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.”
Chapter 2
Notes:
I wasn’t intending on writing a second chapter but LilLayneeLoo left exactly one comment requesting it and that was enough to convince me. Once I get an idea in my head it’s too late. (Please use this information responsibly.)
Chapter Text
Bruce had never been in a relationship quite like the one he had with Clark. He could tell Clark was surprised by how easily he took to it; he was surprised too. He hadn’t expected to ever want any of the things he suddenly found he wanted.
He wanted to kiss Clark all the time, and he didn’t care if they were in public. He wanted to take Clark out to dinner and show him off to the world. He wanted to curl up around him every night; Clark’s body was like a portable heater, and Wayne Manor was chilly year-round.
He also found himself never, ever calling Clark by his actual name anymore, at least not to his face. This trend continued as their relationship progressed, as Clark became his boyfriend and moved in with him and they got engaged and, later, married. Bruce amassed a list of pet names, tried them out one by one and assessed Clark’s reactions to decide which he would use all the time and which he would save for when Clark was annoying him.
Bruce had always been fond of nicknames. He didn’t know why. Maybe it was a reaction to being raised by a man who referred to everyone in the most formal manner possible. Or maybe it was the easiest way he knew how to communicate that he cared.
Some of his children tolerated this more than others. When he’d been younger, Dick had let Bruce call him just about anything, “son” or “champ” or “sport.” Jason had actually seemed to like it (Bruce didn’t imagine his father had called him much of anything, during the short time he’d actually been around), and Bruce added “Jay” and “Jay-lad” to the mix. Cass was “Cassie” and sometimes “princess,” although the latter always seemed to precipitate accusations of favoritism from Bruce’s other kids.
For a long time, Tim would look at Bruce strangely every time Bruce called him anything other than “Tim” (or “Timothy” when he was in trouble), but he’d recently started accepting “son.” And Damian would allow “Dami” under very special circumstances.
Clark had asked him once, a few years into the relationship, “Does it bother you that I just call you ‘Bruce’?” They were in their shared bedroom, working on their laptops next to each other in silence, when Clark brought it up, and at first Bruce hadn’t understood what he was talking about.
“As opposed to what?”
“You have a million different names for me. ‘Baby,’ ‘darling,’ all the rest. I’ve mostly stuck to the one.”
It didn’t bother Bruce in the slightest. He didn’t call Clark those things expecting any kind of reciprocation. He did it because he wanted to, and because he could tell Clark liked it. “You call me ‘B’ sometimes,” he pointed out.
“Yeah, but so do your kids,” said Clark. Bruce failed to see what that had to do with anything. The nickname wasn’t any less special because more people used it.
“You can call me whatever you want to call me,” Bruce told him. “Whatever comes naturally.”
Clark looked surprised. “‘Darling’ and ‘sweetheart’ and ‘beautiful’ all come naturally to you?”
Bruce leaned over and briefly pressed their lips together. He relished the way Clark’s eyes followed his mouth as he pulled away. “Yes they do, sweetheart,” he said.
Clark seemed to like that answer a lot. He grabbed Bruce by the back of the neck and kissed him again, this time with heat behind it. “I’m so in love with you,” he muttered against Bruce’s mouth.
From then on, Clark kept on calling him “Bruce” and “B” (and a few other things, but only in bed, and Bruce didn’t think those qualified as pet names). Bruce didn’t take it as a sign that Clark didn’t love him.
It was easy not to take it that way, because Clark told him he loved him at least once a day. Every time he hung up the phone: “Love you, bye.” When he left for work in the morning: “See you tonight. Love you.” Every time Bruce left for patrol: “Be safe. I love you.” In the middle of sex: “God, I love you so much.”
Bruce said “I love you” far less frequently than that. But he called Clark “love” a lot, and Clark seemed to understand that it meant the same thing.
They were approaching their first wedding anniversary when Clark got it in his head to try something new. Bruce understood that impulse. He’d expanded his repertoire by quite a bit since putting a ring on Clark’s finger. It had felt like permission to go a little bit overboard sometimes. When the situation called for it.
Like now. Bruce had gotten home from patrol at five A.M. the previous night, with Damian, and as everyone in the family knew, patrolling with Damian was twice as exhausting as patrolling without Damian. (Bruce loved his youngest son, but the kid was a handful and he was still learning important concepts like “appropriate use of force.”) He woke to blinding bright light illuminating his and Clark’s bedroom. He groaned and grabbed a pillow to cover his eyes.
