Chapter Text
Clark was staring at him.
His arrival had flagged the cave’s sensors several minutes ago, but Bruce had been in the middle of practicing his taolu and didn’t want to stop midway, as distraction would render the exercise inefficient. So, Bruce had slowly worked his way through what remained, eyes closed, focusing on the movements in the way he so rarely had the chance to in the field.
Clark would wait. He always did.
He bowed and finally opened his eyes, expecting to see Clark lounging in the chair by the computer or greeting him with a friendly smile or a wave, like usual. But instead, he was just staring.
Hm. Not like usual, then.
Bruce went through a quick mental catalogue. He had removed his shirt, which meant the extensive scarring on his torso was visible – off-putting for some, but Clark had never seemed disturbed by it before. Clark was often disturbed by some of the more significant injuries Bruce received in the line of duty (no matter how much Bruce assured him that he knew his limits and he was fine, Clark, stop nagging), but right now Bruce was in unusually fine form, only the usual twinges and bruises and the ever-present ache of old hurts. Nothing noteworthy enough to garner Clark’s attention.
But then he noted the very specific, very familiar look in Clark’s eyes and realized the simple truth: Clark was, bewilderingly enough, checking him out. Shamelessly. In fact, Clark was eyeing him up like a piece of meat.
For a brief, terrifying moment, Bruce felt his brain grind almost completely to a halt. Because that had never happened before. At least, not that he’d noticed. He hadn’t thought…
Christ.
“Clark,” he said sharply, before he said or did something more incriminating.
Clark’s eyes snapped up to meet his, and then he was smiling, easy-going, as if nothing out-of-the-ordinary had happened. “Hey, B. I hope I’m not interrupting?” he asked, polite as always. His demeanor was casual enough that Bruce might have thought he’d imagined the whole thing. Might have, if he hadn’t seen it so clearly.
Well, if that’s how Clark was gonna play it, Bruce was more than happy to follow suit.
“No,” he said, toweling off so he could pull his shirt back on. “What do you need?”
Clark’s smile widened, blinding, slightly crooked. Bruce looked away. “Can’t I just swing by to hang out with a friend?”
Bruce swept past him into the cave proper. “You can. But you didn’t.”
“Didn’t I?”
“Friday night is date night. If you weren’t working on something, you’d be with Lois.”
“Wow, impressive. Anyone ever told you you’d make a pretty good detective?”
“Clark,” he said, withering.
“Well,” Clark said – a touch defensively, even. “She’s busy.”
Bruce paused. Interesting.
“You had a fight,” he said.
“No. It’s— No.”
“So that’s a yes.”
Clark huffed. “Has anyone ever told you that it’s really annoying when you do that?”
“Yes,” Bruce said flatly. “Go home, Clark. Apologize to your wife.”
Clark folded his arms, cocked an eyebrow. “Are you saying that for my sake or yours?”
“Both. I’m busy.”
“Oh, I’m sure you can spare an hour or so,” Clark said blithely. “I actually got a hold of some files from one of Luthor’s labs, and I thought you’d be able to tell me how worried I should be. Come on, B, I know you love explaining things to people.”
The request made little sense. The Fortress computers would be just as, if not more effective than Bruce at analyzing any data he’d found on anything Kryptonian in origin, and Clark was hardly a novice at crystallography himself at this point.
Clark was eyeing him hopefully.
“I’m calling Lois,” Bruce decided, reaching for his phone. But in the next fraction of a second, the movement of his hand ceased, something warm and immovable wrapped around his wrist. Clark’s hand.
The glare he sent Clark was pure poison. “Let. Go.”
Clark at least had the grace to look apologetic, releasing Bruce’s wrist like it was a hot poker. “Sorry, I shouldn’t have grabbed you like that. I just…could you not? Please?” He stepped back and ran a hand through his hair, upsetting Superman’s signature perfect coif. “It’s…been a day.”
And this was, at least, more familiar territory than that strange moment only minutes earlier, albeit still uncommon. So, although the shift in mood was almost enough to give him whiplash, he just sighed and said, “Show me the files.”
The anxious furrow between his brows melted into sudden relief. “Thanks, B, you’re the best,” he said with a broad smile, all warmth and sunshine and gratitude, as if this was anything other than inevitable. Somehow, Clark hadn’t figured out yet that Bruce would do almost anything for him. With any luck, he never would.
He made sure he looked sufficiently put upon as he said, “Don’t get used to it,” and returned Clark’s beaming smile with a small smile of his own.
It wasn’t until Clark had flown back to Metropolis that he allowed himself to consider the interaction they’d had in the training room with any depth.
It was bothering him.
He wasn’t sure why that was, and that was also bothering him.
To be exact, he had some idea why. When someone you feel a certain way about shows any form of interest, it naturally feels significant in a way that obfuscates its actual importance. Clark ogling him once in a dimly lit corner of the Batcave did not say anything about his deeper feelings regarding their relationship, which Bruce knew to be both miraculously positive and decidedly platonic. Miraculously so, because Clark had seen Bruce at his worst – the fall out with Dick all those years ago, the aftermath of Jason’s death, and then most recently the aftermath of Selina – and for whatever reason had decided to stick around anyway. But that didn’t mean Clark wanted to abandon his marriage with Lois simply because he’d developed an opinion about Bruce’s appearance, positive or no – nor would Bruce want him to.
But even accounting for his own bias, something felt…off. Yet try as he might, he couldn’t put his finger on what was bothering him.
And that was frustrating because, putting aside Bruce’s own foolish investment in Clark’s opinion of him, the whole thing really wasn’t that noteworthy. Lots of people were attracted to him. Bruce was objectively attractive, he knew, even if he didn’t always feel it seeing his scarred and aging reflection in the mirror. But he could only be voted People Magazine’s Sexiest Man for so many years before modesty on the topic became willful stupidity.
No. There was…something else. Was it definitely-not-a-fight with Lois? But even healthy marriages, like Lois and Clark’s, had the occasional falling out. It was hardly unusual.
“Hellooo, anyone there— Wow, B, have you been there all night?”
Dick’s voice. Bruce grunted in acknowledgement, fingers steepled below his chin. He didn’t shift his eyes from the array of screens in front of him, which were filled with all the mass spectrometry data he’d pulled from his database similar to the compound outlined in Luthor’s research notes. Just because his brain had chosen to fixate on less important matters at the expense of sleep, didn’t mean he couldn’t multitask.
“You know it’s past 6, right?” Dick said.
“I do.” He probably should try to get some sleep again soon. Unfortunately, he was getting too old to pull the regular all-nighters he had as a 20-something. Doing it too often affected his productivity – and worse, Alfred would fix him with that pointed stare of his that made him feel like a misbehaving child no matter how old he got. As the years piled on, that regression felt more and more jarring. Not worth it.
Dick was peering over his shoulder. “What’s up? Got some big case?”
“Not particularly. Luthor’s playing around with kryptonite.”
“What, again?” Dick made a face. “Talk about predictable.”
“Hn.”
“And you don’t seem very panicked about it. So he’s not very far along?”
“The structure is entirely theoretical. Nothing in these notes suggests they’ve isolated the process yet.”
“So, it’s not urgent,” Dick concluded. “Then…why the all-nighter?”
Bruce looked at him askance. “You’re also up late.”
Dick huffed at the blatant subject change but thankfully didn’t press. “Yeah, the perp I was after decided to go to ground in Gotham, so here I am. And by go to ground, I mean literally below the surface of the earth. I swear to god, even the dirt in Gotham is tougher than it should be. It took forever to catch her, and now I’m beat.” A yawn. “Thought I might as well grab some breakfast here and crash upstairs for a few hours before I make my way back to Blüdhaven.”
“Hn.”
There was an odd silence behind him. Dick was staring at him. “You seem distracted.”
