? If you're up for some sport you should come over sometime; we'll go shooting. And I do mean archery, of course, since I know how you hate guns."

"Skeet or trap's fine as well," Mr. Wayne said brightly. "Sport's sport, after all."

"Yes, it is," Luthor purred. "I wonder, instead of clay pigeons, would you be opposed to shooting live ones?"

"I have to say I'd prefer not to," Mr. Wayne confessed, amicably. A vague and fleeting hint of worry furrowed his brow. "And anyway, isn't that illegal these days?"

"Not at my country club," Lex confided. "It really works out well for everybody, considering the overpopulation problem."

Mr. Wayne grinned, cares discarded. "Too many pigeons in a city like Metropolis? I never would have guessed!"

Lex feigned surprise, but it was the surprise of a snake finding a mouse in its cage. "Did I say pigeons?" he asked, fixing Bruce with an unblinking stare. "I'm sorry, I meant a different common bird: I've been using robins."

For a split second, Bruce hated the fact that he was far too good to react to that. But, whether he hated it or not, the fact remained.

Innocent amazement graced his features. "Really? I'd think that they'd be horrible targets. I'd be happy to come out and give it a try though. I'll make some time on my calendar."

Luthor wasn't quite as good an actor, and Bruce caught the disappointment in his eyes. Bruce's mask was perfectly in place, no chance of slipping, but his thoughts were dark and disgusted. What did you expect? You want me to snarl at you, bare my teeth? You've no idea who you're dealing with if you thought you could trip me up that easily.

Lex rubbed Bruce on the back to let him know he was one of the good ole boys, and said something about coordinating with his personal assistant, but Bruce barely heard him. All he was truly conscious of was that calculating, heavy, evil hand on his back, fraternizing and patronizing all at once, practically burning right through his suit and poisoning his skin with the acid of everything that he hated. Don't touch me. Get your hands off me. You wanted me to lash out and prove your little theory? Trust me, I'd love to punch you in the throat right where you stand. But you'd like that, wouldn't you? That's what you were hoping for. And I'm better than that. I'm better than you. A thousand times better.

Bruce heard himself say "that would be wonderful" or something similarly banal, and suddenly felt a sting of something like guilt, as if he'd been caught in the act—someone was watching him. Guided by instinct, his eyes scanned his surroundings, and came to rest on a magnificently built but dreadfully dressed newspaper reporter standing by the punch bowl.

They weren't supposed to acknowledge each other, especially not across the room. They both knew that. But there was a helpless pity in Clark's expression that froze Bruce in his tracks, and for just a split second too long, Bruce couldn't look away.

Clark knew the context of the situation. Knew what was going on, how Luthor had been trying to figure out Batman's identity, how he had all but conclusively pinned it on Bruce, and how today was the test. Clark knew that Lex's arm around Bruce's shoulders was supposed to be there, it was natural, it was part of the game, part of the character that Bruce had to play.

And that would account for why Clark was looking at Bruce as if he were watching a video of a sheep being slaughtered: knowing he couldn't save it, as the sheep's fate had been determined, but also compelled to feel sorry for it.

Bruce knew that Clark must have heard the conversation, too, and must have known that the lines were practically scripted. But it seemed to Bruce in that moment that Clark even knew what he was thinking, what he was really thinking. Clark was looking right into his soul. And his soul was dirty with hate.

That was where the guilt came from, of course. Clark still thought there was hope for Luthor, in spite of everything. But Bruce knew better, and quickly quenched his guilt with anger. There was something that Clark didn't realize in the video scenario: the sheep had asked for it.

Don't feel sorry for me, Clark. I want this. I am this.

Clark must've noticed it as one of Bruce's eyes twitched a bit, because he held up his cup of punch in defense and then turned away, shuffling into the crowd.

When the "meeting" finally ended, long after the press had been evicted, Bruce couldn't get up to his room fast enough. It seemed like the elevator was moving in slow motion. He was tempted to haul himself out the hatch in the top and climb up the cables instead, but somehow he managed to wait it out. The elevator stopped and an eternity elapsed before the door opened, but at last Bruce tumbled into his penthouse suite.

Alfred had left a plate of cookies for him on the bedside table.

But he couldn't even stand the sight of them, not while he was still in his filthy costume. He smelled like cigar smoke, from the cigar he'd smoked laughingly, willingly, cheerfully at Luthor's side. Committing his company, his resources, his name, to a business venture that proved once and for all that Bruce Wayne was not Batman.

