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-z-
Clark gets the yellow invitation in the mail on an innocuous Friday evening and is just about to set the thing alight, but his vibrating phone draws his attention. He glances down, reads Bruce Vain on the screen--
(Clark keeps telling himself that he's going to change it back, that he'd only done it to watch Bruce's eyebrow twitch in annoyance - it'd been years ago, after Jason's death but before Tim became Robin, in a rare moment of levity; they'd been sitting together in the cave, knee to knee, eyes on the Batcomputer as it worked through some analysis or other, exchanging teasing barbs - but Clark never gets around to it.)
--but it's not Bruce's voice on the other end, it's Tim's, saying that Bruce has been kidnapped again and that everyone's annoyed about it and could Clark give them a discreet hand and that Bruce will owe him one.
It's high summer in Gotham right now and all the bats have been run ragged. It had seemed that over the last few days, every kingpin and gang leader was out to make their move.
Bruce wouldn't be happy about Clark interfering, but that, Clark decides as he lifts the window to his apartment and takes off before anyone could notice, is a problem for later.
-
Dick shows up just as Clark has quietly stripped the kidnappers of their weapons. From there, it was just a matter of knocking everyone out.
Clark lets Bruce and Nightwing deal with the police and the media, grinning down at them from the air before pointing his nose towards the manor. He could smell Alfred's cookies - a post-kidnapping tradition - and wouldn't take any less than three as his payment.
He doesn't fly straight there, though, because he can see the way Nightwing isn't quite steady on his feet - even Bruce himself has dark circles under his bloodshot, tired eyes; so Clark stays, hovering far above them, watching as they give their statements.
Nightwing is able to leave before Bruce and makes it to a nearby rooftop. Clark descends to join him.
“Thanks, Uncle Clark,” Nightwing says, gently bumping his shoulder against Clark's, Clark letting himself be moved slightly by it as he smiles down at Dick.
“Let me give you a lift?” Clark phrases it like a question, though they both know the answer.
“Please,” Dick says, barely stifling his yawn as he sags against Clark.
Clark scoops Dick into his arms - easy as if the boy were still twelve years old and reeking of grief, having cried himself to sleep on the chair just outside the grandfather clock that opened to the cave, waiting for Bruce to return from a patrol or a League mission; Bruce was usually the one to tuck Dick into bed when they found him like this, but there were times when it was Clark, invited to a mini-vacation in one of Bruce's guest rooms, who had the honor - and only begins to hover once Alfred arrives on scene to collect Bruce from the police.
Bruce, just as he's about to slide into the car, Alfred patiently holding the door for him, glances up and over his shoulder - directly at Clark.
Clark flashes red eyes at Bruce - a brief acknowledgement - and then flies quietly towards the manor.
-
By the time Alfred and Bruce get back, Clark has overseen a careful doling out, but no eating of the post-kidnapping cookies - an endeavor that typically would have been made harder if Jason and/or Damian had had more energy - until Bruce himself is sat and receives his share of the said post-kidnapping cookies.
The conversations are low, quiet.
There are more yawns than words going around the table.
Clark looks over them all - Dick and Jason and Tim and Damian - and revels in his love for them. And for the man just out of the corner of his eye, to his right, at the head of the table - Bruce - Clark feels a different love.
Clark and Bruce - there's so many years behind them now, so many battles and wars fought together, both won and lost; everything they've been through, they've been through together. But not in the way Clark wants, dreams of - has long lost the hope for. So he takes what he can get - these quiet moments of them all together under the same roof, every Uncle Clark and shared plate of cookies and tucking young, exhausted children into bed.
They've shared moments before. Moments where Clark thought Bruce was going to kiss him for real - not for a mission, not because he was under the control of a spell or aphrodisiac or possessed - but because Bruce wanted to.
Clark has been close himself, when the adrenaline is too much, after missions where things got a little too hairy - where he'd grabbed Bruce and held on maybe a little too tight, a little too long. Pulling back only to take Bruce's face in his hands and--
--and do nothing.
They'd stare at each other until someone cleared their throat, until a joke was made, until the outside world intruded in on them and they were once more reminded that, ultimately, they didn't belong to themselves.
They both had responsibilities to tend to, leaving them little time to be selfish.
So Clark takes what he can get - hoarding this time with Bruce and the children, hoarding guilt-tinged memories of scripted kisses and fleeting moments filled with almosts and maybes.
Alfred quietly entering the room brings Clark back to himself. In a gentle voice and soft touch, Alfred begins gathering Bruce's children--
(Clark loves them, loves them all - but he knows he has no right to call these boys his own.)
--and, like the pied piper himself, Alfred leads them out of the small dining hall - leaving Clark and Bruce alone.
Clark glances at Bruce, and smiles. The man's got his temple on his fist and his eyes are closed and his breathing has leveled. Clark, with his own gentle touch to Bruce's arm, rouses him from sleep.
Bruce blinks at him, slow and sleepy.
“C'mon, Bruce,” Clark says, voice barely above a whisper as he stands. “Time for bed.”
Bruce grunts as he stands - there's bruising along his ribs from a few nights ago and a twinge in his hip that Clark knows has been bothering him for longer than that. Clark walks Bruce to his room, making sure the man doesn't wake up enough to get the idea that going down to the cave was better than getting in bed.
After successfully getting Bruce to his bedroom door, just as Clark is thinking about making a joke, Bruce instead tugs on the hem of Clark's shirt.
And this? This too, isn't unfamiliar.
Clark follows Bruce into his room and settles on Bruce's ridiculous bed - watching Bruce autopilot his way through his bedtime routine: a quick visit to the ensuite bathroom as he discards his shirt and pants, before changing any necessary bandages, and take any necessary medications (tonight, it's just ibuprofen). Sometimes he'll keep his briefs on, most times he doesn't.
(Not that it mattered - modesty between them had fallen to the wayside several crises and battleground triaging of wounds ago.)
Clark watches Bruce glare at the ibuprofen bottle in his hand for a moment before he takes pity and stands. Clark sheds his flannel shirt and undershirt, then his jeans and socks and shoes before quietly padding over to Bruce. He plucks the bottle from Bruce's hand and passes over the appropriate number of capsules, along with a glass of water from Bruce's nightstand.
Bruce grunts in thanks before Clark maneuvers them towards the bed and, together, they fall into it - Bruce with his arms wrapping around Clark's neck, Clark with his arms around Bruce's waist and, for the briefest moment, they're flush together.
Clark pushes his nose into Bruce's neck, feels Bruce shudder.
But then Clark is pulling back, pulling Bruce with him so he could finagle them underneath Bruce's plush, expensive bedding. Then they settle in, Clark on his back with Bruce tucked in against his side, their legs intertwined, and it doesn't take long for Bruce's breathing to even out as he drifts to sleep.
Clark closes his eyes and focuses on the sound of Bruce's heart, then Dick's, then Jason's and Tim's and Damian's and Alfred's.
By the time he himself is falling asleep, Clark has long forgotten about that yellow invitation sitting on his kitchen counter.
-x-
Clark Kent breaks a story about a senator trading secrets with North Korea and, at Perry's suggestion (order), Clark is told to go lay low for a week. Maybe two.
(“Do not pass go, do not collect $200, Kent,” Perry had shouted.)
Clark purses his lips and stuffs an overnight duffel - not that he needs it, not really.
He's already got clothes at the manor.
