There had been nothing but chatter, laughter and dancing at the Earl’s family Gala in Metropolis. The stereotypical socialite event of expensive champagne and lots of small chat and flirting. Bruce was being his usual self at parties, flirting shamelessly with men and women and drinking too much champagne. He added a slur to his voice after the third glass champagne, and as the hungry single people saw that he was in dubious drunk mode, they all pounced on Gotham’s most eligible bachelor despite his status as being taken by the mild mannered reporter, Clark Kent. Bruce had merely giggled airily and stumbled into everyone’s arms and grabbing some for support.
Suddenly, there was the sound of shocked gasps then a shot rang through the air sharply. Everyone screamed and dropped to the ground, turning sober very quickly. There were three masked men with guns entering the Earl’s Estate.
“Don’t do anything stupid people!” The leader yelled. “Throw all phones and jewelry into this bag. Don’t try to be a hero, you’ll only fail just like your guards. As long as you cooperate, this will be over in five minutes.” He began to go around the room, collecting priceless jewelry and expensive phones. Bruce pressed the small button on the side of his Rolex that alerted Alfred and Clark then threw his phone and watch in the bag. He was trying to act liked scared Brucie, but it was damn hard to when the Batman in him wanted to rise out and knock out the fools.
Once everything had been collected, the leader scanned the room, searching the faces. He stopped on Bruce, and walked towards him. Bruce recoiled, trying to make the fear he was displaying seem genuine.
“You. Bruce Wayne. Even though you are the sluttiest and stupidest person in here, you are somehow worth the most. Get up.”
“Don’t hurt me, please.” Bruce begged.
“I said get up! Cooperate and you won’t be hurt.”
Bruce staggered onto his feet, hands up in the air, sobbing, “Don’t hurt me please.” The man took his wrists and shoved his arms behind his back and zip tied them. Then he took out a blindfold and covered Bruce’s eyes. The billionaire felt duct tape being slapped over his lips. He flinched as the leader bellowed, “We’ll be leaving now. Stay down until those door close, or all your pretty heads will be blown off.”
Bruce felt the change in the air, going from still to whistling towards him. But he had to play the damsel in distress, the drunk playboy who didn’t know what the hell was going to happen next. A fist connected hard with his head, forcing him to fall clumsily. It was hard enough that his head was spinning and that he couldn’t resist when he was dragged away from the horrified screams in the Estate. Bruce was shoved outside, and before he knew it, his head was being grabbed from behind and smashed into the hard metal of a car. He collapsed, falling unconscious, blood trickling down his face.
Superman had been in Hawaii dealing with a tsunami when he received the distress call from Bruce. He had finished up moving the bus load of people within thirty seconds before flying off to Bruce’s hotel room in Metropolis, concern and worry twisting his chest. He scanned it. Empty. The worry turned into anxiety. He was on his way to the Fortress to locate Bruce via the tracker in his Rolex when his flight was interrupted by Alfred.
“Sir? There is an emergency involving Master Bruce.”
“What is it?”
“He set off his emergency alarm in his watch. I presume you got it also?”
“There was a robbery at the Earl Estate during their Gala that Bruce was attending. They were all forced at gunpoint to give up all their jewelry and phones. Then they took Bruce since he was worth the most. It’s all over the news.”
“So they’re planning a ransom. Money for Bruce.”
“Do you have his position?”
“I have the position of his Rolex, but I’m sure it’s not on him.”
“Give me the position anyways.”
“On the harbors of Metropolis in a storage container. I don’t know which though. Just that it’s on the south end.”
“I’ll hear their heartbeats. I’ll be back with him soon.” Clark said. With the information relayed to him, some of the anxiety slipped off him. But he was still worried as hell about Bruce. Did they hurt him? If they did, Clark would hurt them twice as badly. Only one way to find out. Superman darted through the air and was at the harbor in a second, scanning the area for heartbeats. He heard them, and hovered above the storage container they were in. Using his x-ray vision, he peeked into the container.
Bruce was bound in the corner, mouth duct taped shut, blood dripping from a nasty gash on his head, blue eyes blearily open. The men were recording a ransom demand video, one masked man in front of the camera. “This is quite simple. Give us ten million US dollars, and we’ll give you back Bruce Wayne. If not, he’s dead. Let me show you that I’m serious.” The man pulled out a gun and aimed it at Bruce’s leg, preparing to shoot. He never got to though, because heat vision seared through the container and melted the gun, making the man scream as his hand burned.
Superman descended angrily, and within a few seconds, the men were bound by zip ties and groaning. Clark then crushed the camera and threw it to the floor, grabbed a phone from the large bag of goodies and dialed 911. Authorities would take care of these dirt bags.
Bruce struggled to sit up, making muffled noises behind the duct tape covering his mouth.
“Shh, it’s okay.” Clark sighed in relief that Bruce was safe now, gently peeling the tape off and breaking the zip ties bounding his wrists and ankles. “Don’t move too much. You have a concussion. I’ve got you.” He unclasped his red cape and wrapped it around Bruce, who was trembling with shivers and the concussion. With that, Superman scooped Bruce into his arms and flew out of the container, heading towards Metropolis Hospital. The billionaire burrowed into his arms, soaking up the warmth the Kryptonian radiated.
“Thank you.” Bruce whispered.
“Of course.” Clark murmured, kissing the dark hair tenderly. “I’m going to have to drop you off at the hospital for public image sake.”
“Just come back soon.”
“I’ll be back as Clark within thirty minutes.” Superman landed at the ER entrance, letting the doctors and nurses settle Bruce onto a stretcher and take him away for examination, hearing them murmur and fret about the head gash. Superman flew away and then came back not too long later as Clark Kent. The reporter was bombarded with the media, and he only showed concern and worry like a good boyfriend. He brushed them aside as soon as the doctor came into the waiting room and told him Bruce was okay. A concussion, ten stitches to close the wound, and he would have to stay overnight so they could monitor the concussion.
Clark hurried into Bruce’s room, smiling at the sight of his lover. Bruce’s head was wrapped in bandages, an IV of morphine in his arm, and Superman’s red cape draped across his legs on top of the hospital blankets.
“I was worried.” Clark said, coming to sit down by the bed and take Bruce’s hand in his.
“I never was. You always come in time.” Bruce offered a dopey smile, blue eyes somewhat glazed.
“That’s the morphine talking.”
“Maybe.” Bruce yawned and burrowed into the bed.
“Sleep. I’ll be here when you wake up. God knows you need the rest..” Clark kissed Bruce’s cheek tenderly and stroked the man’s hair.
“You better be or you’ll face the wrath of Batman.”
“Definitely the morphine talking.”
Bruce merely smirked before his face relaxed and he settled into sleep. Clark watched over him, just grateful that Bruce was alive.