“I’m working.”
“You’re always working.” There was a considering pause. “This kryptonite case… Did Clark bring it to you?”
Bruce stifled a sigh. “Yes.”
“He was here earlier, then? And now you’re distracted.” A familiar glee entered Dick’s voice. “Wait, wait, hold up. This is a Clark thing.”
“Dick,” he began warningly.
“I thought you were just worrying about Bat stuff. You should have told me it was a Clark thing.”
“It’s not.”
“Don’t be like that! I can help, I give great advice. Just look at my credentials! Ah, but, uh, maybe don’t ask a couple of my exes—”
“Please stop talking.”
“Fine, fine, shutting up,” Dick said, showing his palms in gesture of placation. “But my offer still stands. Two heads are better than one – weren’t you the one who taught me that?”
“It’s nothing like what you think.”
“Sure,” Dick said with an obnoxious wink. “Nothing at all. I’m sure your brooding sesh over your hunky alien bestie was completely platonic.”
Bruce actually flinched. Was this how young people actually talked nowadays, or was Dick’s vocabulary just especially horrifying? From Dick’s deeply amused expression, he suspected it was the latter.
“I didn’t realize that this is what you shutting up sounded like,” he ground out. “It sounds an awful lot like you still talking.”
Dick mimed zipping his mouth shut, pointed up at the ceiling and threw a jaunty little wave at him before disappearing up the stairs into the Manor.
Bruce sighed. Maybe he should get some sleep after all. He was suddenly feeling exhausted.
He managed to catch a couple of hours’ sleep before breakfast. Unfortunately, the rest didn’t help his strange fixation with Clark’s behavior, no matter how many times he told himself sternly over the next few days that he was just being irrational. If he felt in his gut that something about it still didn’t quite fit, it was probably just his subconscious twisting itself into knots trying to justify why he cared so damn much.
He’d almost managed to convince himself of that when it happened again.
And again.
And again.
It was a few days later. The League had been called to fight a small army of what Flash had helpfully described in his call to arms as ‘icky slime monsters’ terrorizing Central City. In one sense, it was hardly the most taxing work, as each construct went down with barely a fight. The only problem was that whatever terrible wizard-cum-JRPG-designer created these constructs had programmed them to explode on impact. Dramatically.
The five assembled members of the League found this out the hard way.
“This is the worst,” Flash groused, flinching back at superspeed from a spray of green goop. “Just hitting these things is so gross.”
“What can I say, boys?” Arrow said smugly, by far the cleanest and driest of all of them. He was perched comfortably at the top of a tall tree, picking off slimes from above. “Specializing in long-distance combat is pretty handy sometimes.”
Superman just tilted his head at him consideringly. “Long distance might work. I wonder if I…” he said. Then he picked up a nearby, partially destroyed car and threw it into a cluster of slimes. Unfortunately, the heavy impact had an unhelpfully multiplicative effect on the scale of the resulting slime explosion. They all flinched back.
“Oh, Rao,” moaned Superman with a grimace, wiping green slime off his face with quick flicks of his wrist. “It’s in my eyes.”
“And this is one of many reasons why facial coverings are useful,” Batman said, throwing a batarang at the distant slime construct approaching a distracted Superman from the rear. The charge detonated on impact, sending monster parts spraying into the air a safe 10 feet away from where they were standing. “Bet you’re jealous of the cowl now.”
“Batman, you know I have the utmost respect for you,” Superman said seriously, “but the day I have clothing envy for a guy in a million-dollar fursuit is the day I check myself into Arkham.”
Lantern let out an unattractive snort laugh. “Ha! He’s really got your number, Spooky.” Batman just scowled.
With one last wipe, Superman finally managed to clear his vision and direct his laser sight towards a small cluster of creatures approaching from the rear. The slimes immediately melted into piles of super-heated plasma, which was helpful. The plasma produced a powerful odor somewhere between burning rubber and rotting eggs, which was less so.
Superman grimaced. “Hm. Note to self: don’t do that again either.”
“But if we go one by one, we’ll be here all day!” Flash complained, zipping between slimes, a slightly green-tinged streak of red and gold. “And I don’t know about you guys, but I don’t wanna know what it feels like when this stuff dries.”
“Good point,” Superman said with a little shudder. “B, any ideas?”
Flash was right. And considering the sheer number of these things, weak as they were, Batman wasn’t sure he’d have enough batarangs to last until the end of the fight. He was not keen on switching to melee.
“Try freezing them,” he suggested.
Superman narrowed his eyes contemplatively. “Sure. Worth a shot.”
He sucked in a deep breath, pursed his lips, and blew ice-cold air in a fan towards a cluster of slime monsters. An icy chill spread through the slimes’ bodies, their wobbling advance slowing to a crawl until they stopped, unmoving and – thankfully – still in one piece.
Flash darted over to one of them and rapped on it gently with his knuckles. The slime was solid, the sound like knocking on a slab of ice. Lightning fast, he threw a right jab and the creature shattered into pieces, shards of strangely colored ice clattering to the tarmac.
“Holy crap,” Flash said, shooting them an elated double thumbs up. “I think this strat’s a winner, guys.”
“I think you’re right,” Superman said, visibly pleased. “Lantern, try making a construct that can freeze these things. Batman, I’m guessing you have some kind of ice ray in that belt of yours?”
“Of course not, I’m not Mr. Freeze,” Batman said with a snort. “They’re grenades.”
Superman rolled his eyes but he was still grinning. “Great. Everyone else, shatter anything frozen.”
“Sure thing, Boy Scout!” Lantern called out. Arrow pulled out some detonating arrows. Flash gave a quick nod.
The rest of the fight passed quickly, an efficient cycle of freeze-shatter-repeat until they stood alone in a blissfully empty boulevard surrounded by green-blue shards of frozen slime creatures, all uninjured but definitely the worse for wear. Wonder Woman commed in to tell them she had the wizard in custody, and they all collectively breathed a sigh of relief.
“Well, I sure am glad that’s over,” Superman said, brightly.
“We need to head up to the Watchtower,” Batman said. “Everyone here needs a decontamination shower yesterday. Discomfort aside, we don’t know what this stuff is made of.”
“Agreed,” Superman said. “We can send the others in to help with clean-up.”
Unsurprisingly, no-one objected. Bruce wasted no time zeta-ing them up to the Watchtower and ferrying them into the decontamination showers, all too keen to peel off the now thoroughly soiled armor and undersuit and climb under the warm spray.
He forced himself not to tense when Clark stepped under the showerhead next to his. “What are you doing.”
“Well,” Clark said, glancing down at himself. Bruce very deliberately did not follow his gaze. “Decontaminating. I would have thought that would be obvious.”
Yes, but why right here, Bruce didn’t say, because then the rest of the team might start asking questions about why he even cared and that would not do. And ordinarily he wouldn’t, really – this was hardly the first time he’d seen Clark naked, and they were at work, and he was perfectly capable of being respectful when necessary.
It’s just that in the back of his mind, he was still thinking about—
He grunted and began to scrub himself clean with singular focus. Or he tried, at least – Clark was apparently determined to make his presence known. He closed his eyes tiredly. “My god, Clark, are you actually humming?”
“I’m in a shower. It’s basically reflex,” Clark protested.
Wally tilted his head. “Hey, was that—?”
“Carly Rae Jepsen, yes,” Bruce said grimly.
Ollie snorted. “How do you know?”
“I work in a cave, not under a rock.”
“Well, technically—” Wally began and then shut his mouth when Bruce turned his tired gaze on him. “Nope. Never mind. Ignore me.”
“Don’t let him get to you, Blue,” Hal called out. “He’s just being a shitty old grump. A shitty old grump with bad taste. I, for one, think she’s a goddamn icon.”
“Thank you,” Clark said triumphantly. “See, Bruce? Some people have taste.”