He tidies up the apartment a little before he goes - tosses any food that'll spoil, unplugs everything but the fridge, puts away dishes. He's just heading out, when he sees the pile of mail sitting on the counter and briefly thinks about going through it - he pulls his phone from his back pocket and glances at the time, but is distracted by a message from Dick, saying that Alfred's just made sandwiches.
Clark's stomach rumbles.
So he grabs a grocery store paper bag and haphazardly slides the pile of mail into it. There's probably bills in there somewhere he'll need to pay and stuff from the bank to shred - and what better place to shred personal documents than the Batcave itself? Bruce may even be proud of Clark thinking about preventing identity theft.
-
Bruce is proud.
Then he's curious as his eyes alight on that goddamned yellow invitation.
-
“Burn it.”
“Why?”
“Because I'm not going.”
“Why?”
“Because I'm not.”
“W--”
“Because,” Clark snaps, then he groans in frustration and rubs a hand over his face, trying to let his anger go. He takes a breath. Looks back up at Bruce, ignores the way the kids are pretending to not listen in, “Because high school sucked for me, Bruce. I didn't fit in - I couldn't play sports or get close to anyone.”
Bruce knew all this - Clark knows they've talked about it before. About Clark's panic attacks as his powers came online, about the way he'd flinched at sounds no one else could hear until the teachers and counselors started murmuring about tourettes.
“No, I get it,” Bruce says, still brandishing the yellow invitation just out of Clark's immediate reach, “but you're different now. You're Clark Goddamned Kent, you're a top reporter for the Daily Planet. You're so good at your job, they had to send you into hiding.”
“Fuck yeah,” Jason echoes, giving up all pretense of not listening in.
Dick is nodding, too, but then he pauses and tilts his head - eyes glancing between Clark and Bruce.
“Y'know,” Dick starts, and if Clark hadn't been looking for it, he might have missed the way Dick nudges Jason just the slightest, “Bruce, you should go with him. Be his plus one.”
Bruce, distressingly, seems to like the idea as he looks down at the invitation, “Well, well, look at that. The deadline to RSVP is tomorrow.” He looks up at Clark. “This will be fun.”
“Have fun, then,” Clark says, crossing his arms, “because I'm not going.”
Bruce gives him a quiet, assessing look that Clark meets head-on. Bruce doesn't drop Clark's gaze as he turns his head slightly and says, over his shoulder, “Boys, give us a moment, please.”
Clark lets Bruce lead him to the workshop portion of the cave, where they could sit across from each other at one of the small tables Bruce favored for the smaller projects he had - like repairing an individual batarang or tweaking with one of his smoke bombs.
(Clark remembers a night, not long after the rumors of a new crime boss in a red helmet started cropping up, when he'd found Bruce at this table, staring down at a red batarang - his back stiff and his hands flat on his thighs. He'd looked up as Clark approached, eyes red-rimmed and wet. And they both remembered when Jason had begged for his own set of batarangs which he'd then promptly painted red.
Clark had looked down at the red batarang and Bruce's red eyes and had whispered, “Oh, Bruce.”
“It's not possible,” Bruce had whispered back.
Clark hadn't had any more words, he'd just stood beside Bruce, his hand on Bruce's large shoulder, and politely ignored the tremors beneath his palm.)
Bruce sits and Clark sits across from him and, between them, Bruce places the yellow invitation.
Smallville High School Reunion!
October 20th
How time flies!
We would love to invite everyone back to the school
we are all so proud to have attended.
Please R.S.V.P. by August 20th to give
your planning committee enough time to, well, plan!
Please check the appropriate boxes regarding
plus ones and dietary restrictions!
We can't wait to see everyone!
“Look,” Bruce starts, folding his hands together, “even if I could, I wouldn't make you do something you didn't want to do.”
Clark lifts an eyebrow.
“I know it wasn't the greatest time for you,” Bruce says, running a critical eye over the invitation - a simple piece of yellow cardstock, not even embossed and with the comic sans font? Clark knew it was a personal affront to Bruce's sense of taste. And that's when Clark notices that Wayne twinkle in Bruce's eye as Bruce leans forward. “Clark, don't you want a little revenge? Just that smallest amount?”
Clark doesn't know when he leaned forward, too, but he and Bruce are almost nose to nose now.
“Don't you want to walk into--” Bruce flips the invitation to its other side, the side that gives the address to “--the SpringHill Suites.” Bruce grimaces slightly, but continues on, “and give it back to them?”
It's petty. They're both petty, because Clark feels himself starting to nod. But then he shakes himself.
“I'm not the same person I was back in high school,” Clark says, “and I doubt they all are, either. What would be the point?”
“Oh, Clark,” Bruce is suddenly holding Clark's face with both of his hands, “the point is that I'm going to land us in a helicopter somewhere for all your classmates to see.”
Clark sighs and closes his eyes.
“Say 'yes', Clark,” Bruce orders.
Clark doesn't open his eyes, just says, “Yes, Clark.”
“Atta boy,” Bruce says, then he presses a quick kiss to Clark's forehead and then he's standing - taking all the oxygen Superman doesn't need (but Clark could use) with him, along with that fucking yellow invitation Clark should've burned when he'd had the chance.
-
Two weeks before the reunion and Clark feels like throwing up.
“I already have a suit,” Clark tries not to whine, standing as still as he can as the tailor measures his (bare) shoulders. Bruce opens his mouth and Clark cuts him off. “I already have good suits. You paid for them. He,” Clark gestures with his chin at the gentleman with the measuring tape, “made them.”
Bruce waves a hand, “Reunions are different. It takes a different kind of suit.”
“You're ridiculous,” Clark says, but drops the argument. It's one, he knows from experience, that he won't win.
It'll just invite a lecture about how different galas were from charity auctions which were different from charity balls which were different from charity dinners, and how they were all different to anniversary balls and dinners - and those differed, too, depending on if it was a personal, company, or state anniversary - not to mention how a shindig was vastly superior to a party.
Clark's eyes had glazed over the first time he'd heard the lecture, earning himself a commiserating look from Dick - whose circus upbringing didn't (initially) lend itself well to high society's intricate hierarchy of get-togethers. However Dick, unlike Clark, found his footing readily and would grow to be the one to lead his brothers through the room - jumping through the appropriate hoops and deftly navigating any potential pitfalls.
“We may be going to the SpringHill Suites of Lawrence, Kansas,” Bruce is saying, “but no one I'm plus-one'ing will be wearing an old suit.”
Clark turns his head to glare at Bruce, but the tailor chooses that moment to begin measuring Clark's (again, bare) thigh and Clark, having briefly forgotten about the man, jumps slightly. He looks down at the tailor, says, “Nothing changed, why can't you just use the old measurements?”
The tailor snorts, not looking away from his notes as he says, “Would you listen to a recording once, before transcribing what you think you've heard? Or would you listen to it a second time so as to verify?”
Clark grumbles, doesn't bother telling the tailor he doesn't even need to listen to a recording. He doesn't expect--
“Clark has an eidetic memory,” Bruce says, “that's not a good analogy.”
Bruce has relaxed some, he's poured himself a glass of something from the wet bar in this study and he's settled into a favored armchair. Content to watch the tailor poke and measure and prod and measure (a nude but for his briefs) Clark.
The tailor just hums at Bruce's words and shrugs - he's made his point and they all know it. Then, after a few more measurements here and some more notes there, he's shaking Bruce's hand and offering a nod to Clark, and then Alfred is seeing him out.