There would be a way to fix it, eventually. He was at least as smart as Luthor, and he had Lucius Fox on his side, who was probably smarter—they would figure out how to cleverly undo the damage, how to quietly turn the whole thing around. But it would take time. And for now, Bruce just felt sick.

The stench of the cigar smoke. And Luthor. Luthor making sure he wasn't Batman. Luthor testing him with every word and phrase, trying to be so goddamn sophisticated about the whole thing when it was all a charade just begging to be ended by a swift right hook.

Bruce threw open the doors to his balcony and stepped out into the wind and the un-dark of Metropolis at night. He breathed in. Even his lungs felt dirty. He couldn't tear his smoke-polluted clothes off fast enough. Each piece of clothing that he peeled off his body he threw away, right over the balcony.

He felt a little better once he'd gotten down to his boxer briefs. The wind was clean. But he still felt saturated by all the conniving and the pretending and the egotism that he'd been exposed to and actively participated in throughout the day.

A shower. A hot shower would help-- but Bruce felt so physically affected that he knew that wouldn't be enough. What he felt like he'd absorbed could only be cleansed from his system in two ways:

Either he'd have to sweat it out, or he'd have to bleed it out.

Option A was far more practical given the circumstances. He went back into the room, shut the balcony doors behind him, and dropped to floor.

Sixty pushups later, Bruce had barely gotten started when an unmistakable shadow landed on his balcony. Bruce glared at the shadow, and kept pushing.

Clark hesitated, and then, he knocked.

"No," Bruce said.

"What do you mean, 'no'?" Clark asked through the door.

"You were going to ask if you could come in," Bruce told him. He held his breath, did another quick set of five reps, and then locked his arms out in the front leaning rest and looked back up at Clark's silhouette. "And the answer is no."

Clark smiled grimly. "Actually I was going to ask if you were all right."

Pushups. Lots more pushups.

"…and I'm guessing the answer's still 'no'," Clark said. Bruce decided to ignore him.

With a shake of his head, Clark walked a few steps over to the adjoining balcony. Alfred's room. Bruce grumbled under his breath and went back to studying the few wet shining sweat drops that had already fallen to the tile floor in front of his face. When the puddle there was big enough to see his reflection in, maybe—

The door that connected his room to Alfred's opened, and Alfred stepped in, completely unfazed by the sight of Master Bruce doing pushups in his underwear.

"You have a guest, sir," Alfred informed him, as Bruce's elbows went out and straightened, went out and straightened.

"I'm indisposed," Bruce growled. Down and hold it. Hold it. Up.

But Alfred stepped aside, ushered Clark into the room. "He's all yours," Alfred offered stoically, before making a tactical retreat.

Gritting his teeth, Bruce went back to pushing the floor. Clark held up what he'd found.

"uh, I think this belongs to you…and since nobody's lingerie followed it, I figured it'd be safe to stop by. "

Bruce glanced over, and to his fury he saw Clark holding the very suit he'd tossed off the balcony.

"I just threw that away," Bruce said. "Get rid of it. It's trash."

"Well, it did stink of cigar smoke but I shook it out for you. At altitude."

"I said it's trash." Down and hold it. Hold it. "I don't want it!" Up.

Hundred twenty five. That was enough for now. Bruce stood up and headed for the nearest fuzzy bathrobe, which wasn't far away.

Clark was studying the inside of the jacket as if he were reading the newspaper. "Does this label actually say 'Giorgio Armani for Bruce Wayne'?"

"I have several of those," Bruce muttered in dismissive affirmation, tying the bathrobe around his waist. He slouched onto a chaise, propped his feet up, and draped an arm over his face, hiding his eyes.

Clark looked at him reprovingly. "So you were just going to throw it away?"

"You said it yourself. It reeked."

"But didn't you consider washing it? I can't believe you'd be that wasteful. Alfred would've taken care of it for you if you'd given him the chance. Just because something gets dirty once doesn't make it unsalvageable."

Bruce didn't move. Then he took a deep breath, held it, let it out.

"You're not talking about the suit."

Clark set his armful of Armani down on the desk, and then turned to face Bruce, and spoke solemnly. "No, I'm not."

Bruce took another motionless moment to process that, to formulate a reaction.

Clark looked over at the balcony windows. "You did a good job."

Bruce stifled a sarcastic cough in his throat. "Kmf. I hated every second of it." He let his arm fall away from this face, stared up at the ceiling. "Hated him."

"I know what that's like," Clark said softly.

