Chapter Text
Time passes quickly, fall giving way graciously to a bitterly cold winter, and as spring begins to timidly emerge from the frost, Clark’s arrangement with Bruce is shoved to the back of his mind.
Between a reappearance from Luthor—money proving to be the best get-out-of-jail-free-card—a narrowly-avoided alien invasion—not Kryptonians this time—and some suspicious moles on his Ma’s back that turned out to be thankfully benign—plus all the smaller stuff, like deadlines at the Planet and petty crime in Metropolis—Clark’s had his hands full.
He’s just getting back stateside, early evening, when he gets the notification.
It had taken the better part of the weekend to help Arthur with rescue efforts off a small island in the southern hemisphere that had be utterly devastated by a hurricane, and Clark was feeling the exhaustion of it.
With a sigh, he touches down on the rooftop of a random building in a random town somewhere in the rural southern U.S. Pulling from the pocket hidden in the left thigh of his suit the thin, phone-like communicator issued to every League member Clark’s eyebrows furrow as he reads the message.
PERP NOTICE. You are receiving this notification because one or more of your PERP requests have been activated.
It takes an embarrassing amount of time for Clark to remember what the hell the acronym meant.
A second message pops up, this time with a pair of coordinates. Punching it into the communicator’s built-in navigation system, they lead to somewhere in Gotham, though to Clark’s surprise, neither the lake house, the Cave, or the Hall. The communicator beeps again.
If you would like to fulfill this PERP request, you must authorize your consent to the oversight personnel at the indicated location. If you do not wish to fulfill this request, please message STOP and you will receive no further notifications.
Clark bites his lip.
It isn’t exactly hesitancy he feels; he knew in his bones—the same way he knew a part of him would always love Lois Lane—that when he signed that form, he’d follow it to its natural conclusion. Knowing Bruce was holed up somewhere, in some sort of terrible pain, and knowing he could help was not really a choice for Clark.
But still, he feels something at the prospect of what he was going to do, deep and churning in his gut. A mixture of apprehension and anticipation, maybe.
It didn’t matter, though, he thought as he took off from the roof and headed toward Gotham, Bruce needed him, and that’s all there was to it.
The building the coordinates lead to is remote, on the outskirts of Gotham, near the northern edge of the waterfront. Multistoried and, of course, with a convenient rooftop access. When Clark touches down, Alfred Pennyworth is waiting for him.
“Mr. Kent,” the older man greets with genuine warmth, “though unfortunate circumstances as they may be, it is always a pleasure to see you.”
“Thanks, Alfred,” Clark smiles, “I’m assuming you’re the ‘oversight personnel’?”
“Precisely,” Alfred nods, “my job is to brief you on the extent of Master Bruce’s condition, and to formalize your consent.”
“What happened?”
Alfred lets out a long sigh.
“Are you familiar with Poison Ivy?”
“A little,” Clark admits, “Bruce can be stingy about what goes on in Gotham, you know? She has, something to do with pollen.”
“Stingy is being kind, Mr. Kent,” Alfred smiles, brief, “But that is a more or less correct summation, accurate enough for our purposes. It seems she was less-than-thrilled with the proposal for a building project underneath the harbor.”
“Her and most of Gotham and Metropolis,” Clark says, wry.
“True,” Alfred concedes, “however, she decided to show her displeasure by attempting to poison one of Gotham’s main reservoirs. If she had been successful, the outcome would have been, as you can imagine, catastrophic.”
“Jesus,” Clark huffs, stunned.
“Quite,” Alfred agrees.
“But Bruce was able to stop her?” Clark confirms, “that’s how he was exposed?”
“Yes, one of Ivy’s Meta abilities is emitting a highly potent toxin which makes her victims easily manipulated.”
Clark thinks of the scientific explanation from the email.
“I thought Bruce had created antidotes for all of Ivy’s toxins.”