Bruce grunted, unamused. Now it was Hal humming. And maybe Bruce wouldn’t have minded so much if he weren’t running on coffee and power naps more than sleep at this point, but he felt with a sudden and vicious conviction that his morning had been entirely too shitty for any amount of Emotion, let alone in stereo. He shot Hal a glare.
Undeterred, Hal flashed him a grin back, all white teeth and self-assuredness. “What’s up, Bats? Checking out the goods?” he called out mockingly and smacked his own ass. Ollie, for whatever reason, found this hilarious. Wally muttered a slightly awed, “Oh my god.”
Bruce grimaced. “Say nothing,” he warned, turning to Clark, which—
—which was a mistake, he realized a second too late. Because just then, Clark was looking at his—
It took a Herculean effort of will to keep his expression blank. Bruce was thankful he was standing under a hot shower, as it meant the sudden roll of heat through his body probably wouldn’t seem out of place. He was doubly thankful the rest of the team weren’t looking in their direction.
Clark was already grinning at Hal, heedless of the way Bruce had frozen stiff beside him. “Well, can you blame him, Hal? You’re a very handsome man,” he said, somehow managing to make that sound like a father supportively complimenting his daughter’s new boyfriend rather than a come-on.
(So then, why was it just with Bruce that he—)
Hal elbowed Ollie. “You hear that? Even Big Blue’s a fan. My ass is officially Kryptonian-approved. Yet another alien species to add to the long, long list.”
Ollie scoffed. “Oh please. That pancake? Clark’s just being nice, you know how he is. Now, if we’re talking about great asses, Dinah—”
“Please don’t tell me anything about your wife’s ass,” Wally pleaded. “Next time I see her, she’ll know somehow, and then either she kills me or I just die, just from sheer terror. You don’t want that, do you?”
“I guess not,” Ollie said and grinned. “What a way to go though, huh?”
Hal let out a sharp bark of laughter. “Shit, man. Get help.”
Bruce did his best to tune them out. There was a definite headache building behind his eyes. That was twice now, this weird…thing with Clark. Once was happenstance, twice could still be coincidence. But three times would be a pattern. Which would mean—
It didn’t matter what it meant. It didn’t matter.
He shut off his water and announced, “I’m done. Don’t take too long. We still need to debrief.”
“B?” When he glanced over, Clark was frowning at him with something close to concern. “Is everything alright? Your…” he gestured vaguely to his chest – to his heart, Bruce realized. His heartbeat was elevated.
Shit. “I’m fine. Just…not in the mood.”
The concern softened to sympathy. “Sure. Hey, how about we go grab breakfast before debrief? I know a great place nearby.”
Bruce exited the showers to find a change of clothes. Clark followed. “And is that place the Watchtower canteen?”
Clark grinned, easy and amused. “Oh, you’ve heard of it? I’m a big fan, go there all the time. Apparently some rich guy set it up – wanted to make sure there was great Terran catering, even in space. I hear the coffee is potent and delicious.”
God, he was such a dork sometimes. Bruce rolled his eyes. “Fine.”
Clark beamed. “Great. 30 minutes, everyone!”
Once was happenstance, twice was coincidence, three times was a pattern, more was—
Bruce didn’t know what it was.
What he did know was that interactions with Clark had lately become an intensive training session in maintaining his poker face under duress – a skill at which Bruce had thought he was fairly practiced before now. The first couple of incidents were merely the tip of a whole iceberg of frustration; a storm which was becoming harder and harder to weather every time.
And it kept. Happening.
There was a secondary problem, of course, which was that none of this made any sense. It was all just so out of character for Clark, who was usually so polite about this sort of thing that it was genuinely ridiculous. At a nude beach volleyball competition populated entirely by Swedish underwear models, Superman would probably be the only member of the League who’d bother keeping his eyes at or above collarbone height throughout.
Or at least, that’s what he would have thought until recently. Apparently, Bruce was the exception.
So what, then? Was all of this on purpose, some deliberate attempt at flirtation? If that were the case, the messages he was sending were pretty mixed, to put it mildly. And even putting aside the likelihood of Clark Kent, at his core a good-natured Midwestern farmboy, attempting to deliberately cheat on his wife with his best friend…
Well, frankly, blatant ogling as a method of conveying interest was a move more out of Bruce Wayne’s playbook than Clark Kent’s.
He had considered that it was some strange new type of kryptonite, but hovering around Clark with a Geiger counter concealed beneath his cape did not suggest he was irradiated. And Superman’s activity did not suggest that he was physically or mentally compromised. If anything, he was more effective than usual, proactive and efficient. Metropolis – and to an extent, the world at large – had rarely seemed better protected.
Bruce had tried contacting Lois to check whether she’d noticed anything off about Clark. She’d left him on read for over 40 minutes and then responded, very unhelpfully, with: lol ask him yourself. And despite the light-hearted response, the idea of pushing harder made him feel inexplicably guilty, even though he hadn’t actually done anything wrong.
So. A dead end. Bruce wracked his brains again. Could it be mind control?
“It’s not mind control,” J’onn said before Bruce had said anything.
Bruce narrowed his eyes. “So it is something.”
“Yes,” J’onn admitted solemnly. “At least, based on what I’ve picked up passively. It’s not my intention to pry.”
“And you’re sure it’s not mind control,” he hedged.
“Extremely.”
“Then—”
“It’s not my place to say,” he cut in, with an air of finality that came across clearly, despite the lack of any inflection in his tone. “Have you considered asking him?”
So that was a dead end too.
But what else could it be? Mxyzptlk? Some kind of spell?
Sure. Because controlling Superman’s behavior with the singular outcome of making Batman slightly more flustered than usual seemed totally plausible as a villainous scheme. Bruce was definitely not just losing his mind.
“B, is everything alright?”
Seated beside him in the Watchtower’s monitor room, Clark was looking at him with worry. Less than the reigned-in panic when Bruce got injured enough to need an assisted trip to the medbay, more than the exasperated concern when Clark pestered him about the regularity of his meals or his sleep schedule like some kind of mother hen. The kind of worry where Clark thought something was bothering him that he’d probably refuse to talk about.
Clearly Bruce’s poker face had cracked more obviously than he’d thought. This was not ideal.
“Everything’s fine,” he replied tersely and returned his attention to the screens. Monitor duty was dull at the best of times; it would be downright intolerable if Clark chose to spend it quizzing him on why he was more standoffish than usual of late.
Bruce could practically feel the disapproval rolling off him. “‘Fine’? Is that it?”
“If the shoe fits,” he said with a slight shrug. “And you?”
He glanced back over to Clark when there was no immediate answer. His lips were pursed, eyes a little distant.
Mildly alarmed, Bruce gave him a quick once-over. No injuries, he wasn’t in pain or physically altered in any way. He looked…maybe a little stressed. He didn’t wear his stress like a human, tired faces and dark circles and hunched shoulders, but Bruce could still see it like anyone else would see tarnish on gold or mist obscuring the sun. Just a vague sense of dullness to his usual luster.
But that was all. Nothing major. Probably just— “Are you and Lois fighting again?”
“No, that’s not—” he cut himself off with a scowl. “Don’t try to deflect, Bruce. I’m asking you.”
“Everything is fine,” he reiterated. And it was. So Bruce’s longtime best friend had suddenly decided to start eye-fucking him at random. So what? Bruce was used to being the object of this kind of attention. It didn’t bother him.
“If something’s up, I’d rather you tell me what it was than brood over it by yourself,” Clark pressed, undeterred. “And don’t try to talk around it. I know what you’re like, B.”
It was— should have been fine. The issue was that it was Clark, and Bruce had enough trouble staying rational about him at the best of times.