"You don't. You're a peasant to him. I'm on his level."

Clark frowned. "Social class has nothing to do w—"

Bruce cut him off, his voice heavy. "It has everything to do with it. I know that you don't see it. But Luthor got to me. And he didn't just make me hate him, he made me hate myself. That was my failure. Everything I do… it can't be personal. That's the first rule."

For a handful of seconds, neither of them spoke. Clark looked like he was about to say something, but changed his mind. And then, he glanced back at Bruce's discarded suit, and he got an idea.

There was a mirror over the desk. Clark stood in front of it, held up the jacket to check the sleeve length. He smiled a little. "Hmm…"

Bruce quirked an eyebrow at him, and then realized what he was up to.

"Don't—" he started to say, but it was too late. Clark was trying on the jacket. Bruce revised his protest into an "ugh" and dropped his arm back over his eyes.

"Wow," Clark rolled his shoulders a few times, turned from side to side. He knew he could look good in a suit, but he'd never worn anything as sharp as this. "It's not even too small."

"It's supposed to be loose," Bruce informed him. "Now take it off. You look ridiculous."

Clark stepped back for a better view. He knew Bruce hadn't even looked, but then again, he didn't need to. A nice jacket ending in blue tights and red boots did look ridiculous, Armani or otherwise. He put one fist on his hip, admiring the way the suit hid the curve of his lats with an accommodating diagonal line. "I thought you were throwing it away."

"I am."

"And I can't keep it instead?"

Bruce moved his arm and looked at him, incredulous. Clark was giving his best 'why not?' expression: amused, interested, and open-minded. All the things that Bruce Wayne had to pretend to be.

"No," Bruce told him, unequivocally. "For one thing, you could never wear it in front of Lois. She would know it was mine. And for another, how much do you make in a year?"

Clark shrugged his way out of the jacket. "Good point," he said, setting the jacket back on the desk. "I'm certainly not qualified to be a Bruce Wayne."

Bruce hmphed in agreement. "You were raised with too many morals."

That had been the wrong thing to say, and Clark let him know with a sharp look. Bruce didn't meet his gaze. Just because he shouldn't have said it didn't mean it wasn't the truth.

"All right," Clark said softly, leaning back against the desk. He looked at the floor. "I admit, I think the 'playboy billionaire' thing is a little bit disgusting."

Bruce's voice was tired and humorless. "Money is the root of all evil," he said.

Clark tilted his head, studied him. "Do you really believe that?"

"I do today," Bruce affirmed.

"Sometimes I do too," Clark told him. "Whenever Luthor gets his way just because he's rich. But then there's you."

"…And?" his voice was gruff, defensive.

"And you're the proof that evil is not the root of all money."

Bruce had to think about that for a second. Clark smiled warmly. "Good people can be rich too. And Bruce Wayne is definitely one of the good guys," he clarified.

"Despite today." There was an obvious 'yeah right' in the flatness of his tone.

"Including today. You were doing the right thing."

The rage boiled over, and the shame leaked out with it. "He invited me to his country club, Clark. I accepted."

"And you protected Batman's identity. Like I said, you did a good job."

Bruce was reining in his emotions for all he was worth, but a little more anger slipped past the bit. "And you just had to barge in here to tell me that?"

Clark put his hand down on the suit. Patted it. As if that was all it took to cancel out Luthor's handprint from earlier. "Well. You did throw Bruce Wayne here off a building. I had to do something."

"It's just a suit," Bruce growled in disdain.

Smiling, Clark walked the few steps over to the balcony doors. Pulled back the curtains and looked out at the sky. "Exactly."

There wasn't really anything Bruce could say to that. It was true: 'Bruce Wayne' was an act, a mask, a suit that the real Bruce had to wear. Just a suit.

Clark's feet had stopped touching the ground. "You're hovering," Bruce accused.

"Don't worry, I'm on my way out." He crinkled his nose and opened the balcony door. "Smells like cookies and sweat in here, so I'm guessing that you need some time alone." He dropped the humor from his voice and spoke with quiet, straightforward compassion. "You know, to just be yourself."

And on that solemn note, he disappeared.

Bruce exhaled slowly. Stood up, walked over to the desk. Picked up the jacket with its famous signature label, and realized that Clark really had gotten the cigar stink out of it, somehow. Of course it would still have to be dry cleaned before he wore it again, but…

Evil is not the root of all money.

Bruce Wayne was one of the good guys.

He would wear it again.

THE END!