“Sunshine,” he said. “Light of my life. Shut the damn curtains.”
Clark pulled the pillow off his face. Bruce’s groggy reflexes weren’t quick enough to stop him. “It’s two P.M.,” Clark said flatly. The curtains were still open. Bruce blinked several times until his husband came into focus, haloed by golden sunlight, and then he frowned.
“It’s a Saturday.”
“Does that mean you’re going to sleep all day?”
“It means I can if I want to.”
“You don’t want to be with me?” Clark tried to sound suggestive, and normally it would have worked, but Bruce’s sex drive was dead before his first cup of coffee, and Clark really should have known that.
“You can sleep too,” Bruce offered. Hey, if Clark wanted to be with him…
Clark was persistent. (He always was.) He climbed into bed next to Bruce and said, “What if I want to do something else?”
Bruce glared at him.
Clark leaned down to nuzzle Bruce’s neck. “C’mon, hot stuff,” he mouthed against Bruce’s sleep-warm skin.
“‘Hot stuff’?” Bruce repeated. He was not leaning into Clark’s neck kisses. He wasn’t.
“Stud,” Clark tried, kissing one corner of Bruce’s mouth, and then the other, and then right in the center, parting Bruce’s lips with his tongue.
“You’re embarrassing yourself,” Bruce said when Clark pulled away. But, God, he looked so pretty in the afternoon light, his curls falling onto his forehead, his big blue eyes gazing down, those plush lips kissing him again and again…
“Daddy,” was Clark’s final attempt, and Bruce shoved him off.
“Get out.”
Clark laughed. “Come on, I know you like that one.”
“Out.”
Clark grabbed the hand that was trying to push him away and laced their fingers together. “Not my fault you took all the good pet names,” he said.
“You’re allowed to use the same ones I do.”
“I’m never going to sound as good as you do when you say them.”
“Of course you will.”
Clark huffed a sigh. He was in a mood today. Bruce couldn’t decide if that was a good thing or a bad one. “What kind of a writer am I if I can’t even come up with original pet names for my husband?” he asked, despondently.
Bruce gave in to Clark’s teasing and pulled him in close. Clark’s expression changed in a flash, joy lighting up his features. Bruce was reminded of exactly why he’d agreed to marry this person. “You don’t have to be a good writer, honey,” he said in a low, sultry tone. “I’ll pay the bills.”
The joy was gone. Clark glared at him. “I changed my mind about having sex with you. Go back to sleep.”
Bruce knew he shouldn’t laugh. He would only get himself into more trouble if he laughed.
He couldn’t help it. He laughed.
In subsequent weeks, Clark tried on a few more pet names, this time with greater success.
After a black-tie event they both attended, when they pulled into the garage and Clark looked at him like he was the last cookie in the cookie jar, Bruce said, “I like that look. Am I about to get lucky?”
“What do you think, gorgeous?” Clark replied, eyes raking over Bruce’s figure.
Bruce grinned. Gorgeous. He’d take it. “I think I should wear this suit more often.”
Clark grinned right back. “I think you should take it off.”
After a long day at work, when Bruce came home exhausted, dreading the thought of going out on patrol, Clark was waiting for him with a hot cup of coffee and a, “Hey, handsome, I missed you today.”
Bruce managed a tired smile. “Missed you too, darling.”
Clark sat him down and rubbed his shoulders and listened to him rant about production delays, and that was one of the evenings when Clark more than earned an, “I love you.”
During one of Alfred’s weeks off, when Bruce was attempting to make dinner for the family that night, Clark came into the kitchen, stood behind Bruce at the stove with his hands on Bruce’s waist, and said, “What’s cooking, good looking?”
Bruce thought he deserved a medal for not rolling his eyes. “You’ve been holding that one in for a while, haven’t you?”
He could feel Clark’s grin. “I had to wait until you were actually cooking something. You don’t do it very often.”
“Yes, well, I’m not very good at it.” Bruce stirred the pot of meatless homemade spaghetti sauce and checked Alfred’s recipe for the six hundredth time. “I’m making spaghetti,” he said.
“Impossible to fuck up.”
“I certainly hope so.” Bruce handed Clark a spoon. “Try the sauce.”