No sooner is the door shut behind the tailor than Clark is approaching Bruce where he's stretched languidly in his chair.
“Comfy?” Clark asks.
Bruce smirks, eyes flicking playfully over the wide expanse of Clark's (bare) chest, down his abdomen and legs.
Clark ignores him and instead grabs the glass from Bruce's hand - careful as always, never with enough strength that Bruce couldn't stop him if he wanted to - and downs what's left even as he walks away to the other side of the room where his clothes lay.
Behind him, Bruce clears his throat and, briefly, Clark hears his heartbeat quicken before settling down once more. Clark, ever the gentleman, ignores it. Because he can see from the reflection in the glass in his hand, just where Bruce's eyes had been.
Clark reaches for his jeans as he sets aside the stolen glass, wonders if this is one of those moments where, if he had more courage, he'd be able to push. Where he'd drop his jeans and return to Bruce - who he knows is still looking, whose eyes he can always feel - and he'd duck his head next to Bruce's and breathe him in, then he'd kiss him - sharing the taste of Bruce's expensive scotch.
Except there is no courage, not today, and Clark puts on his jeans.
-
One week later and the tailor is back to see if any adjustments need to be made.
Bruce has been frantically cleaning up any last minute cases, so he's down in the cave, leaving Clark to face the tailor alone.
“Barring everything else,” the man says, his voice gentle as he lifts the lid away from the box, “I want you to like this suit.”
Clark is just shucking his jeans off, when the fabric of the suit catches his eye.
It's near-black, with simple and clean lines. The tailor pulls the jacket and trousers from one box, then, from another, he pulls out two button-down shirts - one crimson, the other gold. Smallville High's colors.
The fabric is luxurious and almost sensual - as it always is - and Clark finds himself smirking more and more at the thought of landing in a helicopter in front of the SpringHill Suites, his classmates' jaws on the ground as he arrives with Bruce Wayne on his arm.
He knows that there's already been some kind of commotion caused by Bruce Wayne's name showing up in the list of RSVPs. Ma had called and said half the town didn't know what to believe, and the other half had gestured at the bank that now bore a small Wayne Enterprises logo in the corner of its window.
Clark lets the tailor help him into the suit jacket and turns to the mirror - the man in the mirror is not the scared teen his classmates will know, he's not the reporter the Daily Planet has sent into hiding, he's not even Superman. He's something of a mix - the lines of the jacket cut him into a slim figure without completely hiding away his bulk; and even the bulge of his thighs aren't completely hidden.
Of course, no adjustments are necessary, and the tailor leaves with a smug grin.
Clark tries to ask what Bruce will be wearing, but the tailor simply says not to worry, that they'll match up just fine.
-
Two nights before, and Clark and Bruce load up on a Wayne private jet and fly out to Topeka--
(“Wouldn't Kansas City have something more,” Clark gestures vaguely at Bruce's whole person.
Bruce glares, “I'd rather sleep in a Motel 6 than spend one night in Kansas City.”
“The Kansas side--”
“I would rather share a bed with Two-Face in said Motel 6 than--”
Clark throws his arms in the air and turns away from the argument.)
--where a car meets them on the tarmac. Clark is smiling as he exits the plane, he can't help but not to as Martha Kent steps towards him - her arms opened wide. He's the first to get a hug, but then she's pulling Bruce in for one too as he presses a genial kiss to her cheek.
“It's so good to see you boys,” she says, stepping back and taking them both in. “It's been a dog's age.”
“Ma,” Clark says, “we were here a couple months ago for Jason's birthday.”
“A very young dog,” Martha says with a sniff, making Bruce chuckle deeply.
-
Martha joins them for dinner at their hotel, The Cyrus, and Clark is just barely able to talk Bruce out of buying out the entire dining room.
(“There are other guests, Bruce, don't be rude.”)
The three of them make small talk - Clark catches Ma up on the latest Daily Planet gossip while Bruce orders the wine--
(Bruce, when Martha is with them, will always order something white. Knows that while he and Clark prefer red, Martha never did like a strong tannin and had made it a point not to complain until the third outing of them all together when she hadn't quite been able to hide her wince.
Bruce had put his head in his hands and bemoaned his abilities as a detective.
Ever since then, he researched ahead. If he didn't find something he felt was good enough for Martha Kent, he'd bring something from his own cellar.)
(It should also be noted that Clark and Martha have long since realized that being friends with Bruce Wayne meant being treated to the odd fancy night out - usually to a bought-out restaurant where no one would bother them, aiming their cameras and phones at Bruce and maybe looking a little closely at Clark.
And where Clark now has more than a few too expensive suits, he knows Ma's closet is just as filled with expensive dresses and blouses. It was usually the arrival of a new outfit that reminded her that her birthday was coming up and Clark and Bruce and the boys would be arriving soon to whisk her off to spoil her.
Clark doesn't think about what it means that his mother's birthday is on the same calendar as Bruce's sons'.)
--then as the sommelier smiles and says, “Very good, sir,” Ma turns to Bruce and puts her hand over his.
“I'm glad you're here for him for this whole,” she gestures with her free hand, “thing.”
Bruce smirks, glancing at Clark in that wicked way he has even as he leans in towards Martha, lowering his voice, “Don't tell anyone, but, there's going to be a helicopter.”
Martha scoffs out a laugh and rolls her eyes to the ceiling, “Oh, Bruce. You're ridiculous.”
“That's what I said,” Clark says, leaning forward himself, “but I can't convince him to call it off.”
Martha pats Bruce's hand and shakes her head, her eyes darting between the two of them. Clark is just about to look away as their wine and appetizers arrive, so he almost misses it - almost misses that brief, intense look of sadness in her eyes.
But it's gone with her next blink as she picks up her salad fork and says, “Clark, you're not gonna believe what Paul Chan has been up to.”
-
At the end of the night, they say their farewells. Clark hugs his mother close while Bruce, grinning, threatens the driver with the full weight of Wayne Enterprises coming down on his head if Martha isn't returned home in exactly twenty-eight minutes. The kid's eyes are wide and he's starting to sweat and Clark would feel bad for him, but he knows that there's a pair of hundred dollar bills in Bruce's palm that the kid will find as soon as Bruce lets him go.
Ma pulls out of the hug and briefly runs her thumb over Clark's cheek - and that look of sadness is back. He furrows his eyebrows at her, questioning. But she shakes him off as Bruce suddenly leans in and pecks her cheek.
“Good night, Mrs. Kent,” he says, “Mr. Kelly Johnson here has assured me that he'll see you to your door and everything tonight.”
Martha huffs a laugh and bids them both a good night once, then twice as Kelly Johnson holds her door open for her and then sprints away to the driver's seat. Bruce and Clark watch as the car drives away, merging safely into the traffic of downtown Topeka.
Then Bruce's hand is on the small of Clark's back and he's guiding them back inside, through the shining lobby, and into the marbled elevators. Clark presses the requisite button before settling against the wall - Bruce settling just alongside him so they leaned into each other, shoulder to shoulder. A warm point of contact that Clark focuses all his senses on.
-
Clark hangs his dinner jacket in the closet, takes Bruce's and hangs it, too.
They move together, getting ready for bed - a giant king that Clark knows is still smaller than what Bruce owns - Clark strips while Bruce uses the ensuite to shower and brush his teeth, then, when Bruce exits in a cloud of steam and with nothing but a towel around his waist, Clark hands him the already opened bottle of ibuprofen as he passes.
