A/N: Well, it certainly appears that I can't stay away from one-shots for long.


"You're coming, and that's final," Clark said. Bruce had his arms crossed and a signature glare across his face.

"Absolutely not," Bruce snapped. "I have work to do."

"You always have 'work' to do," Clark resisted the glare only through conscious effort. "Coffee and dinner will do you good."

"I don't even know how to act at a dinner," Bruce said. He turned back to his stack of papers.

"Sure you do. You do it all the time."

"Bruce Wayne does it all the time."

Clark sighed and rolled his eyes. "Now you're just being ridiculous. You come or I'll call every empty-headed ninny in your—ahem, Bruce Wayne's- little black book and set you up a date with them."

"That's not a true threat," Bruce snapped.

"You're coming," Clark replied, and that was the end of it.


"I don't think he'll be here," Diana said. She was sitting in the red plastic booth, scanning the menu and trying very hard not to look disappointed.

"He said he would," Clark ordered a Coke from the waitress and sat down next to Diana. He'd chosen a little Italian restaurant in west Metropolis. They'd met up here a few times before. The proprietor probably half suspected—it wasn't like Diana or even John tried very hard at a secret identity—but it was cheap and good.

Wally was already there, Shayera too, even J'onn in human guise. Everyone but Bruce.

"He'll be here," Clark repeated, even though he didn't feel very hopeful.

But Bruce walked in the door, or rather, Bruce in a slight disguise—lighter hair and a five o' clock shadow.

"You can hold your applause," he said, and took his seat on the other side of Diana.

"No need for sarcasm," Diana smiled and nearly put her arm around him. "What took you?"

"Business at the Watchtower," Bruce answered, declining to elaborate, and asked the waitress for a glass of water with lemon.

Clark was squinting at him.

"Is something the matter?" Bruce asked. Clark shook his head and they ordered dinner (Bruce got tortellini only after Clark insisted that he couldn't order tilapia at an Italian place).

The food came, and Clark gave Bruce another odd, sidelong glance.

"Is that my shirt?" he asked.

Bruce looked down at the knitted green pullover he was wearing under his jacket. "I borrowed it."

"Why?" Clark asked. He was very used to asking that question around Bruce.

"Because I don't really own clothes appropriate to the occasion," Bruce replied, because obviously this was a perfectly viable explanation.

"How can you be a multibillionaire and not own casual clothes?" Diana asked.

Bruce shrugged. "I'm either wearing my costume or in a suit. What use do I have for them?"

"You're exasperating," Diana said. The food came and she took it from the waitress as a distraction.

"I do own a t-shirt and a pair of jeans," Bruce said.

Clark just sighed. Then he looked at Bruce again, over his plate of spaghetti. "Wait a second—that shirt has been missing for two months."

"I didn't say it was this occasion that I didn't have clothes for," Bruce speared a tortellini, examined it, and tasted it experimentally.

"You don't even like my clothes! Every time you see me out of costume you feel it necessary to give me unwanted fashion advice," Clark jabbed his fork into his spaghetti.

"Your clothes are comfortable," Bruce apparently liked the tortellini—he stuck two more on his fork.

"Remind me to take you shopping sometime," Clark said, and gave up an argument he knew he wouldn't win.

"Over my dead body," Bruce muttered, and turned pointedly back to his pasta.