“While Master Bruce—and I, I might boast—are wonderful pharmacologists, we also can only work with what we know. Ivy was a brilliant doctor in her own right and as such, she has been known to tamper with her toxins to enhance their potency. I will be working on synthesizing an antidote for this latest strain while you look after Master Bruce.”
Clark coughs, embarrassed to be discussing looking after Bruce with the man that was essentially his father figure.
“Mr. Kent,” Alfred says, careful, “I would like to remind you that at any point you may rescind your consent.”
“No, it’s not—” Clark rubs at the back of his neck, “I’m not uncomfortable with the idea of doing it. I just—”
Alfred waits politely.
“Bruce is my friend and I want to make sure he’s okay, so I want to do this,” Clark says seriously, “I just don’t want it to ruin our friendship.”
Clark winces internally at how silly and childish he sounds. But it’s the truth.
Clark knows people can hook up, can have it not mean anything beyond the physical enjoyment of the act— hell when he was running from himself after his dad died, Clark made an art out of casual sex. But this wasn’t some random person he met at a diner and would never see again because he was leaving town the next morning.
This was Bruce.
The man he regularly fought side-by-side with, who had brought Clark back from the grave, had bought a bank so his Ma could keep the farm. He had spent long weeks working with Bruce on the Hall, both taking that time to get to know each other without the fear and paranoia and immediate trauma of Black Zero hanging over their heads.
Their commitment to building something the League could rely on was rewarded, surprisingly, by genuine friendship.
And, he doesn’t say this to Alfred, but somewhere, deep, and hidden, and shameful inside of Clark, he fears that this other thing, that has sunk its hooks into the core of him, will only grow more painful if he crosses this line with Bruce. Turn it from something manageable into something hungry.
Alfred considers Clark’s words with a strong, appraising look.
Finally, Alfred says, “While Master Bruce would throw a rather impressive fit if he heard me say so—do let me assure you that he is just as protective of your…friendship, as you are his.”
“Besides,” Alfred adds with a sly smile, “if you two can go from throwing each other through bathroom sinks to stopping the end of the world several times over, I am certain you both can manage this.”
Clark groans, embarrassed, “Bruce told you about that?”
“No,” Alfred hums, “but luckily Master Bruce does archive all of his recorded video from his patrols.”
“You’re just as nosy as he is,” Clark accuses good-naturedly.
Alfred says nothing, simply hums noncommittally.
“Alright, well,” Clark says, settled, “I suppose I ought to…” he trails off.
“That would be best,” Alfred nods, “Master Bruce is still fairly coherent, though that will begin to degrade considerably the longer he goes without treatment. Down the stairs from this roof, there will be a door to your immediate left; Master Bruce will be waiting for you there.”
“Thank you, Alfred,” Clark says, “for the help, and the talk.”
“Of course, Mr. Kent,” Alfred assures with genuine warmth.
“You know,” Clark grouses as he heads toward the roof’s access door, “if my mother knew that I let you call me ‘Mr. Kent’ all the time, she’d have my hide.”
“Then I suppose we will keep it our secret, Mr. Kent,” Alfred says with a small smile.
Clark sighs as he leaves the rooftop; one day, he’d get Alfred to stop with the uncomfortable formalities.
Following Alfred’s instructions, Clark floats more than walks down the flight of stairs. He stops in front of the oversized door, made of solid wood, and painted a deep olive green. On the other side, Clark hears an erratic heartbeat, and quick breathing with a near imperceptible wheeze.
The large door opens to an equally massive apartment with a sprawling open floor-plan. It likely takes up the entirety of the building’s top floor.
The entryway steps down into a living area, floor-to-ceiling windows take up its entire back wall. The view across the water turns Metropolis’ massive skyscrapers into smudges on the horizon, the city lights reflect shimmering specks off the bay. In front of the windows sits a well-stuffed caramel-colored leather sofa and two matching armchairs on either side, also angled toward the glass. On the wooden coffee table sits a large pitcher of water, filled with ice, and dripping condensation onto the tabletop. Bruce lounges, limbs loose and spread, with his back to Clark, gazing out through at Metropolis. A crystal tumbler hangs from his fingers, half-filled with ice water.