“Thanks,” Bruce sighs, grateful, as he accepts the bottle.
Clark hums in acknowledgement and tries not to let his hand linger over Bruce's as he steps into the ensuite himself. Clark brushes his teeth and wonders if Bruce will wear underwear to bed tonight. He crushes the thought and spits into the sink before he turns to the shower and--
“Bruce,” he calls out.
“Need help with the buttons?”
Clark sighs, “Please.” Who needed two shower heads and eight side jets, anyway?
Bruce steps back into the ensuite (wearing underwear, Clark notes) and starts the shower.
“You don't even have shit like this,” Clark says with a gesture.
“That's because I have kids,” Bruce says, not even looking away as Clark tosses his briefs to the side and steps under the spray, “they'd break it.”
They both laugh at the thought and Clark ignores the brief stutter of Bruce's heart before Bruce takes his leave.
Clark feels himself twitch, but keeps his hands busy elsewhere - shampooing his hair far longer than necessary before feeling it was safe to scrub down. Then he rinses and, through some trial and error, manages to shut off the shower.
Clark runs a towel over his hair in a way he knows makes Bruce's eyebrow twitch. He grabs the clean pair of underwear he'd left on the sink counter and pulls them on, then he slips out of the ensuite and into bed beside Bruce.
Bruce is reading something on his phone, but he shifts closer to Clark once Clark has settled - laying on his stomach with his face in a ridiculously fluffy pillow - and Clark doesn't know what overcomes him in that moment, but he wraps an arm around Bruce's waist and hauls Bruce closer.
Bruce grunts in surprise, but doesn't object as his thumbs type away at his screen.
Bruce does, whoever, adjust Clark's arm so it's not directly on top of Bruce's dick - not that it stops Clark from feeling it twitch, nor stop him from hearing another brief stutter.
Clark turns his face a little out of the pillow, says, “Sorry.”
Bruce hums, but keeps typing, one-handed - lowering the brightness of his screen and muting the keyboard and notifications - his other hand is still resting on Clark's arm, his thumb rubbing absently at the crook of Clark's elbow, each swipe making Clark's heart hammer away.
So, being the rational man that he is, Clark turns his face back into the pillow and pretends to fall asleep.
He's just starting to drift, when he hears Bruce answer his phone. He speaks briefly, quietly, with Tim - nothing new, just a few updates on a mafia case that were easier to discuss than type out.
Bruce shifts lower in the bed as he talks, his hand never leaving Clark's arm.
-
They wake in the morning with Clark's arm still around Bruce and Bruce with his forehead to Clark's chest.
Clark leans into the sunlight that's starting to shift across their room.
Bruce snarls at it and brings the covers up over his head.
-
Clark orders them room service for breakfast and it's not until the smell of bacon, eggs, and coffee wafts from the entry room, through the kitchenette, and into the bedroom that Bruce is finally roused.
There's been a hundred mornings like this for them - Clark is distressingly familiar with Bruce's bedhead, with what he looks like when he's decided he's not ready to fully wake to the world yet. And this morning is no different - he still feels his chest tighten, the corner of his lips quirk up into a smile; the whole of the world and its many problems fall away and it's just them.
Bruce works his way around the trays of food until his plate is piled high.
Clark watches him from his spot on the couch, having already finished eating and nursing his second cup of coffee. He snorts when Bruce plops on the couch directly next to Clark, using Clark's arm as a backrest.
Unfortunately, where Clark at least had the decency to throw on a pair of flannel pajama pants and a robe - Bruce has done none of that. Had remained in only his briefs.
Clark pulls his phone from one of the robe's front pockets, hoping there's something (not too bad) in the news that'll require Superman's attention.
Also unfortunately, Bruce is wise to Clark's ways.
“Don't you even think about it,” Bruce says, sounding more and more awake with each word.
“Eat your bacon,” Clark counters.
It was pointless anyway. There'd been an earthquake, but it was weak and no casualties were reported; an avalanche had left a skier missing for an hour, but she'd been recovered; and Wonder Woman and Aquaman were seen helping with search and rescue of a capsized tanker on Lake Erie.
Bruce points at Clark's phone with half a slice of bacon, says, “While he's there he needs to do something about the carp problem.”
“I think Victor asked him about it once,” Clark says, “Arthur told him 'humans did it, they can fix it'.”
Bruce turns his head to look at Clark out of the corner of his eye.
“He said it like that?”
Clark keeps his eyes on his screen and shrugs the shoulder Bruce isn't currently occupying, says, “I'm editing for length and clarity.”
That earns a surprised laugh from Bruce - one of those rare ones that shakes his whole body and makes Clark preen.
-
They leave The Cyrus just after lunch, and there, being unloaded for them at the curb, is Bruce's Mercedes Vision Gran Turismo.
“Didn't you leave this in Gotham?” Clark asks. He knows it's the same car, knows it's the only Mercedes Vision GT in existence because the whole point of the car was placement in a video game.
(At least, until Tim had played the video game, showed the car to Bruce who in turn had called Mercedes and asked how much money and to whom he needed to pay it to to get this car made.
Whoever it was he'd gotten a hold of had initially brushed him off.
Clark had landed at the lake house just in time to see Bruce go still, before he pulled the phone away from his ear to hang up. Without missing a beat, he was dialing another number. Tim, who still had the video paused, shook his head at Clark - a look Clark knew meant that Tim was feeling sorry for whoever it was that had just crossed Bruce Wayne.
A male, Austrian-accented voice greeted Bruce enthusiastically.
“Niki,” Bruce smiled a sharp-edged Wayne smile, “I need a favor.”)
“Dick suggested it,” Bruce says, as if that explains everything.
Clark glances skyward, wonders why he ever expects Bruce or any of his sons to be the least bit normal about anything. Bruce walks around the Vision, eyeing it critically before he approaches the delivery driver and begins to sign the acceptance paperwork.
“You know most kids working the valet don't even know how to drive stick,” Clark says, “I don't think they'll know how to drive,” he gestures at the Vision, “this.”
Because the Vision GT wasn't just the only one of its kind, it had power - the kind of power that had an engine running away from its driver before the driver even realized they'd hit the gas.
Bruce looks over his shoulder at Clark as he tips the delivery driver, probably in another pair of hundreds, “Don't worry about it, Clark, it's handled.”
Clark narrows his eyes.
Bruce seems to take pity on him and elaborates. “No, really. Alfred reached out to the valet company and SpringHill Suites before sending the car over. It's handled.”
Clark keeps his eyes on Bruce as Bruce approaches him, hands carefully placed in the pockets of his jeans; watches as Bruce steps up just inside of Clark's space, and there's something in his eye - another of his wicked gleams.
He reaches out, plays with the hem of Clark's shirt.
“It's this or the helicopter, Clark,” Bruce says. Then he's jerking his head minutely over his shoulder. “Also, I think those girls over there are taking pictures.”
Clark knows better than to actually look over, so he keeps his eyes on Bruce and instead focuses his hearing at the group across the street - hears them giggling, hears the haptic feedback from the keyboards of two phones, the faux-camera shutter of another. Someone says something about Deux Mois.
“Is this the part where you sweep me off my feet, Bruce Wayne?” Clark says, hamming it up a little with a shy grin - because two can play this game.
Clark goes to step backwards and is actually surprised when Bruce hooks a fingertip into his beltloop and yanks him forward - then they're both laughing as Bruce buries his face in Clark's neck and presses a smattering of small kisses from his collarbone to his jaw, before he's spinning away and gesturing to the Mercedes.