The issue was that every time Clark looked at him like that, there was a little voice inside him that whispered, cruel and vicious, If he wants you, maybe you could really have this. But of course, that was stupid. No matter what anyone else thought, Bruce wasn’t a total asshole. Lois and Clark were great people, and a great couple. Their happiness meant infinitely more to Bruce than the possibility of a quick roll in the hay that both he and Clark would no doubt regret for the rest of their lives.
That knowledge didn’t make the voice any quieter.
He glared at Clark; snapped, “Perhaps if this supposed ‘issue’ was any of your damn business, I would have told you already.”
He watched Clark’s face shutter in real time. Rather than angry or offended, he looked disappointed. Resigned.
Bruce felt the sting of it like a slap. Anger or offense might have been easier.
“Fine. If that’s how you’re gonna be,” Clark said finally. “But I’ll still be here when you change your mind.”
“Unlikely,” he muttered and stared fixedly and silently at the monitors until the end of their shift.
He made a beeline for the zetas as soon as the next shift arrived for monitor duty. It was just late enough that the sun was setting. He was flying solo tonight, as Damian was busy with something for school, so he could justify going out for his shift on patrol a little earlier than usual. He waved away Alfred’s call for dinner and headed out into the night. Patrol passed mostly uneventfully – a couple of small-time crooks that ran away as soon as Batman showed up, a john acting too big for his boots.
That is, until he caught a smear of red and blue at the edge of his vision.
He stopped on a quiet rooftop, a silent invitation. Clark accepted, drifting forward to hover at his shoulder. He kept his gaze focused grimly on the alleyway below him.
Clark began, “About earlier—”
“Don’t,” he said sharply. The clack of Clark’s jaw snapping shut was audible. “I’ve told you before, Superman shouldn’t apologize unnecessarily. It weakens your image.”
There was a silence behind him, followed by a short, huffed breath and the soft sound of Clark’s feet touching the ground.
“I’ve also told you before that you’re too forgiving,” he added. “You should work on that.”
Clark’s tone was desert-dry when he spoke. “You know, you can just say ‘I’m sorry for snapping at you’ like a normal person.”
“Normalcy has never been my strong suit.”
“Oh, I am well aware,” Clark said. The words were light, amused. “Well then, you’ll be pleased to know I didn’t come to apologize. And I won’t push, if you don’t want to talk about whatever it is. I’m just…checking in.”
Unable to come up with a good response to that, Bruce just grunted.
That seemed to work for Clark. “So a little birdie told me you skipped dinner again. Thought I’d do my part to help fix that.”
“Alfred.” Bruce finally let himself look in Clark’s direction. He was bearing takeaway, a brown paper bag with a receipt taped to the outside. Greek lettering. Bruce recognized the name, somewhere he’d gone with Clark and Diana years ago, a stopover after a mission in Themyscira. He’d enjoyed the moussaka immensely. “The term ‘little birdie’ is pretty misleading, considering the rest of the family.”
“So sue me, that’s how the saying goes. Do you want the food or not?”
“You didn’t have to,” he muttered. And it was true, about all of it. He didn’t have to put up with Bruce all these years, to fly halfway around the world to get him dinner as an olive branch for an argument he didn’t start. To do all that when Bruce knew that he had hurt him for a moment, yet again. Bruce clenched his jaw before he could tack on anything foolish like, I don’t deserve you.
And this was Clark, kind to a fault. How could he ever have thought Clark was hitting on him? He was far too good a person for that. Bruce should have known better.
“Well, I’ve done it already, so we’ll just have to live with it, I guess,” Clark said, firm but gentle. And despite himself Bruce felt the pressure in his stomach ease when Clark sat down beside him on the roof, backs propped up against a water tank, holding out a carton with a little wooden fork. The food smelled mouth-watering; he was hungrier than he’d thought. Bruce practically inhaled most of his meal in the space of five minutes.
There was a smug tilt to Clark’s smile as he watched him eat. “Enjoying yourself?” he asked. The smile widened into a grin when Bruce pointedly ignored the question. “Hey, do you remember when we went to this place the first time?”
Vividly. “What about it?”
“Well, after we defeated that tentacle monster—”
“Her name was Scylla,” Bruce reminded him. “And Diana was the one who did most of the work there.”
“Sure,” Clark conceded, “but we helped. Anyway, you only let us know after the battle that you were already injured before you even arrived.”
Bruce rolled his eyes. “Yes. And then you and Diana tried to hide my jet so I couldn’t come back to Gotham for patrol. A complete overreaction. It was only a graze, Clark.”
“The bullet went through your shoulder!”
“Just through the muscle.”
“Oh sure, muscle you don’t need to fight a giant sea monster—” He shook his head. “No. You know what? I’m not doing this with you right now. That’s not the important part. I meant after all of that, when we all went out for some R&R.”
He lifted his gaze to sky – the dull, gray-ish purple you get when you mix light pollution with the regular kind. Pretty distinct from the Mediterranean sun of Themyscira. “Hm. More like you two dragged me. That restaurant was an hour inland.”
“Oh, don’t be dramatic. 35 minutes, tops.”
“35 minutes being carried like so much premium airmail.”
“Well, what else were we supposed to do? You can’t fly.”
“I can in my jet.”
“We knew you too well to allow you jet access,” Clark said. “It was for your own good. And hey, it was worth the trip, right?”
“I suppose,” he accepted grudgingly. “The food was excellent.”
“Mm, it was,” Clark said dreamily. “Oh yeah, and then after dinner you insisted on booking us into this fancy hotel with–” he broke off with a laugh. “Do you remember? It was all marble and crystal chandeliers and gilt everything and outdoor ice sculptures in 90-degree heat. It was awful. Like a hideous chimera of the worst parts of every rich person’s house.”
“As a billionaire from Jersey, I thought it was pretty standard, actually,” he said and smiled when that made Clark laugh harder.
Beside him, Clark set down his empty container. “You know, I was thinking about it recently, and… I think that’s the first time I really knew that we were friends.”
Bruce raised an eyebrow. “That was what, a year into the League? Should I be offended?”
“Oh, you know what I mean,” Clark huffed. “Being friends is different from being colleagues who get on well. Colleagues don’t go on vacation and eat good food and laugh at bad interior design together.”
Bruce considered that. He’d had…a different outlook back then. And a different kind of revelation. One he had no desire to discuss now. “I think we were friends before that.”
“Maybe,” Clark said with a wry twist to his mouth. “But you’re a hard man to read, B, even now. Back then I was half-convinced you barely tolerated me. It actually first occurred to me when the three of us were eating dinner together that you could have just…gone home. In fact, if I know you at all, you had at least seven ways of getting yourself back to Gotham if you’d really wanted to.” He grinned when Bruce grunted in confirmation. “See? But instead, you let yourself be bullied into hanging out with me and Di. Because you like us.”
“Excellent deductive skills,” Bruce said with a roll of his eyes. “Truly, you’re a credit to the journalistic profession. What gave it away?”
“I know you’re being sarcastic right now, but I’m choosing to take that at face value,” Clark said cheerfully. His sunny smile turned contemplative. “You know, we should do it again.”
“Fight a sea monster.”
“Emphatically not. Take a vacation, obviously.”
Bruce gave him a flat look.
“No really, we should!” he said, undeterred, and nudged Bruce’s knee with his own. “We could take a long weekend and have a boys’ trip or something. You know, go camping. Hike around the woods. Fish.”
“You want to go fishing.”
“It’s just an example. Isn’t fishing just an excuse to sit outdoors somewhere nice and get drunk off cheap beer?”
“You can’t even get drunk off beer.”
“Well, true,” Clark conceded. “But you can. And I could…supervise?” When Bruce raised a skeptical eyebrow, he shrugged. “Okay fine, I accept that my plan might need some refining. What would you want to do? You know, to relax?”
“Stay here.”