“Bruce?”
When Bruce turns, Clark catches the minute flicker of surprise that ripples across his features before disappearing. It makes Clark uneasy. He’s rarely ever able to catch Bruce off-guard and when he does, it usually doesn’t bode well. The worry grows as Clark takes a minute to give him a onceover now that Bruce is facing him.
Missing is the button-up and vest, replaced with a thin, soft-looking black tee-shirt. There are still faint traces of greasepaint around his eyes, the only vestiges of the Bat left. He looks sweaty, his hair damp at the temples and his face has a light flush. Clark imagines his skin would be hot to the touch.
Bruce is also barefoot, legs crossed at the ankles. Which is a weird thing for Clark to get stuck on, but it feels oddly vulnerable, for Bruce. He either wears steel-reinforced boots (as the Bat), expensive and shiny dress shoes (as Bruce Wayne), or (when he’s just Bruce), scuffed athletic shoes.
“I wasn’t sure you’d come,” Bruce murmurs.
Clark bristles.
“I said I would.”
He says it sharper than he probably should, considering Bruce’s condition, but it still stings, that there is a part of Bruce that can’t, won’t, trust Clark—even after all they’ve gone through.
“No, that’s—” Bruce stops himself, and rubs his hand down his face, “I know. I’m sorry.”
Clark’s eyes widen.
“Wow,” he whistles, “You must really be sick, to hand out an apology that easy.”
Bruce rolls his eyes, but now there is a slight smile around his mouth.
“I do know how to apologize,” he mutters, taking a sip from his glass.
Belatedly, Clark realizes he’s still standing in front of the open door. He shuts it and makes his way across the apartment, down into the living space. He stops a few feet from Bruce, unsure how welcome his presence will be in Bruce’s current state.
Clark shrugs and offers a grin, “I know. I have a fancy new apartment, laptop, and gaming computer to prove it.”
Bruce huffs, “Those weren’t intended as apologies, Clark. They’re things you need that cost me nothing to supply.”
“They actually literally cost you thousands of dollars, B.”
“A drop in the bucket, in all honesty,” Bruce says, dismissive, “the actual least I could do, considering.”
He waves the hand holding the water, sloshing some of it over the rim and onto his wrist. His eyes skip down to his arm. Bruce brings the tumbler up to his forehead, eyes fluttering closed as the cool glass makes contact with his skin.
Clark bites his lip.
“How are you feeling?”
“Like shit,” Bruce offers honestly, “but I’ve felt worse, if it’s any consolation.”
“It’s really not,” Clarks says, “but seriously, Bruce, how are you doing?”
Bruce takes another healthy gulp of water, then sets the glass down.
“Currently, my mental facilities are fairly intact. I have a fever, significant lowered inhibitions, and my reflexes are less than optimal.”
Clark decides to skip over the ‘lowered inhibitions,’ for now.
“What can I do to help?”
Bruce levels a look at Clark like he’s an idiot, and, okay, it was sort of a stupid question.
“I mean, what do you specifically need me to do?”
Bruce doesn’t say anything, just stares at Clark with a spaced-out look on his face.
“I didn’t expect you to be in the suit.”
That brings him up short.
“I could change?” Clark offers uncertainly, “I’d understand if it bothers you.”
But Bruce just shakes his head.
“No, forget I said anything— it’s the pollen. It makes me focus on unimportant details,” Bruce explains.
It’s a lie, that it’s unimportant. Clark knows that it’s still jarring, for Bruce to be out of the Bat’s armor and to talk to Clark, interact with him, when he’s wearing the Superman’s suit. It stings, but Clark gets it.
