Title: Undefined
Rating: K+
Summary: Relationships are never really all that clear-cut, are they?
Fandom / Pairing: JLU, mild BM/WW
Terms: Batman, Wonder Woman, and Superman get together after Destroyer. Slight BM/WW would be nice, but isn't necessary.
No: slash/femslash, BM or WW with anyone but each other.
Notes: For TigerLime as part of the DCAU Ficathon.

Going incognito posed a problem for her. Six feet tall and inarguably all woman, Diana had no trouble being recognized, even when she wore the most inconspicuous of clothes. So, after five years of being accosted on the street, she decided to play to her strengths.

The aviator sunglasses hid most of her face. The Grace Kelly scarf tucked away most of her hair save for a bit of fringe that poked out in the front. She chose jeans over a skirt or slacks and a cotton top in a Grecian style. It was her only tell; she hoped her lunch companions would be the only ones to notice. She looked like a model, she walked like a model. And no one gave her a fifth glance.

Throngs of people slid around her. Metropolis wasn't nearly as crowded as Gotham, day or night, but it certainly didn't lack in population. The first truly lovely day since the Earth had last been threatened brought people out of the woodwork, and the city was livelier than it had been in weeks.

Reaching Clark's apartment, she tapped gently on the door and waited, rocking on the balls of her feet even in sandals. A muffled, "Coming!" drifted through the door followed by the sound of feet padding on carpet. The green door swung back to reveal a bespectacled Clark Kent with perhaps the easiest grin she'd seen.

"Diana! Come in." He half-hugged her and directed her inside. "Would you like something? Ice tea?"


Though he would grouse and mutter and glare and be otherwise disarming, Bruce found Clark was simply a force beyond him. Although, perhaps he was getting old; the triple back flip he'd performed to evade Darkseid had left him sore for days. Either way, Clark had somehow—somehow—conned him into coming over for lunch. One of these days, he'd learn how Clark managed that and use it for his own ends.

Like getting out of dish-duty.

Clark's door opened before he could even raise his arm to knock. (Stupid x-ray vision.) Clark, of course, was all smiles. "Bruce. We were waiting for you." He opened the door wider to reveal Diana, sipping on ice tea and looking—

"Clark...you are such a farm boy." He shook his head and took a chair beside Diana.

He raised an eyebrow and sat across from him. "What, I can't want to spend time with friends?"

"In civvies?"

"You can't honestly tell me spandex is that comfortable."

"Or Kevlar," Diana added, smirking slightly.

"I wouldn't talk, Miss Swimsuit."

"Breastplates are not as comfortable as you'd think."

"They're not that bad—"

"When you have breasts we can talk."

"She's got you there," Clark pointed out.

"Shut it, Kent."

"How's Alfred, Bruce?" Diana asked abruptly, running a finger along the rim of the glass.

"He's all right. His ankle healed up well enough."

"But?" Clark prompted.

"He's...addicted to soap operas."

Clark and Diana shared a look.

"You're joking." Diana's grin looked ready to crack her face in half.

"He wasn't already?" Clark folded his arms and leaned on the table.

"No, and no." Bruce grinned cheekily. "Apparently being unable to move around very much 'allowed him the leisure of television'." Bruce mimicked Alfred eerily well.

Diana hid a smile; ancient Greek tragedies had nothing on American daytime television. "Well, it's not so bad, is it?"

"I have to schedule around Days of Our Lives."

"It could be worse," reminded Clark. "He could watch General Hospital. It's on at a worse time."

This time, Bruce caught Diana's eye. "You watch the soaps?"

Clark had the grace to look embarrassed. "No, but Ma does. She's kept up with Passions for years. By the way, how are Ollie and Dinah? I haven't seen them on the Tower lately."

"They're good; they had a fight a few days ago, but he apologized to her."

"With a rock!" Diana laughed, shaking her head.

Bruce sniffed. "I don't see what's wrong with that."

"Bruce, you're such a billionaire." Diana patted him gently on the arm, still chuckling in spite of herself.


Clark, playing host in true Midwestern fashion, excused himself to check on the food. Stirring her drink thoughtfully, Diana mused. When he'd offered lunch for the three of them in the wake of That Fight, she'd accepted without hesitation. Ostensibly, it was to spend time with a friend. And to sample his cooking; if nothing else, Clark could cook. In truth, however, she suspected it had to do with the dark-haired man aside her. He was looking very good, she had to admit. Blue men's shirt in four shades of blue, stonewash jeans and a black blazer; he was dressed to kill and a little part of her was dying.