The doors swing upward and Clark chuckles as he settles into the car - always surprised at how comfortable and how easily he fits within. Bruce slides into the driver's seat and revs the engine and, after barely checking for traffic, peels off.
-
They roam Topeka, killing time before they have to return to get ready for tonight. They visit the Evel Knievel Museum and the World's Largest Wren statue, which of course means they have to visit the Mulvane Art Museum.
Clark almost suggests the zoo, hoping to distract Bruce enough that maybe he'll forget their entire purpose here in Kansas - but, he snags Bruce's wrist for a quick glance at Bruce's watch and sighs, the zoo has already closed.
Bruce lifts an eyebrow as he pulls out of the museum parking lot, pointing the car back towards the hotel.
Clark just keeps looking at him and pointedly sighs again.
Bruce smirks and pats Clark's thigh and, if his hand seems to linger, Clark just chalks it up to his imagination.
-
“I never could decide,” Clark says, glaring down at the two shirts.
Bruce doesn't hesitate, says, “You know me, Clark, I'm partial to the red.” His own button-down shirt is an understated gray-blue that always seems more blue once Bruce has pulled his suit jacket over it. Clark has seen this shirt before and it always drives him crazy how much more blue Bruce's eyes look in it.
And that settles it.
They forgo the ties, but Bruce insists on cufflinks to maintain “some sense of decorum, honestly, Clark,” before he's holding his hand out, waiting for Clark to offer his wrist.
Clark cranes his head, trying to see which of Bruce's cufflinks he'll be sharing with Clark tonight.
Bruce moves to Clark's other wrist and--
--and Clark's breath hitches.
It was the Daily Planet logo, solid gold, inlaid with a singular hexagonal stone where the Planet's banner would be. At first glance, Clark thinks it's a ruby - but then he looks deeper in and still doesn't quite recognize what he's looking at. What he does know is that they're beautiful.
“Bruce,” Clark starts.
Bruce finishes with Clark's other cuff and steps back, critical eyes running over Clark before he nods once and turns away completely for his keys, phone, and wallet.
Stutter-stutter.
Clark hopes.
Clark thinks about the sad look in Ma's eyes and the stuttering in Bruce's chest and the mysterious gem on Clark's wrist - and Clark hopes.
(It's not a new feeling.)
-
They leave The Cyrus at 7:15, meaning that they'll get to the SpringHill Suites just before 7:45 pm. All the way there, Bruce expertly navigates the conversation away from the event they were barreling towards. Clark, despite himself, feels his nerves being soothed by Bruce's chatter.
He's done well the last few weeks ignoring who he may or may not be facing down. And he'd known that once he'd let Bruce get involved that there was no way he'd be able to simply slink in, sneak a few finger foods and a drink, maybe say hi to Pete and Lana, then get out - had he even wanted to come in the first place.
Clark knows that he'll remember faces, but that doesn't mean he remembers names - not if he's never heard them and seen the face together. But those people, the anonymous ones, they're not who Clark will want to avoid. It's the ones who'd made it their entire personality to torment Clark.
(Clark, the strange quiet kid who had panic attacks so frequent his mama almost lost her job because she had to keep going to his school.
Clark, the freak who jumped out of a drowning school bus but didn't help his classmates until they were all looking at him.
Clark, the coward who watched his father die and did nothing - who should've known better than to seek shelter under an overpass with a twister bearing down on them.
Clark, the strange, quiet freak of a coward who'd fled Smallville like a beaten dog the day after graduation.)
The car stops and Bruce's hand is on Clark's knee and he's looking at Clark with concern, his voice low as he asks, “You okay?”
Clark looks out ahead of them, they're two cars behind for the next valet. He can hear people talking, hear the word already spreading into the SpringHill event hall once Bruce Wayne's car comes into view. He tries to pick out voices, to see if there's any familiar (dangerous) ones to avoid.
“Clark.”
Clark's head whips around - Bruce rarely snaps at him, like he's calling him down from the skies--
Clark's mind suddenly whites out as Bruce snags his chin and kisses him. Not for long. He keeps his tongue to himself. But Bruce does kiss him. Then he pulls back, his hand still on Clark's chin.
“Focus on me,” he says. And they've known each other for so long now, so, so long now, and Clark's heard these words often enough in their many life or death scenarios that he also hears what's not being said. He hears focus on me and he hears focus only on me and come what may we'll face it as we always do - together; side-by-side, always.
“One more for the road?” Clark asks, even though he can hear someone behind them honking and the valet attendants are trying to open the locked doors to the Vision.
Bruce, that wicked Wayne glint in his eye, indulges.
Then the doors are lifting up and up and the attendants' faces quickly turn from professional annoyance to awe, as Bruce Wayne steps out - gracing everyone with his billion-dollar smile, stretching up to his full height of 6'4”.
Bruce glances at the kid in front of him and turns away, buttoning his jacket as he does.
“Sir,” the kid starts, “I need your--”
“I'm looking for Kelly,” Bruce explains with a smile, “Kelly Johnson. He's taking my car and only him.”
“The new guy--” another attendant starts, immediately cutting himself off.
That was the moment Kelly stepped forward, a smile on his face as he inclines his head slightly. “Mr. Kent, Mr. Wayne,” he greets them.
“Kelly, thank god you're here,” Bruce says with a smirk, passing over his keys and the tip. “You know what to do. I'll text you when we're on our way out.”
“Enjoy your evening, Mr. Wayne,” Kelly says, and, with another incline of his head, he climbs into the Vision GT - the only car he'll be parking tonight, the car he's been paid [redacted] to babysit until Bruce Wayne's text.
Clark puts it all together and his snort draws Bruce's attention.
Clark just gives him a look, one that tells Bruce he's ridiculous without actually being saying the word aloud.
Bruce responds with his own smirk and a hand on Clark's lower back.
-
Haley Thomas, according to her nametag, is running the check-in table.
For her part, she pretends to be just as excited to hand Clark his nametag as she is to hand Bruce his. Bruce is polite, almost charming, but in that distant way he gets when he's disinviting someone from his space. Meaning, he's laying the groundwork now that the only thing in this building that he finds interesting is Clark himself.
Just as they're about to turn the corner to enter the event room itself, Bruce interlaces their fingers and says, “Focus on me.”
Clark nods, catching himself expanding his hearing - instead he narrows his senses down to just Bruce, Bruce and Bruce's (steady-steady-steady) heartbeat.
It almost prevents him from noticing the way everyone pauses their conversations when he and Bruce walk in to openly stare at them.
Almost.
“This was a mistake,” Clark mutters, turning into Bruce so he could reach for Bruce's phone. “Text Kelly--”
Bruce smoothly catches Clark's hand and, without taking his eyes off the nearest table, asks loudly enough for his voice to carry, “Clark, darling, is the part where I say: how-dee?”
“You say anything of the sort,” Clark says, glaring at the side of Bruce's head, matching Bruce's pitch, “and I'm taking the kids with me to Metropolis.”
“Ha,” Bruce laughs, casually maneuvering them around the room, moving as though aimless, “you'll never get Jason out of Gotham. Metropolis wouldn't know what to do with him.”
“Hopefully, we'll never have to find out,” Clark smirks, gritting his teeth.
“Hopefully,” Bruce murmurs (steady-stutter-steady) just as they arrive at the cash bar. Bruce surveys his options - various craft IPAs and wines with suspicious labels - with a barely concealed grimace before opting for a simple glass of bubbly.