Bruce has spent his adult life perfecting threat assessments and calculating risks, it’s not like he can shut it off all at once
“Seriously, B, it would take less than five seconds for me to go and change—”
“I said to forget it, Clark. Besides, it’d be pointless anyway. Considering.”
Bruce’s are eyes are glossy, the pupils blown unnaturally wide, even when accounting for the dimness of the lights.
“Considering,” Clark agrees, distracted.
Clark licks his lips and doesn’t, couldn’t, miss the way Bruce’s eyes flick down, to Clark’s mouth, and back up to meet Clark’s gaze.
“Would kissing help?” Clark blurts out, “With your, uh, symptoms?”
Bruce eyes flutter shut and his jaw tenses. He doesn’t say anything, but breathes out, slow and deliberate—meditative. His left-hand clenches and releases several times. When he blinks them open, he gives Clark a bland sort of look.
“Do you feel comfortable with kissing me?”
He says it neutrally, like a teacher reading a test question aloud, without a hint to what the correct answer could be.
Psychic visions have never been one of Clark’s powers, but they don’t need to be, because he knows Bruce.
Every interaction will be like this. Clark asking what Bruce wants, Bruce refusing to say anything that could even seem like he’s making a demand of Clark. Bruce turning it around and asking Clark what he wants.
But what Clark wants, is to give control to Bruce, here, in a situation where his decision-making abilities are going to decline rapidly, are already doing so.
Clark thought the etiquette would be to follow Bruce’s lead. But apparently the only place Bruce is determined to lead Clark and him is into the most awkward night of either of their lives.
Which, Clark appreciates Bruce’s commitment to enthusiastic consent, he does. But at this rate, Bruce is going to die before they even make it to first base. Besides, Clark thought that him showing up, when he got the message, was proof enough that he is all in on this.
Clark screws up his courage, borrowing the calm confidence Superman seems to excel at and tells Bruce, achingly honest:
“I’d like to kiss you,” then, because he’s still Clark, he tacks on, “if you’re comfortable with that, of course.”
Bruce nods sharply, once, which is an objectively hilarious thing to do in this context, but he takes a step forward into Clark’s space and kisses him before Clark can laugh.
Bruce gently cradles Clark’s face, both hands holding onto the hinge of his jaw. Clark can feel the callouses covering Bruce’s fingertips catch minutely against Clark’s stubble. Clark wants to be annoyed, that even this, Bruce has perfected, but it’s hard to be bothered when he’s being kissed within an inch of his life. It’s a lot more intense than any first kiss ought to be, but it’s perfect, feels right.
Clark is trying to give half as good as what he’s getting, is caught up in the sheer heat of Bruce’s body against his that it takes longer than it should to notice that Bruce isn’t moving back to take a breath. Instead, he’s only trying to push closer, moving a hand from Clark’s jaw to the back of his neck, the other sliding down to dig into his side. He’s hard and grinding his hips in small circles against Clark’s thigh. He doesn’t stop kissing him.
Clark’s brain is melting, but still, he knows how long a human can go between breaths and this is approaching the limits, even for someone with lung-capacity training like Bruce.
Clark’s proven right when he reluctantly pulls away, just an inch, and Bruce gasps ragged and loud into the space between them.
Bruce’s face is flushed, he seems dazed, and Clark doesn’t need super hearing to catch the pounding of his heart. He’s still hard.
“Bruce, Jesus, are you okay?”
“Fine,” he pants, but he’s still attempting to regulate his breathing, so Clark knows he’s lying.
“Okay, well, I’m calling bullshit because it seemed like you were going to let yourself pass out, and while I appreciate the compliment, I know it’s not because I’m that good of a kisser.”
Bruce huffs, and if Clark didn’t know better, he’d think Bruce was embarrassed.
“It’s been a while, I forgot how…overwhelming the pollen makes it feel.”