Clark puttered around the kitchen, humming something light and cheerful and so ridiculously him that she had to smile. His own pale blue shirt's sleeves were rolled up to his elbows, and the collar was undone. He looked messy and cute and so very endearing, especially with the oven mitts to pull out the pie. (Though, she had to wonder - didn't he have invulnerability to just about everything?)

"It's force of habit," a rumbling bass murmured in her ear. She felt shivers race down her spine and sipped her drink to prevent her blurting something out.

Diana smiled crookedly at him. "And how did you know what I was looking at?"

"Because." He shrugged.

Diana bit her lip. Whether it was to keep from laughing or from screaming she wasn't sure. Luckily, Clark saved her the trouble of answering. "Lunch," he said, placing dishes on the table. The ice in Diana's glass clinked and he made a "Doh!" face. "Look at me. Bruce, do you want something to drink?"

"Ah..." He looked sidelong at her. "I'll have what she's having," tipping his chin in her direction.

"I didn't know you liked iced tea," she commented neutrally, serving both of them the Greek salad.

"I didn't know your swimsuit was uncomfortable."

"Touché," she tossed back, a wry grin turning up the corners of her mouth.


"Clark, who taught you to cook?"

He smiled behind his hand. Diana looked pleased, judging by the way her eyes shone; she'd never gotten enough of his cooking before. Bruce looked faintly amused by her reaction.

"Ma did. Best cook in Smallville."

"She's got the medals to prove it, too," Bruce quipped, smirking at Diana.

"Quiet, you. Just because you've got Alfred." She rolled her eyes at him as she stood, gathering the plates.

"Diana, you don't have to—"

"Ah-ah-ah! Cook doesn't clean." She winked at him before sauntering into the kitchen. Before long, they heard running water.

"Should we help her?"

He shrugged. "I cooked. You heard what the lady said."

Bruce gave an exaggerated sigh, shrugged off his blazer and rolled up his sleeves. Clark simply grinned wickedly and wiggled his fingers.

Unsurprisingly, she'd washed about half the dishes. "You dry," she declared. Mutely, he complied, picking up the dishtowel.

"Have you found a place, yet?"

"There's a villa in northern California that I'm falling in love with. The mosaics in the baths alone are to die for." She handed him another dish and their hands touched. "What about you? How's the takeover going?"

"Most of LexCorp's satellite holdings are up for grabs. The bidding war is steep." A beat, then, "Luckily, I've got deep pockets."

"And guess who gets to cover the story?" Clark grabbed a stack of dried plates and started putting them away.

"I'm guessing 'not Lois'?"


She lobbed a towel at his head.


"And then, Wally says, 'It was the octopus, I swear!'" Diana broke into a fit of what could honestly be described as giggles while the men shared easy smiles.

"Okay, maybe you had to be there." She sighed contentedly, leaning back on the couch. Distantly, a clock chimed.

"Three thirty," Bruce announced.

"Wait, it's already three thirty?" When the other two nodded slowly, she paled. "Oh no!"

"What is it?" Clark adjusted his glasses, a nervous habit if there ever was.

"I have to meet with the realtor in half an hour; I'm going to be late!" She stood quickly and grabbed her scarf, swiftly re-wrapping it and knotting it tightly.

Bruce stood. "Do you want a ride? I can get you to the Metro Tower; there's a transporter there."

She paused in fumbling for her glasses. "Are you sure?"

"It's no trouble."

"Then, that sounds great." She smiled and turned to Clark, who was also standing. "Thank you for lunch; it was fantastic, as always." She kissed him on the cheek and stepped aside.

"Thanks for doing dishes, Bruce."

"Of course. We're still on for Saturday?"

"It's an exclusive interview—I wouldn't cancel it for a Pulitzer!"

"Good. I'll have my secretary call you." They shook hands and parted.


The car puttered to a stop in front of the Metro Tower.

"Thank you."

"You've got twenty minutes; don't be late."

She fished out her sunglasses and slipped them on. Then, before she could talk herself out of it, she kissed him on the cheek and got out of the car.

He didn't drive off until she was inside.

One, this was really, really fun to write.

Two, I've never written JLU before, so, uh, what do you think?