Clark’s expression at that was dangerously close to a pout. It shouldn’t look endearing on a man of his age and build, but Superman had a way of making the impossible possible. “Oh, now you’re just being difficult.”
“Only partly. The appeal of ‘exploring the great outdoors’ wore off in my early twenties on a mountaintop near Nanda Parbat,” he said flatly. “And besides, leaving Gotham for any length of time always comes with its own set of stressors.”
“I’m sure the other bats could take care of things here. Heck, they’d probably be in favor. You know what Alfred would say if he were here?”
“No, but I think you’re going to tell me.”
“Everyone needs a break now and then, Master Bruce,” Clark said – in a shockingly terrible British accent, especially so for someone at native-level fluency in at least 30 languages.
Bruce nearly choked. “Oh god, what was that. Never do that again.”
“Whatever do you mean, Master Bruce?” he said in an accent that was, somehow, even more terrible. Clark was definitely doing this on purpose.
“Stop that. He’ll hear you.”
“You’re not even on comms right now!”
“He’ll hear you,” Bruce insisted. “Trust me. He always knows.”
“You’re being ridiculous.”
“Look, you live with the man for over 40 years and then get back to me.”
“Ridiculous,” Clark echoed, a smile in his voice as he knocked his shoulder against Bruce’s. Bruce smiled back, and—
Clark’s face was close. Closer than he’d thought, all perfect skin and sunlight smile and that mystery factor that told him this was Clark, one of the best people he knew or would ever know. He froze, focused on keeping his heart rate steady even as his breath caught in his throat.
And then Clark’s eyes were flickering down to his mouth and Bruce could have sworn for a frozen, terrified moment that he was leaning in to kiss him—
Clark blinked, pulled back and said, “Oh hey, here’s another idea. How do you feel about Finnish saunas?”
And just like that, the moment was broken, and the stupid impulse Bruce had been struggling to suppress crumbled to ash.
Once he was sure his voice would come out evenly, he said, “Again, what’s the point? You don’t sweat.”
“I can sweat,” Clark said easily, no hint of acknowledgment about whatever had just passed between them.
“Sure. In the corona of the sun.”
“Yeah, that does get pretty toasty. All that sunlight is nice and refreshing, though.”
He grunted in response. And Clark grinned at him, seemingly oblivious, while Bruce tried desperately to push down the realization of just how much he wanted.
It was…there was no way. It had to be on purpose, didn’t it? Either Clark was doing this just to fuck with him for some reason, or— No, Clark wouldn’t do that, would he? That made even less sense than the alternative. The clear alternative, that Clark was…
Well. If that was what Clark was doing, then Bruce needed to put a stop to it. Maybe this ongoing fight with Lois had affected him more than Bruce had thought. If that were the case, then it was Bruce’s responsibility to tell him to stop hitting on his friends in some bizarre marital rebellion and to go and talk to his damn wife.
But first he had to confirm it. And there was an easy way to find out.
“I guess you’re wanting to get back to patrol, huh?” Bruce’s eyes snapped back to Clark, who was already standing up, an odd look on his face. He’d clearly been quiet for too long: Clark had taken it as a dismissal. “I’ll just…leave you to it, then?”
“Wait,” said Bruce. Clark was already on his feet, heels lifting off the ground. He turned to give Bruce a questioning look.
There was no time like the present.
He rose and stepped closer into Clark’s space, shrugging on the mantle of Bruce Wayne in the ease of his posture, the self-assured curve of his smile. “Just a moment. You have a little something…”
He leaned into Clark’s chest and reached up to cup the curve of Clark’s jaw. Slowly, he swiped his thumb across his plump bottom lip, picking up an imaginary smear of tzatziki at the corner of his mouth. He popped the thumb into his own mouth and sucked on it gently, releasing it with wet pop.
“Got it,” he said with a slow smile, looking up at him. And Clark—
And Clark did not seem eager. Clark was looking at him like he’d gone insane.
Belatedly, he realized he hadn’t considered the failure state of this little experiment.
“B,” Clark said slowly. “Is everything…alright?”
The mask dropped instantly. Bruce stepped back with a scowl and a vague nausea curdling in the pit of his stomach. “Yes. Fine.”
“Are you sure? Because—”
“Yes, fine,” he growled. Maybe he shouldn’t have tried to be Bruce Wayne in the batsuit. Maybe he shouldn’t have tried any of that at all. “I should get back to patrol.”
“Um. Sure. But what—”
“Goodbye, Superman,” he said firmly.
Clark cast one more bewildered glance at him before lifting off and speeding away back to Metropolis. And Bruce was left alone to stew in embarrassment and guilt.
“Ouch,” came a voice from behind him.
Great. Not alone after all. “Red Robin. What are you doing here.”
Red Robin was crouched on the neighboring rooftop, mostly shrouded in shadows. This is what he got for teaching his children to be stealthy. “The bioreadings from your suit spiked a minute ago, so I came to check on you. And now I’m really regretting that, because a) that was majorly gross to watch, and b) ouch. You really bombed that.”
“Thank you, Red Robin.”
“I mean, really bombed.”
“I understood the first time.”
“And also, uh, isn’t he married?”
“I am aware,” Bruce said through gritted teeth. “Look. It’s not like that. You don’t know the full picture.”
It sounded hollow even to his own ears.
“Uh-huh,” Tim said, not sounding particularly convinced. “Well, I’m guessing you’ll want to punch some criminals until you can pretend to forget this ever happened. There was a suspicious van parked outside a jewelry store a couple of blocks back. Kind of a playing card motif, if you catch my drift. Wanna check it out?”
He paused for a long moment. “Thank you, Red Robin. That sounds good.”
“No probs, Batman. Happy to help.”
Any hopes that Clark would miraculously forget the entire embarrassing incident were quickly dashed. It was days later, and Clark was still casting Bruce wary little glances when he thought he wasn’t looking.
The cave was quiet, just the sound of Tim’s fingers tapping away at his keyboard and the occasional rustle of paper from Clark, who had come to follow up on the Luthor case after patrol. His current task was trying to pinpoint exactly where Luthor was conducting his research. Predictably, Luthor had been careful to mask all details of the lab’s whereabouts. Bruce had given Clark a stack of potential locations and left him to the thrilling task of cross-referencing each with traffic and shipment data in the hopes that Luthor might have slipped up.
Like many Fridays, Damian was at the Kents’ for a sleepover. Despite the increasingly late hour, neither Bruce nor Clark had received a phone call telling them their sons had gotten involved in thwarting yet another criminal conspiracy. And theoretically, Dick was there to babysit this time – which admittedly didn’t make it any less likely that they boys would get into trouble, but Bruce probably wouldn’t be receiving any phone calls about it. He was tentatively hopeful that this peace would continue, at least until morning.
So now it was just Clark, Bruce and Tim, the last of whom seemed blissfully ignorant of the mounting tension in the room.
Bruce gritted his teeth when he felt Clark’s eyes on him again. It was irritating, is what it was. Doubly so because Clark was being so damnably nice about it, honoring Bruce’s clear desire not to talk about it, when Bruce had tried to— when he’d stupidly thought for a second that Clark would ever—
A lifetime of experience had made Bruce very good at imagining the worst-case scenario. This was usually very helpful in his role as Batman, for designing contingencies and failsafes. Interpersonally, he had been reliably informed that this tendency was…suboptimal.
He certainly felt that way now. Every sidelong glance from Clark induced another wild, pessimistic, borderline irrational guessing game as to what might lie behind his gaze. That he pitied Bruce for thinking he might have a chance with him. That whatever respect Clark had somehow built up towards him over their long friendship, it was certainly gone now that he thought Bruce was the kind of man who would try, however ineffectually, to seduce him away from his wife. That Clark was uncomfortable, even disgusted, at the idea Bruce might think of him in that way.
That Bruce might lose him.
