Chapter Text
Clark had been friends with Bruce for years before they entered a romantic relationship. He’d gotten used to Bruce’s idiosyncrasies. Bruce was prickly and stubborn and standoffish. He was uncomfortable expressing his emotions, he cherished his personal space, and he didn’t do long-term committed relationships.
But as always, Clark became the exception to every one of Bruce’s rules.
When they both finally stopped beating around the bush and confessed their feelings to each other, Clark thought he knew, more or less, what to expect. But one by one, Bruce went and debunked every one of Clark’s theories, and Clark had never been happier to be proven wrong.
Clark didn’t think Bruce would be a cuddler, but the first night Clark spent in Bruce’s bed, Bruce came home from patrol and wrapped himself around Clark – one leg slung over both of Clark’s, one arm loosely hooked around his waist, his face tucked into the back of Clark’s neck – and fell asleep in minutes.
Clark didn’t think Bruce would tolerate public displays of affection, but he kissed Clark in front of his family without a thought. They were short, chaste kisses, sheer affection, and Clark cherished every one. The boys made loud, obnoxious noises of disgust every time (“Get a room!” “I hate this family”) and covered their eyes, but Bruce was unrepentant.
Clark didn’t think Bruce would be the type to want to go on traditional dates; Clark expected them to spend a lot of time together, but not necessarily “dinner and a movie” time together. But Bruce took Clark out to dinner at least once a week, took him for long walks in the park or along the harbor, took him to movies as long as he could satisfy their very different tastes (Bruce liked horror but Clark hated gore, Clark liked comedy but Bruce hated immature humor, they could both agree that action movies were highly inaccurate and often poorly written, and they mostly ended up watching documentaries and historical films).
Clark didn’t think Bruce would use pet names either. He still expected to only ever be “Clark” (or “Superman” on missions or “Kal” when they were suited up but Bruce needed to make a point). But he was wrong about that too.
Bruce brought out the pet names the very first time they slept together; in bed, his go-to was “baby,” which in Clark’s opinion was a classic, and the way Bruce said it made him melt: “You like that, baby?” “Oh yeah, baby, that feels so good.” “Come on, baby, come on.”
It didn’t take long for “baby” to make its way out of the bedroom, usually when it was just the two of them, but sometimes when Bruce’s family was around. Like one morning at the breakfast table, Jason scarfing down his stack of pancakes and Alfred flipping bacon on the stove. Bruce came downstairs and put a hand on Clark’s shoulder, kissed him on the cheek. Jason was too busy eating to call them out, but he did wrinkle his nose.
“Hey, baby, I have to work late tonight,” Bruce said in a low voice. “I’ll have to come home and go straight out with Jason.” To his son: “Suited up and ready to go at ten P.M., Jay. Homework has to be done and try to get a nap and a workout in.” Jason gave a thumbs-up. He knew the drill.
“That’s okay,” Clark said easily as Bruce walked over to the kitchen counter to pour himself a cup of coffee. “I should probably spend some time in the apartment I’m paying rent for. You know, actually get my money’s worth.”
“Just move in with us,” Jason said.
“Don’t talk with your mouth full,” Bruce reminded him. He didn’t say anything about Jason’s “moving in together” idea; he and Clark had only been together six months. It was a little early for that, even if Clark did spend more nights at Wayne Manor than he did at home. “I’ll see you tomorrow, most likely,” Bruce said to Clark.
“Sounds good.” Clark got up to rinse his dishes and head out. He reciprocated Bruce’s kiss on the cheek as he passed by the kitchen table. “Have a good day.”
Within a few months, Bruce had started shortening “baby” to “babe.” Not every time; “baby” was for sweeter moments, while “babe” was more perfunctory. For example, when Bruce was in his bathroom getting ready for a charity event. He stood in the doorway and held up two bottles of cologne. “Hey, babe, help me decide.”
“That one,” Clark said immediately, indicating the bottle in Bruce’s left hand.
Bruce gestured with it. “You like this one better?”