Clark orders the same.
Bruce takes a sip and gives the bartender a nod before putting a fifty in the tip jar, says, “Keep 'em coming.”
“Seriously,” Clark starts, as they move away from the bar and find a bistro to stand at, “how much cash do you carry with you at any point in time?”
Bruce leans in, not even bothering to pitch his voice higher to be heard over the band now playing, “You could just look.”
Before Clark can analyze that, there's a shrieking feedback note from the band's speaker and he can't quite cover-up his almost full-body flinch at the sound. He closes his eyes as he leans on his elbows on the bistro, just for a moment, to ground himself and re-find Bruce's heartbeat.
Then Bruce's hand is a warm, steadying weight on the back of his neck.
“I'm right here,” he says, “right here.”
Clark nods, because he'll always be able to find Bruce - but maybe he wants Bruce's hand on his neck for just a little bit longer. Then he remembers where they are and the illusion is shattered because, just as he's thinking about the warmth of Bruce's hand, there's a voice coming up behind Clark.
“Aw, Clarkie,” Kenneth Braverman sing-songs with a slight hiccup, “still afraid of loud noises, hmm?”
Clark straightens, mourning the loss of Bruce's hand as Clark picks up his glass and downs its contents. Bruce gestures to the bartender who nods and sends over one of the waitstaff. Ken tries to do the same, Clark notices, but the bartender only sends over one glass for Clark and ignores Ken's indignant sputtering.
“I recommend not being a jackass,” Bruce says, once more his voice is pitched to carry to the nearby tables.
Clark doesn't even bother trying to hide his fondness for Bruce as he looks at the man. And Bruce is looking right back at him, as if Clark's just hung the moon for Bruce--
(Wait. That's happened before - Bat-Mite and Mr. Mxyzptlk had been up to their usual reality-warping shenanigans. Bruce had looked down at the ground and saw the moon had been knocked from its hanger during the battle, so he'd handed it to Clark and Clark had flown it back up to its place.)
--and Ken, sensing he's being ignored, slinks off for the time being.
A few more people slip by their requisitioned bistro. The event room is large with high ceilings, with neat, well-placed rows of tables on either side of the room and several bistros in the center. There was even a little dance-floor, though it remained empty as the band worked valiantly to sort out what was wrong with the sound.
“They're Michelle's boys,” Lana Lang says, slipping up beside Clark. “This is only their third or fourth gig, I think.”
Clark smiles at her and turns so he can wrap her up in a proper hug. Then he's introducing her to Bruce and she's clearly star-struck but attempting to remain cool.
“You're, um,” she says, as Bruce takes her hand in both of his, “much taller than you look in the pictures.”
“It's a pleasure to meet you, Ms. Lang,” Bruce says, with sincere warmth, “I know how much you helped Clark through the chaos of high school. I hear you're running a specialized horse care facility now?”
Clark hadn't known that Lana was running a specialized horse care facility. He catches Bruce's gaze, just for a moment, just long enough that no one else will notice - letting Bruce know he's been busted creating dossiers on Clark's graduating class. Bruce doesn't even bother looking contrite.
“I am, yes,” Lana says with a little smile. Then she talks about how hard it can be to get proper vetcare to rural horses and how, if the care was even available, it may not be affordable.
This time, Bruce is the one to catch Clark's eye, even as he says to Lana, “Do you happen to have a card? I'd like to help.”
Clark lifts his glass to his lips to hide his smile - Lana's organization was about to be funded for the next three years.
“Wait, really?” Lana asks. “I wasn't angling for a donation or anything, I mean-- I know who you are and all, but I wasn't--”
“My youngest son has a soft spot for animals,” Bruce cuts in gently, “if I don't help, he'll kill me.”
“He would,” Clark adds, thinking it hilarious that he and Bruce were the only ones in on the joke that Damian would absolutely have a sword to Bruce's neck if he heard that Bruce walked away from a chance to help out some horses.
Lana passes over her card and Bruce tucks it carefully away in an inside jacket pocket, her eyes darting between the two of them.
“How long have you two been--?” she asks, her head tilted politely.
Clark hadn't even thought to establish an actual timeline, he'd figured they could just wing it. So he looks at Bruce, who's making a scrunched face at the ceiling before he turns to Clark.
“It's been-- what? Close to twelve years?” Bruce asks. Clark's breath hitches when Bruce chooses that number. He turns to Lana. “Twelve years. We've known each other for longer than that, but,” then he's looking back at Clark--
(steady-steady-stutter)
--and smiling softly, “he helped me navigate my first foray into parenthood.”
(And there's so much more to say. Clark had met Batman months and months before he ever got a Daily Planet assignment in the vicinity of Bruce Wayne and they'd fought no matter which suit they were wearing.
But then Bruce watched the Graysons fall and he'd been there to catch Dick before he'd gotten too close, before he saw too much of what happens to people when they fall from a height like that. Everyone had been staring at the bodies - only Bruce had thought to look for the boy, then he'd swept him up into his arms and took him out of the tent and held him while the boy sobbed.
Everyone had seen the footage of it - the grainy video of the Graysons falling; Bruce Wayne leaping from his seat and rushing the floor and arriving before the on-hand EMTs; then Bruce Wayne jumping back and whirling this way and that, before running around the dead bodies and scooping up a screaming, crying boy.
At the next function, Clark had made it a point to un-grit his teeth and ask, with all sincerity, how Dick Grayson was doing. Bruce hadn't made it easy, of course, had glared at Clark and curled his lip until Clark had lifted his hands and said,
“No, Mr. Wayne. Off the record. Really. How is he doing? I don't want a quote.” He had looked away from the glare, aching to run his hand through his hair but settling for adjusting his glasses instead.
“It'll take some time,” Bruce had said, voice straining to remain polite. “He may even be okay in the future.”
Clark had looked at him - had pushed away all thoughts of the research he'd done on Bruce Wayne, found sitting in his parents' blood, screaming into his mother's coat - and said, “Good. That's good to hear.”
Bruce thawed slightly then, before he pointedly saluted Clark with an empty glass and walked away.
It had been a start because, not long after that, identities were revealed and revelations were had and Dick had bullied his way into the Robin suit. There were days when things were okay, and there were days when Dick and Bruce fought more viciously than Clark and Bruce ever had, and Clark would open his apartment door to Dick Grayson standing there with teary eyes and an overnight bag.)
Clark, looking back, doesn't know how the three of them managed to make it work - but they had, somewhere along the way.
“You would have figured it out,” Clark finds himself saying, not quite sure when he'd started holding Bruce's hand. He smirks. “At some point.”
There's a self-deprecating snort as Bruce says, “Yeah. At some point.”
-
Lana lingers with them long enough that the next time Bruce gestures for more champagne, she gets a glass too.
She catches Clark up on Trevor Chapell, a firefighter down in Wichita now; the ranch Doug and Thomas Fitzpatrick just closed on and the herd they'll be bringing up from Texas; how Lisa Mason spent a few short years out in LA, trying for that Hollywood dream, before coming back to Smallville and getting her real estate license.
Then Pete Ross is joining them - having been hovering cautiously on the outside of their conversation until Bruce had noticed him and reached out to shake his hand. Pete doesn't have much to say - he talks about a recent promotion, but a regional manager who gives him a hard time because he thinks the IHOP should be doing better than it is, forgetting to take into account the population (or, lack thereof) in the area.