Bruce was aware he was catastrophizing, and that Clark was a far better and more understanding man than Bruce’s pessimism made him out to be. But he couldn’t make himself stop. And that just made him even more irritated.
He clearly couldn’t trust himself to come up with a clever solution to this, given how he’d fucked up the last attempt. But now that he had fucked up, any chance of this just blowing over had probably gone up in smoke. He had to take some kind of action – even if at this point it was only triage.
Perhaps it was time for drastic measures: an honest conversation.
But for that, privacy would definitely be preferable. He glanced over at his son, hunched in front of his laptop and under a pile of blankets. “Tim, it’s late. Shouldn’t you try and get some sleep?”
“Pot, meet kettle,” Tim mumbled, just loud enough for Bruce to hear. The volume was definitely intentional. Louder, he said, “In a minute. I’m nearly done.”
Tim’s definition of ‘a minute’ in these cases was often closer to 2 hours. He tried: “You’ll be more efficient if you sleep now and finish that off tomorrow.”
“In a minute, I said,” Tim replied, irritated.
“Tim,” he said warningly.
“I only have a little bit left. Just let me focus.”
Bruce did. 20 minutes passed. Clark’s presence burned like a brand at the edge of his awareness.
“It’s been a very long minute.”
“Has it?” Tim said distractedly.
“I…wanted to talk to Clark about something,” he admitted reluctantly, steadfastly ignoring the way Clark’s head snapped up in his peripheral vision.
“B? Is something wrong? You know I’m always here if you wanna talk,” Clark said, a little too urgently for someone who hadn’t been thinking Bruce was Going Through Something already. Great. Jesus, Clark’s eyes were so earnest it was actually a little painful to look at.
Tim glanced up and snorted. “God, get a room,” he muttered.
“I. Am. Trying.” Bruce hissed through gritted teeth.
“Whatever, I was just kidding.” Tim shrugged. “Go ahead and talk, I don’t mind.”
Bruce huffed out a sigh of frustration. Impatience crawled across his skin. “Fine,” he snapped. He turned to Clark. “Clark, do you want to have sex with me?”
There was an unearthly shriek from the blanket pile. Tim stood, slamming his hands on the desk. “OH MY GOD FINE I’M GOING, JESUS CHRIST,” he yelled, genuine horror in his eyes, and all but sprinted out of the cave.
Hm. That had worked…better than expected. He tried not to feel too bad about that.
He was sure Tim would be over it by tomorrow morning. Probably.
Clark was another story entirely. The man was gaping at him pale-faced, his expression utterly scandalized. The reaction felt vindictively satisfying after the last couple of months. “B-Bruce, what…?” he stammered uselessly. “Is this…? Are you coming on to me? What do you—”
“Answer the question.”
His pallor was rapidly being overtaken with a flush. “What happened last week, what you… Was that really…?”
“I said, answer the question.”
“Bruce, you’re my best friend. Just because I’m—” he cut himself off with a deep breath – something he wasn’t saying? “Just… Where is this coming from, all of a sudden?”
Bruce regarded him coolly. Bizarrely, his bewilderment seemed totally genuine. “I believe that’s my line.”
Clark stared at him blankly. “I… Huh?”
Bruce moved closer. Clark watched his approach with wary eyes, briefly flickering down to the impatient finger Bruce jabbed into his chest. “You’re the one who’s been repeatedly ogling me for the past month. You can’t have expected I wouldn’t notice. If this isn’t some uncharacteristically brazen attempt at flirtation, then I don’t know what to think. So, I ask again: do you want to have sex with me?”
Clark was doing an excellent impression of a freshly caught fish, the way his mouth was flapping open in shock and affront. “What? What on earth are you talking about? I haven’t—”
“You have. I do have eyes, you know.”
“Bruce, I would never—”
“You’re right, Clark. You would never – but you did. And yet, when I—” he broke off, with a frustrated huff, struggling to find the words. “The rooftop, it was…just a test, you understand. And you…did not seem amenable. I just wanted to discern your motives, I wasn’t trying to— I didn’t want you to think—”
Clark was just staring at him now. He had that far-away look in his eyes, the one he wore when he flipped through that incredible memory of his, brain working faster than Bruce’s ever could. Bruce watched him back, watched his expression morph into one of slow-dawning horror. Watched as those inhumanly blue eyes filled with a very human alarm.
Eventually, he said weakly: “Oh. Uh. So that’s what that was.”
Bruce realized with a sinking feeling that this was, undoubtedly, as much of a revelation for Clark as it had been for him. “You really didn’t notice you were doing it.”
Clark looked sheepish. “I, uh…no. I thought I was just, you know. Platonically admiring a friend,” he said, not without a wince. “Which I realize now is not a super normal thing to do. Oh, lord, no wonder you were acting so weird, I—I’m so sorry, Bruce.”
Bruce slumped back against the desk, the fight gone out of him all at once. “Clark,” he managed eventually, honestly appalled.
“I. I don’t know what to say.”
“You are 37 years old.”
“Well—”
“How have you gone this long without figuring out what attraction feels like?”
“I know what attraction feels like!” he said, a touch of defensiveness creeping into his tone. “I’m just not used to the idea of feeling it about, uh. Men. Is all.”
Bruce stared at him. God damn it. He hadn’t even considered this as an option. “You didn’t know you were attracted to men.”
“Well, no, I—” He paused. “Wait. Why are you saying that like you knew?”
“Because I did.” He sighed. Suddenly, he felt exhausted. “Remember years ago, when we met with that diplomat from Zintha in the Watchtower? You insisted on showing him around, laughed at all of his jokes—”
“Well, he was a funny guy! And nice!”
“He was moderately funny,” Bruce accepted. “But mostly very attractive.”
“Well, you know,” Clark said awkwardly. “Objectively speaking. Sure. I guess he was.”
Bruce began to count off on his fingers. “Then there was the freedom fighter we met during that pit stop in the Delta Quadrant. Paul Newman in the 70s. And for around twenty, deeply concerning minutes, Hal Jordan.” Bruce raised an eyebrow. “Do you need more examples?”
“No, you’ve made your point,” he mumbled. He’d looked progressively more defeated throughout that list. “I’m beginning to think you’re right. In fact, uh… Huh.”
“What now?”
“No, it’s just…several things are starting to make more sense. A lot of things, actually.” He cringed, clearly embarrassed. “You know. In retrospect.”
“Dare I ask.”
Clark was wearing the particular expression Bruce associated with low-level kryptonite exposure. He twirled a hand vaguely. “Oh, you know. Some of— Quite a bit of college. And I’m, ah…re-evaluating certain…events from back home.”
Bruce was sure his eyebrows were at his hairline. “You mean…?”
“Yup. I’m…starting to think Pete was wrong about what happens in Kansas staying in Kansas.”
“Christ,” Bruce muttered, pinching the bridge of his nose.
“Yeah,” Clark agreed miserably.
A silence settled over them. And in this silence, Bruce abruptly grasped that they were two adult men in an otherwise empty room, one who’d just realized that he was, maybe, bisexual, both of whom had accidentally and quite aggressively come on to the other in very recent memory.
The silence lingered uncomfortably. Clark was staring fixedly at his knees.
It was a rare occasion wherein it fell to Bruce to break a silence with Clark. He cleared his suddenly dry throat. “So. This conversation has been informative, to say the least. How are you feeling about…everything.”
Clark finally looked up at him, eyes slightly wide with a surprise that quickly melted into amusement. “Oh, B. Please don’t hurt yourself. I know emotional vulnerability is your kryptonite.”
“Just answer the question,” he growled.
Clark was unintimidated but didn’t seem comfortable either, offering a wan smile. “Well, you know. Pretty stupid. Guilty, for sure.” He let out a self-deprecating chuckle. “Really embarrassed.”