“It reminds me of how you smell after a mission.” Leather and smoke; Clark had fallen in love with Bruce before he’d learned the man’s secret identity, so his first memories of attraction to the man always involved the cowl, and Bruce’s dangerous smile, the only part of his face that Clark could see.
Bruce raised his eyebrows, amused. “How I smell after a mission?” he repeated. “Sweaty and bleeding internally?”
Clark rolled his eyes. “It smells exciting. Shut up.”
“Hey,” Bruce said, spraying the cologne in the air, using a light touch so he didn’t overwhelm Clark’s senses, “I don’t have a problem with you liking my post-mission smell.”
They were well into their relationship – discussing the possibility of Clark moving in when his lease expired – by the time Bruce expanded his repertoire again. The next addition was “darling,” and he only used it when they were alone.
Sometimes Bruce would come home from patrol and Clark would be waiting for him, and they hadn’t seen each other all day because they’d both been busy, and Clark would welcome him into bed and draw him in for a kiss, but when his hands started to wander Bruce would pull away slightly and say, “I love you, darling, but I’m too tired for this right now.” Because Clark ran off of stored solar energy and didn’t need to sleep, but his boyfriend needed sleep very much and didn’t get enough of it.
“That’s okay,” Clark said every time. He’d switch tracks and let Bruce twine their limbs together; Bruce would tangle a hand in his hair and Clark would feel it when Bruce drifted into unconsciousness, the tension in his body melting away, his chest rising and falling steadily, his heart beating a slow rhythm.
Shortly after “darling,” around when the pair of them made their relationship public, Bruce adopted another pet name, and Clark was starting to sort them all into categories. “Babe” for everyday, “baby” less often because it made Dick and Jason mime barfing, “darling” when they were alone, and now a new one: “beautiful,” when Bruce was trying to subtly manipulate him. Not in a malicious way. It was the same way Clark tried to subtly manipulate him sometimes: with his big, blue eyes and a hand on Bruce’s hip to draw him near, and he knew he could get Bruce to say yes to anything.
They were getting ready for a charity event together this time. Clark didn’t attend every event Bruce got invited to, but when it was for charity, he usually wanted to go. And he got to see Bruce looking dashing in a tux; what more could he ask for?
“Hey there, beautiful,” Bruce said with a roguish grin when Clark stepped out of their shared walk-in closet, straightening his tie.
Clark quirked an eyebrow. “‘Beautiful’?” he repeated. Bruce had called him beautiful before, but usually in a more reverent tone, and usually when the lights were off and they were in bed together. He’d also teasingly called Clark “pretty” (“I guess you’re not just a pretty face,” when Clark made a suggestion that Bruce thought was good, and Clark would roll his eyes but he wouldn’t be able to keep himself from smiling).
“It’s an objective statement of fact,” Bruce claimed, crossing the room to run his hands down the lapels of Clark’s new jacket, navy blue because “you look good in blue” (Bruce said this when Clark was trying it on in front of Bruce’s personal stylist, and it had not been subtle, but then again, how many times had Clark admired how good Bruce looked in all black?). “You look ravishing.”
Ravishing. Bruce was really laying it on thick. Half of Clark wanted to roll his eyes; the other half wanted to cancel their plans for the evening and see what other words Bruce could come up with to describe him. “This is because I finally caved and let you buy me a tux,” Clark said flatly, though he knew he wasn’t hiding the lust in his eyes.
“And you look so good in it,” Bruce practically purred. “I can’t wait to take it off you later tonight.”
“My stance on you spending money on me has not changed,” Clark informed him. “I only made an exception because it was a practical purchase.”
“Buying your parents a new car is a practical purchase, but apparently that idea was ‘excessive’ and ‘borderline insulting.’”
“My parents do not need or want you to buy them a new car. The old one works just fine.”
Bruce frowned like he was going to bring this up later. Clark had no doubt that he would.
It was a long time before Bruce tried out a new pet name, so long that Clark thought maybe Bruce had decided to stick to what worked. But eventually, he changed it up again, and the new one he chose made Clark laugh, not because of the name itself but because of how Bruce used it.