Bruce's eyebrows furrow at that and he ducks his head to Clark's ear, casual as you please, and asks, “Should I buy IHOP?”
“No, Bruce,” Clark scoffs, trying to keep his laughter from his voice.
Pete looks confused.
“Ignore him,” Clark says with a wave of his hand, “he's terrible. He means well, but he's terrible.”
-
The band seems to find a groove, covering songs ranging from Hank Williams to George Strait to Luke Bryan. They're just putting their own spin on C.W. McCall's journey through Wolf Creek Pass, when there's a commotion at the entryway.
Clark and Bruce both immediately tense and whip their heads around, but it's just what looks to be a minor brawl.
Bruce turns away from it and grins sheepishly at Pete and Lana, “Oh, just a scuffle. I keep forgetting I'm not in Gotham and I don't have to worry about Penguin.”
He's met with wide eyes.
The band picks back up.
-
Wendell Johnson passes their table, greeting Clark with a smile and nod, but it's Bruce who says, “I read your paper on palm oil alternatives and management strategies.”
Wendell startles and almost drops his drink, says, “You? You know me?”
“Of course,” Bruce says. “I live in the same city as Poison Ivy. In fact, Dr. Isley is the one who recommended your paper.” Bruce absently rubs at his neck. “She gave you a rather violent endorsement, if I may say so.”
“That's terrifying,” he says with a shiver.
“I wouldn't worry about it,” Bruce says with a shrug, then he's eyeballing his and Clark's empty glasses before making his way back to the bar. No doubt, ready to drop in another fifty.
-
The night is starting to wind down - there's been a few uneventful speeches from some of those who'd been student faculty, various alumni achievements have been shared and applauded.
And just when Clark is thinking that they'll be able to duck away, Kenneth Braverman is back, this time with Whitney Fordman. Clark sighs when he sees the two men and, instinctually drops his gaze and tucks in on himself - hoping they'll simply pass him by.
Clark forgot he doesn't have that kind of luck.
Clark and Bruce have been shoulder to shoulder all night, so Bruce is immediately aware of the change in Clark's body language and it doesn't take him long to find the source of Clark's tension.
Bruce steps around Clark, so that he's now bodily between Clark and Ken and Whitney.
The room around them quiets and even the band stops playing.
(steady-steady-steady)
“Can I help you, gentlemen?” Bruce asks. His hands are in his pockets, but his feet are shoulder-width apart and he's straightened to his full height - turning himself into a veritable wall. Not that Ken and Whitney are sober enough notice.
Whitney steps forward - he doesn't have Bruce's height, but he snarls out something stupid, as if his anger can make up for it.
“The biggest man in town, huh?” Bruce says, his voice carrying in the stillness.
Whitney snarls again and then his fist is flying forward and Clark, maybe a little quickly, reaches over Bruce's shoulder and stops the fist before it can connect with Bruce's jaw. Clark doesn't know why he does it - he hadn't planned on stepping in, had planned to let Bruce handle this.
But a part of Clark just wants to finish this night out, wants to get back to being shoulder to shoulder with Bruce. He wants Lana to finish her story about the filly she didn't think would make it. The band's been slowing down the songs and the dance floor had had more than a few swaying couples, and Clark had noticed Bruce glancing that way.
Clark squeezes - just enough to get Whitney's attention, but not enough to break anything.
“Don't you think this has gone on long enough?” he snaps at Whitney.
“Oh, did you finally grow a spine?” Ken asks, voice high - not as confident as it had been earlier now that he's seeing the ease with which Clark's holding Whitney at bay.
“You've just never been worth the effort,” Clark sneers, then he's shoving Whitney away, snorting as Whitney loses his balance and lands on his ass.
“You--”
“Enough,” bellows a new voice, Paul Chan, recently re-elected sheriff, still in his uniform, “y'all've been messing with Clark since we were kids. Leave it alone, boys.”
And maybe it's because it's Paul, maybe it's because of the uniform, but Whitney and Ken do eventually move away. But, when Paul's eyes stay on them, they grumble and make for the exit - the table filled with their friends following them out.
Clark and Paul exchange a nod before Clark realizes he's still standing almost directly behind Bruce. Bruce takes the moment to plant a kiss to the corner of Clark's mouth, whispers, “Thanks, Clark.”
Clark looks at Bruce, and there's barely any space between them and it'd be so easy to--
(stutter-stutter)
The band picks up, but it's a slow guitar leading the way, then a brief harmonica - then Michelle Jewel's boy leans into the microphone and sings, “I've seen the Rocky's bloom in the springtime, reflections of scarlet and gold.”
--Bruce pulls them to the dance floor, hides them in with the other couples.
“And I've seen the moonlight dance on the ocean, like a silver ballet that unfolds.”
“You sap,” Clark stage-whispers.
But Bruce is standing way too close, and he's looking at Clark much too fondly, when he says, “Only for you.”
Clark sways with Bruce, temple to temple, listening to how neither diamonds nor stars compare to, “the love in your eyes.” And Clark remembers his father singing this to his mother, always angling for the correct pitch to match that of George Jones and always coming up just shy - though Martha loved him anyway for all his effort. He remembers his mother looking between him and Bruce with a certain sadness.
(stutter-steady-stutter)
Bruce presses a tender kiss to Clark's jaw and Clark sighs into the contact, pulling Bruce closer with the hand on Bruce's waist.
Then the last notes of the song are fading away and, with the greatest reluctance, they separate - but, not too far, because Clark's looking and Bruce's pupils are blown wide and there's a light flush high on his cheek Clark knows has nothing to do with the champagne.
“Oh,” Clark says. “Oh.”
Bruce's tongue flicks out briefly to his bottom lip, “Yeah.” He says, stepping back fully now to reach into his coat, obviously making an executive decision, “We're leaving right now. I'm telling Kelly to bring the car around.”
They go to say their farewells to Lana, who wiggles her eyebrows at them suggestively, and Pete and Wendell, who's moved over to their table. But, before they can fully extricate themselves, Delia Watkins approaches with her fiance.
“Ah, Delia?” Clark tries.
“Yes,” Delia acknowledges, “I just wanted to congratulate you on,” she waves her hand, “everything.”
“Thanks,” Clark says, hesitating as he shakes Delia's hand, then her fiance's.
The fiance, Robert, notices the cufflinks, says, “Oh, those are stunning.” He squints and adjusts his own glasses as he lifts Clark's hand up closer to his face.
“Um, darling--” Delia starts, nervously laughing as her eyes dart around the group before adding, “he's a gemologist.”
“What is this?” Robert asks. “My initial instinct is ruby, but the color is--”
Clark looks at Bruce, who is looking everywhere but at Clark. Which means there's something he doesn't want to say.
“Bruce,” Clark says, a note of warning in his voice. Briefly he thinks red or pink kryptonite, but quashes the thought before it can fully form. Bruce coughs into his hand and mumbles. “Bruce.”
“It's painite,” Bruce finally admits and Robert immediately squeaks and drops Clark's hand and steps back.
Clark's eyes dart back and forth between Bruce and Robert. He's about to push for an explanation, but Robert is the one who speaks first.
“Painite,” he says, voice harsh as he turns to Bruce, “you found painite and cut it for cufflinks for your boyfriend.”
Bruce's eyebrows furrow and he stalks forward, “You have no idea what Clark and I have been through, so I'm going to kindly ask you to watch your tone.”
Clark, now that he has a name for the stone, pulls up google and quickly types it in and - once he sees the price per carat, wants to faint. Wants to scream.
