The Cat and the Bullet

Chapter 3

 I wake to the sound of my phone ringing. Eira rolls off of me and flops onto the floor. She stretches her long white legs and then promptly resumes snoring. I groggily get out of bed and snatch the phone off the coffee table where I left it two days ago. I swear when I see it's only at 10%. Lois is always buying me new chargers but they don't last long in Superman's care.

"I must warn you," I say through a huge yawn. "My phone is about to die."

"At least you're not dropping your phone in cyberspace."

"That was one time, Bruce," I sit up and crane my neck to look at the alarm clock. It reads 8:35 am. Wow, Bruce must be desperate if he's out of bed before noon. "I was trying out the new pockets."

"Maybe you should leave the sewing to your mother," Bruce advises.

"I am quite capable of mending my own clothes. Unlike a certain playboy."

Eira moans and looks at me angrily. I'm sorry, are we interrupting your beauty sleep? She growls and turns her back on me. These days all she does is sleep and eat. Repeat. She rarely goes out on patrol with me. If I didn't know any better I would think she's depressed.

"That's what Alfred is for," Bruce says seriously.

"Well, excuse me, not all of us can afford a butler."

"I'd lend him to you if you want." I can hear the rare smile in his voice. "Your fridge apparently needs restocking."

I grimace. "You spoke to Lois."

"Yep," Bruce pops the 'P.' "You gave her quite a bit of a scare last night."

"She's overreacting," I grit my teeth. As of late that seems to be her M.O. Every little thing sends her off the deep dive. The blowup about Batman led to her storming out in a huff after she threw a pillow at my face. No doubt, she is still pissed and will avoid me at the Planet.

"Is she though?" Bruce asks. "I saw the footage, Clark. It's a miracle you made it home without assistance." I swallow audibly. Bruce swears. "You did need assistance," he fills in the gaps. I can almost imagine him balling his fists at his side, the same way he does when he's frustrated. Shit. Why does he have to be so damn perceptive all the time? It's freakishly annoying. Makes it impossible to hide anything from Bruce. No wonder he's the one with the kid and not me. I shudder. I do not want to be Dick Grayson.

"Please tell me you at least had the foresight to bring a change of clothes." That would have been the smart thing to do. But no. I left my tux at the theater.

"Funny story about the cab driver," I smirk. "He was from Smallville. Small world, right?"

"Meaning he recognized you," Bruce's tone takes on a grim edge. "Clark, we've been through this," Bruce says. "Your identity is your most valued possession."

"Says the guy with a gazillion race cars in his basement."

"This is no joking matter!" Bruce snarls. "If the wrong people learn the truth, everyone you love will be in danger."

"You don't know what you're talking about," I grit my teeth and fling the covers off. "I'm not listening to a guy whose only identity is a sleazeball who sleeps with a different woman every night."

"You are super immature," Bruce hisses.

"I'm not the one wasting my parent's fortune on prostitutes." I wince. I regret the words as soon as I say them. That was a low blow. Bruce has a way of bringing out the darkest parts of me. "I'm sorry Bruce. I shouldn't have . . ."

"No, you're right," he sighs heavily. "I haven't been completely . . ."

He breaks off into silence. I swear when I see my phone died. I shrug, oh well. Bruce knows I will never hang up on him on purpose. I should probably plug my phone in, but I can't seem to find the cord anywhere in my room.