“Alright, noted,” Clark says, “I’ll keep an eye out on your breathing, make sure you’re not overdoing it.”
All traces of embarrassment are gone at Clark’s comment, instantly replaced with irritation.
“I don’t need to be babied,” Bruce snaps, “I need you to fuck me.”
The effect is somewhat ruined by the fact that Bruce is still clinging to him.
Clark grins wide and toothy, “Aw, B, you gotta ask nicer than that.”
He knows he shouldn’t be an ass to Bruce, not right now. But a part of him can’t help it, there’s something that’s always so entertaining about needling Bruce.
Never mind the fact there’s something thrilling about being the object of Bruce’s ire.
Clark tries not to think about how messed up that makes him.
“I’m not going to beg if that’s what you are after,” Bruce says dryly.
He does not let go or move away from Clark.
“Nah, I just wanted a simple little ‘please,’” Clark goads, “where are your manners, B?”
Bruce narrows his eyes and doesn’t say anything. Clark is about to apologize when Bruce sighs.
“Clark,” Bruce requests, with obvious insincerity, “would you please take me to bed?”
Clark laughs, a little smug, but acquiesces, using a bit of his superspeed to bring them to the bedroom.
+
When Clark wakes up, the sunshine is pouring like liquid gold down his spine, and it feels unbelievably good. He burrows down into the sheets, luxating in the softness of the fine, expensive silk warmed by the sun. Rolling onto his back, Clark stretches out and moans as he feels several joints pop at once.
“You are obscene.”
Clark cracks an eye open. In the doorway is Bruce, wearing a pair of black jeans and a dark button-up, leaning against the frame with two mugs of coffee in each hand.
Bruce is looking at him with an expression that Clark doesn’t know how to parse.
Clark holds out a hand to accept the drink, still waking up, but Bruce scoffs.
“Don’t be an animal, Clark,” Bruce scolds, “come eat breakfast out at the table.”
“You’re such a hypocrite, like you don’t eat most of your meals on crumbling rooftops or inside a cave” Clark grumbles, but he does get up.
Then stops when he realizes he’s completely naked. He looks down to the floor and remembers he wore his suit last night, which feels like a weird choice to wear to a morning-after breakfast.
“Uh,” Clark turns around with a sheepish smile.
“In the closet,” Bruce rolls his eyes good-naturedly, and turns around to walk back into the main room, “you can borrow something of mine. Get dressed and then come join me.”
“Thanks, B,” Clark calls after Bruce as he heads into the adjoining massive walk-in closet.
Clark quickly dresses, pulling on a pair of dark boxers and running pants. He’s rummaging for a shirt when he finds a graphic tee-shirt wedged into the back of one of the drawers. It’s soft and well-worn, with the letters fading around the edges. Clark unfurls it to read its lettering.
Proud Parent of a Gotham Academy Honor Student!
Clark stares at it for a moment before carefully putting it back where he found it.
“Clark, hurry up. Alfred will kill us both if we let his food get cold,” Bruce calls from the other room.
Clark pulls out another shirt, this one plain blue, and puts it on before going out to join Bruce.
Bruce is sitting at the small round dining table, sipping from his coffee. He looks well-rested and relaxed, lightyears better than he had last night.
The table, Clark is surprised to see, somehow isn’t buckling beneath the sheer amount of food it is carrying. A true varied assortment of every type of brunch food is nestled in ceramic serving dishes across its surface.
Clark whistles, impressed.
“Alfred made us all of this?”
“He did,” Bruce confirms, taking a bite of toast, “he brought it by early this morning.”
“This is a lot of food,” Clark observes, like an idiot, “I mean, there’s just the two of us.”
“I think he was operating under the assumption we would be hungry after last night’s… activities,” Bruce offers, wry.
Clark feels his cheeks heat, but ignores it in favor of loading up a plate with French toast, sausage links, and poached eggs.
“That was, uh, thoughtful of him.”