Bruce hesitated. He was never much good at finding the right words to say in moments like these, not like Clark or Dick or even Alfred were. He should have been taking notes all these years.
“For what it’s worth, after all this,” he settled on after a long pause, “I hope you know that I don’t think of you any differently.”
Clark eyed him skeptically.
“Okay, maybe my estimation of your emotional intelligence has decreased a little,” he admitted, which at least drew a wry smile from Clark. “But you’re still one of the bravest, kindest and most deserving people I know. A man I will always be proud to call a friend.”
With a difficulty that was frankly embarrassing, he managed a glimpse at Clark’s face. Clark’s eyes were wide and bright. “Oh,” he said quietly. He hesitated. “Um. I was joking before, about emotions being your weakness.”
Bruce eyed him skeptically.
“Okay, maybe half-joking. But it means a lot to me that you try anyway. And… I hope you know I feel the same about you, about all of it.”
He nodded stiffly.
“And I’m really just so sorry for making you feel uncomfortable, with my…you know. I feel terrible.”
“I’m not.”
Clark’s eyebrows shot up. Fuck.
“I mean,” Bruce clarified, “that I was not offended. Or disturbed.” Not in the way Clark was thinking, at least. “What I’m saying is, you don’t need to feel bad about this.”
“Well, I’m glad to hear that, but you know I’ve gotta apologize anyway.”
“I do,” Bruce said, with an edge of relief. At last, the mystery was solved. Clark was neither possessed nor an aspiring adulterer but a heretofore un-thought-of third option: pathologically lacking in self-awareness.
Although, thinking about it, there was still one aspect that wasn’t clear.
“What changed?” he asked.
Clark blinked at him uncomprehendingly. “Huh?”
“We’ve been friends for years, but your…” The word ‘attraction’ felt too loaded to say aloud, neutral as it was. “This has only come up recently. Was there some kind of trigger?”
Clark hesitated strangely, pressing his lips together. “Oh.”
Bruce regarded him with growing suspicion. “Clark?”
“I can’t think of anything either,” Clark said. “Sorry.”
Bruce felt dread pool in his stomach. In retrospect, it wasn’t as if the ogling was the only unusual aspect of Clark’s behavior of late. Which meant…
Oh, god. There was more, wasn’t there? “You’re hiding something.”
“What? No I’m not.”
“You are.”
“Honestly, B, I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Clark said with an edge of puzzlement that would be more convincing if Bruce didn’t know him as well as he did. Superman never lied; Clark Kent most certainly did.
Bruce stared at him and slowly narrowed his eyes. “Hm.”
“Now, as fun as this has been,” Clark said, “Some of us have a day job to get to in two hours.” And he was gone before Bruce could say another word.
Notes:
To any readers who think that Clark's lack of self-awareness regarding his bisexuality is hard to believe, I am ashamed to inform you that that particular quirk of his characterisation is, in fact, about 75% autobiographical. (The other 25% was added because I thought it was funny.)
Next chapter: Bruce finds out what's up with Clark.
Let me know what you thought!
Chapter 2: The Revelation
Summary:
At last, all truths come to light. Or do they?
Notes:
I'm honestly overjoyed that so many people have read and enjoyed this so far! Immense thanks to everyone who commented and left kudos!
No specific content warnings for this chapter, but for anyone who's missed the fact that this fic is rated E... Well. Well.
Now you know.
(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)
Chapter Text
“You look like you’re in a good mood,” Tim said suspiciously when he came down for breakfast the next day. Very suspiciously.
Bruce raised an eyebrow at him. He did a quick mental check of his own body language and found nothing of note. “Do I,” he said, taking a seat, nodding gratefully at Alfred when he placed a steaming plate of eggs and toast in front of him.
Tim was fiddling with his cutlery. “So, then, does that mean…”
“Mean what?”
Tim looked faintly ill. Never a good sign. “After I left. You and Clark…?”
Bruce abruptly remembered what he’d said before Tim had fled the cave. He put down his fork. “No.”
Tim looked unconvinced. He tried, “Tim, no-one is having sex in the cave.”
“No-one?”
He shouldn’t have hesitated. “Well.”
Tim threw down his fork in disgust. “Oh god, I knew it,” he wailed. “Bruce, we work there!”
In the scant few seconds since this topic had arisen, Alfred had mysteriously vanished. Bruce wasn’t sure whether to feel betrayed or thankful. “It’s irrelevant. It was in the past.”
“So, yesterday—”
“No,” Bruce said. “Like I said, it was in the past.”
“Yesterday counts as the past. The past encompasses literally every moment before now.”
“It’s an expression. I obviously meant that it was a long time ago.”
“Whatever! The whole cave is tainted,” Tim said fiercely, smacking the dining table with both palms and glaring at him. “Where was it? I need to never be in that place again.”
Bruce frowned and said, “I don’t think you actually want me to tell you that.”
“You’re right, I don’t, please don’t actually answer,” Tim said. “Was it Selina? Don’t answer that. Was it Clark? Don’t answer that either.”
It was Selina. Mostly. “I don’t understand why you keep asking questions you don’t want to know the answer to.”
“Neither do I,” Tim groaned, pressing his knuckles into his eyes.
“What’s going on? Why is Tim dying?” Dick asked, poking his head in through the doorway. Damian peered in curiously from behind him.
“Old people having sex,” Tim mumbled despondently into his hands.
“Father is not old,” Damian defended immediately, in a sweet (if unnecessary) attempt to defend his honor. But in the next breath he turned to Bruce and said, “Good morning, Father. Given this topic, I feel obliged to remind you to use protection if you are engaging in carnal relations with a woman. We don’t need a repeat of what happened with my mother.”
“What happened with your mother was your conception,” Bruce couldn’t help but point out.
“Exactly. Once is plenty,” he said with a decisive sniff and immediately left, apparently not eager to join the discussion. Bruce couldn’t find it in himself to blame him.
Perhaps unsurprisingly, Dick seemed to be the only one of his children actively not uncomfortable with the topic of conversation. His face split into a slow, shit-eating grin. “Oh, B, you dog. You and Clark?”
“No,” he ground out. “Tim has misunderstood, that’s all.”
Tim was scowling. “Last night in the cave, he just asked Clark point-blank to…you know. When I was right there.”
Dick’s eyes widened to saucers. “You dog,” he repeated, this time with an edge of pride in his voice. “And in the cave? I’m impressed.”
“‘Impressed’? Why are you so chill about all this?” Tim cried.
“What, about the fact that Bruce has sex?” Dick grinned wickedly. “The concept is not new to me. You forget, I was in the manor at the tail end of ‘Bruce Wayne’s slut era’.”
Tim choked. “Oh my god. Literally what made you think it was okay to put those four words next to each other.”
“Hey, I’m just quoting the Gotham Gazette,” Dick said with a blithe little shrug. “A little batcave action is downright chaste compared to what they’ve printed about Bruce Wayne over the years – some of which is probably even true. Besides, there are technically bedrooms down there, even if they’re kind of weird and sterile. You really think no-one would ever have, uh…christened them?”
The suspicion returned to Tim’s face as he turned his attention to his brother. “Dick. Have you had sex in the cave?”
Dick shouldn’t have hesitated either. “Well.”
“Ugh!” Tim threw up his arms in frustration. “Animals! You’re all animals!”
“Aw, come on, it’s not a big deal really,” Dick said, shockingly unrepentant. “We cleaned up after!”
“That is not the point!”
Bruce was starting to sympathize with Tim. There were many things a father ought to know about his sons; absolutely no part of this conversation with Dick was on that list. “Both of you are mistaken. Nothing happened.”
“What? Nothing?” Tim squinted at him. “You mean you got shot down again?”
“Again?” Dick repeated incredulously. “What the hell, B?! There was a time before that?”