Clark dipped the spoon in and tasted it, frowning thoughtfully. “Tastes good,” he decided.
“You’re not lying to spare my feelings, are you?” Bruce asked skeptically. “Because you know the kids won’t.” Jason, in particular, would be brutal if Bruce fucked anything up.
“I’m not lying,” Clark assured him. “But you should add some red pepper if you don’t want Damian to complain.”
“Noted,” Bruce said. “Thank you.” He paused, revisiting what Clark had called him. “Why are all my pet names about the way I look?”
Clark kissed the back of his neck. “Because you’re sexy and I want you to know it.”
“How could I forget when you remind me almost every night?” Bruce turned to kiss Clark on the lips, then broke it off and shooed him with his wooden spoon. “Go away. You’re distracting me.”
Bruce settled into this new routine. He was still mostly “Bruce” and “B,” but he was sometimes also “gorgeous” (when Clark was trying to get him in bed), “handsome” (during softer moments), “good looking” (when Clark was feeling cheeky), or any number of other synonyms for “attractive.” It was a bit one-note, but Bruce wasn’t complaining.
“Sweetie—” Clark started to say one day over breakfast.
Damian slammed his knife and fork down on the table. “Absolutely not,” he declared.
“I wasn’t talking to you,” Clark said.
“I am aware of that. You were talking to my father. Do not call him that.”
“Gonna have to agree with the demon child on this one,” Tim chimed in.
Clark frowned. “Bruce calls me—”
“Don’t say it,” Damian interrupted again. “Any of it. I know what my father calls you.”
“Yeah, it’s bad enough that we have to put up with it from him,” Tim said, gesturing at Bruce with his bacon. “From both of you, though? I don’t think I can take it.”
“Boys,” Bruce said to them. “We’re married. Clark is my husband.”
Damian regarded his father coolly. “I fail to see why that means you must behave this way.”
“It means Clark may call me whatever he wants and the two of you are going to have to learn to live with it.”
It was really only Tim and Damian who still had a problem with Bruce and Clark’s displays of affection. Dick and Jason were both used to their dad and stepdad’s behavior, and they didn’t live in Wayne Manor, so they weren’t surrounded by it all the time. And Cass didn’t seem to mind too much, as long as they didn’t get too carried away. (She drew the line one evening when Clark called Bruce “sexy” in front of her.)
After a while, even Tim and Damian stopped reacting with more than token looks of disgust to Bruce and Clark’s names for each other.
Outside the home, though, and on the job, Bruce and Clark were still “Batman” and “Superman.” Occasionally “B” for Bruce or “Kal” for Clark, if they needed to have a more intimate conversation while they were suited up, but never anything else. Bruce had always been very careful about keeping their work lives separate from their home lives, not just because it benefited them to have that separation but because he couldn’t imagine the teasing they would get if any of their colleagues in the Justice League ever heard Batman refer to Superman as “honey.” They’d already been teased enough for acting like an old married couple before they were an old married couple.
Clark followed Bruce’s lead, and saved his comments about Bruce’s appearance for when the cowl was off. But Clark had always been worse than Bruce at “code names only.” Bruce should have seen it coming that he would slip up eventually.
It happened when Clark had just returned from an extended mission in space and was debriefing a few core members of the League. It was the first time he and Bruce had seen each other in weeks, weeks Bruce had spent feeling like one-half of a whole, torn down the middle. Absence, he had firmly decided, did not make the heart grow fonder. It only made him miss his husband.
The feeling was, apparently, mutual; Clark had hardly taken his eyes off of Bruce the whole meeting.
Diana asked a question that made Clark turn to Bruce for clarification, and when he did, he said, “I don’t know; when was the last time something like that happened, dear?”
Bruce answered, thinking nothing of it until he saw the way everyone else was looking at them. He replayed Clark’s words in his mind and then gave an exasperated sigh. “You all know we’re married,” he said.
“I’ve never heard you acknowledge it,” Barry pointed out.
“Yes, well, we are. We have been for three years. Get used to it. Superman, please continue.”
“You’re not gonna call him ‘dear’ back?” Hal teased. “Always knew you were stone-cold.”
Stone-cold, huh? “Darling,” Bruce said, ignoring the way multiple people around the table raised their eyebrows and a few actually gasped. “Continue.”
Clark unsuccessfully fought back a smile and continued his report.