Bruce looks at him--
(You have no idea what Clark and I have been through.)
(steady-steady-steady)
--and Clark surges forward and kisses him, brief and intense, before he pulls back and says, “We were leaving.”
“Yes,” Bruce says, breathless, lips red, “yes we were.”
-
Kelly gets another hundred passed to him as Bruce accepts his keys.
Then they're flying down the interstate, Bruce white-knuckling the steering wheel.
Clark wonders if they should talk about it beforehand, before they do this, before they cross that one final line left between them.
Except Clark knows how it'll go.
Because Clark may have his own apartment in Metropolis, but he also has his own spot at the dinner table at the Manor.
Because he's Uncle Clark and Perry doesn't assign him to Wayne stories because of the conflict of interest forms and Clark has made and unmade the world for Bruce and for those boys.
Because Bruce flew his car down to Kansas in a move that could almost be labeled as restraint - trading an embarrassing helicopter arrival for a ride up in a car only made for him because he asked a favor of Niki-fucking-Lauda.
Because, above all, there are moments when Bruce looks at Clark and he sighs softly through his nose and his heart jumps that little bit before Bruce can control himself.
So they're quiet in the car and they're quiet as Bruce pulls up to the front of the Cyrus and is once more passing his keys to a valet attendant and they're quiet as they walk through the lobby and into the elevator, where they stand - just as they have all night - shoulder to shoulder.
-
Bruce closes the door behind Clark with a soft click that may as well have been a starter pistol.
Bruce crowds Clark against the door, kissing him hot and deep and filthy, one hand in Clark's hair, the other working on Clark's pants.
There is no finesse, no slowness - there's only heat and now, now, now - as Bruce sinks to his knees, and swallows Clark whole. Clark slams his head back and distantly hears something crack and, if Bruce's pleased moan is anything to go by, Bruce hears it too.
Clark swears in Kryptonian.
Swears again when he remembers that Bruce understands him.
Bruce doesn't let up - he swirls his tongue, uses that light scrape of his teeth he knows won't hurt Clark, presses a knuckle just up behind Clark's balls and pushes. Clark comes with a gasp and another crack of his head against the door. Bruce swallows it all and Clark rubs the back of Bruce's neck as an apology for the lack of warning.
Then, slowly, Bruce is kissing his way up Clark's abdomen - unbuttoning Clark's shirt as he goes.
“If we don't want the door destroyed,” Clark says, still trying to catch his breath even as his dick twitches for round two, “we should probably move this to the bedroom.”
“If,” Bruce counters, a wicked Wayne smirk in place. He leans forward, says, “I remember what you were like, the first time--”
(Poison Ivy. Aphrodisiac flowers. Clark had been the name on Bruce's release form.
He'd fucked Bruce through it for just under three hours straight and, once the Bruce's fever broke and had slept for a few more hours, Bruce had complimented his form before dragging Clark into the shower with him and then down the stairs for a not insignificant meal.
It'd been a long time after that before Jason or Dick could look at Clark again, and vice versa. Only Bruce had seemed unaffected.)
“--and on Xilea--”
(A diplomatic League mission. Another flower and a strange burst of wind.)
“--and while I admire your stamina, I'm closer to forty than you are, with all the human benefits of it. We hardly have the proper supplies for all the things I want us to do together.”
“Didn't expect this?” Clark asks, his breath hitching as Bruce's fingers skim along his shaft. “I thought you were always prepared?”
Bruce's hand is back in Clark's hair, gripping, as he says, “I'd long given up hope.”
“So had I,” Clark says, his voice hardly above a whisper.
“Fuck,” Bruce curses as he kisses Clark, as if he were starving - as if Clark can't taste himself on Bruce's tongue.
Then Bruce is pulling them back towards the bedroom, peeling off his and Clark's jackets and shirts as he goes - only to have to grudgingly separate to deal with the cufflinks because Clark is not about to risk any damage to something that cost--
Bruce is on him again, pushing Clark down onto the bed and stripping Clark of his pants, underwear, shoes, and socks. Then he flings the items away and does the same for himself and Clark, propped on his elbows, watches Bruce approach the foot of the bed and crawl up - until he's straddling Clark and then, bending over, they're kissing once more.
They kiss as Bruce's hand slowly works Clark back to full hardness. Then Bruce is dipping away to suck greedily on Clark once more.
Clark grunts, because he can see just how hard Bruce himself is, can see the way he's palming the head of his own dick to keep from coming.
“Bruce, Bruce,” Clark urges, trying not to buck into the wet heat of Bruce's mouth, “c'mere. Come up here.”
And Bruce looks up at Clark from underneath his eyelashes.
“Let me, Bruce, let me,” Clark says.
Clark, slowly, sits up, and Bruce lets him maneuver them so Clark can get a hand on both of their dicks - spitting a little to add more moisture to what Bruce has already left behind - and he starts to jerk them both. Softly at first, changing the angle and pressure minutely until Bruce is tucking his face into Clark's neck.
“Not yet,” Bruce whispers, wrapping his arms around Clark, his short fingernails digging into Clark's back.
“Tell me when,” Clark acknowledges, keeping the pressure and pace steady - listening to Bruce's heartbeat, his soft grunts as he moved with Clark's hand. “I've got you, Bruce,” Clark says. “I've got you.”
And Bruce pulls back then, presses his forehead to Clark's and says, “Show me.”
With a growl, Clark changes the pace - it goes from soft to something more frantic, he kicks the speed of his hand to something just on the edge of painful without ever crossing that line. He'll never hurt Bruce, especially not like this - when Bruce lets out a gasp of surprise as he bucks into Clark's hand and begins to curse in every language he knows.
Clark preens and buries his free hand in Bruce's hair, pulling Bruce back enough to watch as Bruce comes, Clark following him just after.
-
They shower and brush their teeth and Clark passes Bruce his bottle of ibuprofen before they fall back into bed together.
-x-
They - Bruce, Clark, and the Mercedes Vision GT - arrive back in Gotham late in the afternoon to Alfred waiting for them on the tarmac.
Alfred's eyes are hidden behind sunglasses, but Clark is sure by the smirk on the man's face he knows exactly what's changed.
“Are the kids home?” Bruce asks.
“They are, sir,” Alfred confirms.
Bruce hums.
-
Jason is the first one to see them and he freezes mid-step.
Clark hasn't even taken his jacket off yet before Jason yells, “Ew! Oh my god!”
Bruce scoffs.
Tim and Dick enter the foyer, eyes darting around - but Jason just points and says, “Our dads fucked! Ew!”
“Finally,” Dick says, “it's been, what? Twelve years?” He turns back to Jason. “I thought for sure that last League mission would've--”
“Can everyone please just--” Bruce rubs at his head with one hand and makes a shooing motion with the other, “--please? We can talk later if it's so important to you. Right now, I'm hungry.”
“I'll have lunch ready by the time you've freshened up, sirs,” Alfred says.
“Thanks, Alfred,” Bruce says, then he's lazily herding Clark up the stairs - but Clark gets his own wicked idea.
“Hey, Jason,” he calls down, half leaning over the barrister.
Clark doesn't wait to see Jason turn before he whirls on Bruce and kisses him, with over-exaggerated vehemence, just because he can.
Jason gags below them, but Bruce chuckles against Clark's lips - then they're speeding up their journey to the top of the stairs and into Bruce's bedroom.
-z-
End.