Bruce hums but doesn’t say anything else and continues to eat.
Clark takes that as permission and begins wolfing down his own food. Alfred’s food is already fantastic, but sex always makes Clark hungry.
He looks up from his plate when Bruce’s phone buzzes where it’s laying on the table. Bruce turns his head to look at the screen, and Clark nearly chokes on his bite of egg when he catches sight of the sizable hickey on Bruce’s neck.
Bruce looks up from his phone. His brows furrow.
“Clark, are you alright?”
“’M fine,” Clark says hoarsely, “how are you feeling?”
“Along with the food, Alfred brought by an antidote he synthesized last night, and we’ll run some tests later to make sure, but everything feels normal,” Bruce affirms.
“That’s great news.”
They lapse back into quiet as Clark continues to eat, and Bruce types furiously away at his phone. When Clark has finished taking a sip of his orange juice, Bruce speaks.
“We should debrief about last night.”
It is through a careful life of practicing to control his strength that Clark doesn’t shatter the glass in his hand.
“Do we have to?”
“Clark.”
He sighs. Bruce looks just as uncomfortable as Clark feels, which is a relief. But there’s something else there, too, in Bruce’s eyes that appears close to fear.
“Okay, what do you want to talk about?”
“I think it would be prudent for both parties to debrief—”
“B,” Clark holds up a hand, “we literally slept together last night, you don’t need to talk like that with me.”
Bruce arches a brow, “Talk like what with you?”
“Like we’re at a League meeting.”
“I’m simply attempting to mitigate potential damages from—”
“Bruce.”
Bruce shuts his mouth with an audible snap. He sighs.
“I want to make sure you are okay with what happened last night,” Bruce says, serious, “It was a new experience for you.”
“I appreciate that,” Clark offers earnestly, “but to be honest, it wasn’t much different than it is normally. At least one my end, but I wasn’t the one hopped up on sex pollen.”
“It is not sex pollen,” Bruce grit, annoyed, “it is a highly concentrated form of a plant’s natural chemical process by which it is pollinated.”
“Sounds likes sex pollen to me,” Clark shrugs.
Bruce rubs his forehead.
“Never mind,” Bruce says after a moment, “But I wasn’t referring to the pollen, Clark, I meant having sex with me.”
Despite himself, Clark laughs.
“B, you might be good in bed, but you’re not ‘feel-like-a-virgin’ good. I’ve had sex before.”
Bruce looks annoyed, “I don’t think you’re a virgin, Clark. I just want to be considerate of the fact that I’m not your typical partner.”
Clark doesn’t know what the hell Bruce is meaning by that, is trying to wrack his brain—maybe he means rich people? People from the city?—when he suddenly gets it.
The roundabout way Bruce is talking, referring to Clark’s ‘typical partners,’ specifying last night as a ‘new experience’ for Clark…
“Last night wasn’t my first time with a guy, Bruce,” Clark blurts out, stunned.
The coffee mug pauses its journey to Bruce’s mouth. He looks surprised, or as surprised as Bruce ever gets, which is actually just an interested eyebrow raise.
“C’mon, you can’t be that surprised, B,” Clark reasons, “not Mr. I-Know-Everything-About-Everyone-All-the-Time.”
“Uncovering the Superman’s sexuality wasn’t high on my priority list when I was researching you,” Bruce explains, wry.
“Okay, sure, but I mean—after that,” Clark suggests, “you know, when we actually started hanging out with one another.”
“I don’t make it a habit of speculating on my coworker’s sex lives.”
“That’s literally a lie!” Clark crows, “I overheard you gossiping with Diana about Barry and Arthur after our last League meeting.”
“I don’t gossip,” Bruce emphasizes haughtily, then, “I thought we had established a no using powers to spy on each other rule, Clark?”
Clark rolls his eyes, “I was walking by when you guys were talking, and besides, Diana’s loud—I didn’t need super-hearing to eavesdrop on you two.”