Clark had eased up on his “frumpy reporter” vibe once he started publicly dating a highly fashionable billionaire, using the easy excuse that his boyfriend was a positive influence on his style. He still owned plenty of plaid shirts and khakis, but when he was going out with Bruce and he knew they were likely to be seen, he took a bit more care with his appearance. (Clark had thick skin, but he could only stand by and let anonymous people on Twitter say he dressed like a math teacher so many times before he had to do something.)
Changing up his style had helped Clark’s Twitter problem, but it had had another unforeseen consequence, which was that strangers flirted with him a lot more often.
Bruce hated this.
The scene usually went something like this: an attractive man or woman (usually a woman; Clark “looked straight,” as countless people had told him over the course of his life, which he tried not to take as an insult) would approach him at a bar when Bruce was getting them both drinks.
Clark would try to turn them down gently, but usually he wouldn’t have time to before Bruce’s sixth sense (his “someone is flirting with my boyfriend” sense) went off and he appeared out of nowhere, a possessive arm around Clark’s waist or shoulders and a sultry, “Hey, sweetheart; who’s your friend?”
And then Bruce would turn to regard the interloper with a cold stare, and, if they were smart, they would make themselves scarce. (If they were stupid, they would try to press their luck and Bruce would give his most intimidating shark-smile and say something biting, and that usually worked.)
“Am I only ‘sweetheart’ when you’re trying to scare somebody?” Clark asked him once, leaning in close so Bruce could hear him over the din of noise surrounding them.
“You can be ‘sweetheart’ whenever you want to be, sweetheart,” Bruce said warmly, and kissed him, liquor on his tongue.
One of Clark’s assumptions about what a relationship with Bruce would be like that had been correct was that Bruce would try to avoid, as much as possible, talking about his feelings. He’d gotten better at it over the years – by this point they were approaching their five-year anniversary, and Clark was starting to roll the idea of marriage around in his mind, though he hadn’t yet brought it up – but it still made him uncomfortable.
As a result, it caught Clark completely off guard when Bruce did put his feelings into words. Bruce had gotten to the point where he didn’t have to work himself up to an “I love you,” and could just toss them into casual (private) conversation. And he’d added yet another term of endearment to go along with these admissions. When Clark came home from an extended mission in space: “I missed you, love.”
This, Clark quickly decided, was his favorite of Bruce’s pet names for him, and because he was as attuned to Clark as Clark was to him, Bruce picked up on that and started using it more often, until it became his go-to, which felt like the start of a new chapter of their relationship.
Tim thought it was “sickening.”
Clark finally did bring up the idea of getting married, and Bruce was surprisingly receptive. It didn’t happen right away, but it happened a lot sooner than Clark would have expected. And this was how Clark collected his final pet name. He wasn’t so sure about this one; it would have to grow on him. Maybe because he’d always associated it with old married couples. But he and Bruce were a married couple now, and they weren’t as young as they used to be.
“Honey!” Bruce called from upstairs, and Clark was there in a flash. Tim and Damian were facing each other, Tim with his hands on his hips, Damian with his arms crossed over his chest, both looking murderous.
Clark regarded them with parental disappointment. Tim carefully avoided facing Clark’s stare head-on. Damian sneered at Clark.
“Tim can’t find his camera and I can’t get Damian to give up where he hid it,” Bruce explained.
“Let me check,” Clark offered.
“That’s cheating!” Damian exclaimed.
Clark checked anyway, sweeping the house with his x-ray vision. “The chandelier in the ballroom,” he said after a few seconds.
Damian pouted. Tim gave his brother a shove. “Asshole,” he said.
“Language,” Bruce scolded, grabbing Damian by the shoulder before he could physically retaliate. “And no shoving.”
With one final glare at each other, Tim stormed down the stairs toward the ballroom. Damian turned on his heel and marched into his bedroom, slamming the door shut behind him.
“Thank you,” Bruce said, rolling his eyes at his children’s antics.
“Anytime, dear,” Clark replied.
Bruce laughed. “Does that mean you don’t like ‘honey’?”
“I haven’t decided yet,” Clark said. “I’ll let you know.”
Bruce hummed thoughtfully and kissed Clark, a quick press of lips. “Okay, love.”