Bruce grimaces, “One of the unfortunate side effects of her unwavering commitment to the truth; she doesn’t understand the use in speaking quietly.”
Clark snorts.
They lapse into pleasant silence as Bruce continues eating his own breakfast. Clark helps himself to a slice of apple here and a handful of blueberries there while Bruce sedately makes his way through three plates laden with food, outpacing Clark’s own appetite.
Clark takes a moment to extend his awareness outside of the apartment, then Gotham, and even wider until Clark is certain there are no ongoing disasters that require either of their immediate attentions. He comes back to himself, allowing himself to enjoy this moment of quiet companionship.
“I suppose I had assumed, because of Lois,” Bruce says out of nowhere, chewing thoughtfully, which Clark gets, but then Bruce adds: “and you being from Kansas.”
Clark gapes at him.
“There are gay people in Kansas, Bruce,” Clark says, incredulous.
Bruce deadpans, “Thank you for educating me on that, Clark.”
Clark throws his hands up, “Well, what the hell else did you mean by that?”
Bruce is saved from answering that when his phone begins ringing. Bruce’s eyes flick down at the screen before sending it to voicemail.
Bruce looks to Clark.
“I have to call them back,” he says, “it may take a while, though.”
Clark takes the hint for what it is.
“Go ahead,” Clark waves him off, “I have to head out anyways—Perry wants an update on a piece I’m working on.”
“Not about the Bat this time, I assume,” Bruce mocks.
“That would be a conflict of interest.”
Bruce rolls his eyes.
“As if your ex-fiancée doesn’t write fluff pieces about the Superman all the time.”
“Lo would kill you if she heard you besmirch her journalistic integrity.”
“I am well aware of Ms. Lane’s capabilities as a world-class reporter,” Bruce promises, “So there is no need to tell her I said anything to the contrary.”
Clark laughs as he gets up from the table.
He’s heading toward the door when Bruce coughs. Clark turns around, confused when Bruce points to the bedroom.
“Aren’t you forgetting something?” Bruce smirks.
It dawns on Clark, and he backtracks to retrieve his suit.
Clark leans down, scooping up the medallion and storing it in his pocket. He stands up and freezes when he sees the bed.
The sheets are wrinkled, and the covers are slipping off one side; obviously slept-in and well-used.
For a second, just a brief flash, it’s like it’s the previous evening, and Clark is right there, holding himself above Bruce, cradled in the vee of his thighs. He’s listening to the semi-incoherent, filthy babbling as the heat of the pollen takes any semblance of propriety or inhibition away. He can almost even feel the way Bruce had tightened around him so perfectly, had come all over his chest without Clark putting a hand on him.
“Clark?”
Clark closes his eyes tight and swallows against the memories of last night.
“Yeah, heading out now,” Clark says, walking back into the living room.
Bruce nods, “Good luck with your meeting.”
“Thanks, and good luck with your, uh, phone call.”
“Thank you,” Bruce smiles, but it doesn’t reach his eyes, “I think I may need it.”
It’s a weird thing to say but Clark doesn’t dwell on it. He’s trying to not think, instead, about the fact that Bruce still has a decent-sized hickey on his neck just sitting there for everyone to see, and he’s really trying not to think about where else on Bruce are Clark’s bitemarks, or if he might have left imprints, bruises on Bruce’s hips—a moment of lost control—
“Clark?” Bruce asks, looking like Clark’s lost his mind.
Right, because he had been leaving and is now standing there, staring at Bruce like a complete weirdo.
Clark offers the world’s most awkward wave, a pathetic little thing before he’s speeding out of there. He’s down the block when he hears Bruce calling whoever it was back, hears whoever it is pick up.
“Dick,” Bruce speaks into the phone.
Clark turns his hearing away but winces, thinking whoever is on the other end must be in for it if Bruce is already opening the conversation with an insult like that.