“That’s not what that was about,” he said, even as he realized it was pointless to protest. They wouldn’t believe him unless he told the whole story, which wasn’t really his to tell anyway. He sighed. “Fine. Think whatever you like. It’s too early for this conversation.”
“It’s 11:30,” Dick said.
“What’s your point.”
Dick looked amused. “Fine. I’ve gotta go say bye to Dami before I go back to ‘Haven, so I’ll get the rest of the story out of you later,” he promised cheerfully and sauntered away. Bruce felt quietly relieved that the matter was dropped and returned to his breakfast.
The relief was short-lived. He’d barely made a start on his plate of eggs when he noticed Dick had returned to lounge against the doorway, grinning wide when Bruce eyed him with apprehension.
“Hey, guess what?” Dick said. “It’s later.”
“It’s been all of three minutes.”
“Yeah, three minutes ‘later’. ‘Later’ can encompass any moment after a given point in time.”
Bruce rolled his eyes. Why were all of his children such literalists? “There is an inherent implication in most time-based expressions— You know what, it’s not important. What’s important is that we’re not talking about this right now.”
Dick pouted dramatically. He’d always had an impressive ability to make a mere facial expression a whole-body event. “If not now, when?”
“Probably never,” he said flatly.
“Please never,” Tim muttered to himself, staring intently at his breakfast.
“Nope, I don’t accept that. You’ve gotta tell me something,” Dick insisted. He slid into the room to sit across from him at the dining table and propped his chin up on his fists, grinning widely. Bruce was reminded of a commercial he’d been forced to watch between episodes of some inane kid’s show back when Dick had been a child, wherein a group of young girls had giddily talked about boys at a sleepover. If Dick had pigtails, he’d be twirling them.
“So,” Dick said. “Clark, huh?”
“No.”
“Is what Tim said true? Because honestly, I thought you had better game than that. You do know it’s not super romantic to just ask flat-out like that, right? Maybe you could try a subtler approach next time?”
“I do not recall asking for your advice,” Bruce snapped. Tim, thankfully, was eating his breakfast with intense focus, studiously not involving himself in the conversation. “And I fail to see why you are suddenly so preoccupied with my love life – which I’ll remind you is none of your business.”
Dick just looked amused. “Uh-huh. Did you know that you talk kind of like Alfred when you’re embarrassed? And if you’re embarrassed, that means you’re hiding something.”
Bruce raised an eyebrow. “Does it.”
Undeterred, Dick leaned closer. There was an alarming glint in his eye. It was more Nightwing than Dick, as if Bruce were a criminal caught in his crosshairs.
“You can’t fool me,” he said, low and dangerous. “Something’s definitely going on. And I’m going to make you tell me what it is. Half because you’re wrong: it is my business, as someone who cares about you and wants you to be happy. And half because I’m just really. Goddamn. Nosy.”
Bruce glanced down at his rapidly cooling eggs and made an executive decision. He hadn’t been that hungry anyway.
He pushed back his chair. “Tim. Didn’t you want me to have a look at your slides for the quarterly budget report meeting? Meet me in my study when you’re done here. I’ll make a head start.”
“You can’t avoid me forever! I’ll kill you with kindness!” Dick called out towards his retreating back as he swept out of the room. Bruce ignored him and walked faster.
True to his word, Dick spent the next few weeks attempting to wear Bruce down. He arrived at the cave just as Bruce came back from patrol; he was waiting at the kitchen table when he got up. He wouldn’t say anything about Clark to him directly, just looked at him expectantly in between making small talk with the rest of the family, as if to remind Bruce that he hadn’t forgotten. That he was biding his time. Waiting for Bruce to come to him.
Waiting in vain, of course. Bruce had no intention of discussing the matter with any of his children if he could help it.
Unfortunately, when Dick got bored of pestering Bruce in his own home, he escalated to surprising him in public. Bruce arrived at his office late on a Friday morning to find Dick lounging at his desk, suggesting they go to lunch. Bruce refused in typical Wayne-ian fashion (so busy, you know how it is); but when he actually did go out for lunch, Dick was waiting for him at his usual restaurant, already waving him over as soon as he walked in the door.
“You know, for someone with a full-time job in another city, you’re spending an awful lot of time following me around,” Bruce said, narrowing his eyes as he took the offered seat.
“Oh, the commute’s no problem. I found a shortcut,” Dick said with a smirk that implied the ‘shortcut’ was something Bruce wouldn’t approve of, and that meant he’d almost certainly hacked into the zeta system. Again. Bruce tried to feel more annoyed than proud about that. “But you know, I wouldn’t have to if you would just tell me already.”
“I have no idea what you’re getting at,” Bruce said. “Now, would you like to ask questions, or would you like me to buy you lunch?”
On that occasion, Dick chose lunch. But he didn’t give up, miraculously appearing on the Watchtower after the next regular League meeting.
He had definitely hacked the zetas. He wasn’t even being subtle anymore. “Nightwing, you’re not a League member. You know you’re not supposed to be up here without being expressly invited.”
Dick was, predictably, undaunted. “Aw, come on, B. I just came up here to see my old pal Flash. Isn’t that right, Walls?”
Flash looked bewildered and a little frightened, glancing between them. He held up his hands in appeasement. “No thanks, man. I am not getting in the middle of…whatever this is,” he announced and vanished in a streak of red and gold.
Dick scowled at the empty space where Flash had formerly stood. “Man. Whatever happened to Titans solidarity, huh?” he huffed before flashing a grin at Bruce. “Well since I’m here anyway, wanna hang out? It’ll be just like old times.”
Bruce suppressed a weary sigh, feeling exceptionally unenthusiastic at the prospect. It wasn’t that he was unhappy to be spending more time with his son. He just wished it came with less teasing about his (admittedly dismal) romantic prospects. He didn’t need Dick to remind him of the futility of half-heartedly lusting after a married man – or, god forbid, to try to talk to him about Selina—
So instead of agreeing, he shot Dick a withering look. “I’m busy.”
“You’re being awful standoffish with your kid, Bats,” Ollie noted. Most of the others had left, but for some reason Ollie had stayed – presumably to watch the drama, such as it was, unfold. “Why don’t you go grab a drink or something, catch up?”
Dick nodded eagerly. “Yeah, I just wanted to catch up. Are you really that busy?”
Bruce narrowed his eyes. Dick’s tone was plaintive, but his eyes were sharp and amused. He was enjoying this. “I am.”
“That’s too bad,” Dick said, giving in suspiciously easily. He looked around innocently. “Say, where’s Superman? Maybe he’ll have time for me.”
“Superman isn’t here,” Ollie piped up. “He actually hasn’t been around much this week.”
Dick hummed thoughtfully, eyes boring into Bruce. “Huh, funny. I wouldn’t have thought this was a particularly busy period for Superman, since the news has been pretty peaceful lately. Do you know what’s up, B?”
Bruce’s jaw tightened.
He had barely seen Clark since their big conversation in the cave. A little under a month, and no spontaneous late-night drop-ins, no grabbing lunch after a meeting – barely any real contact at all outside of their work with the League.
He wasn’t concerned. Clark almost certainly felt a little awkward around him still, which was understandable. He had looked more than a little shell-shocked that night. He undoubtedly needed some time to process.
Well. That was the charitable interpretation. Alternatively, and arguably more likely, Clark was avoiding him because he knew that Bruce knew that he was hiding something. And now that Bruce knew there was something to uncover, spending time around him would only improve his chances of figuring it out.
“I’m taking that as a ‘yes’ then,” Dick said lightly. He put his hands behind his head in a casual stretch, the picture of nonchalance – or at least, the stock image. “Maybe I’ll drop by his place, see what he’s up to? Since apparently I don’t have anything better to do tonight.”
Bruce twitched. Let out a long breath. So he was finally going there, was he?
“Fine.”
He didn’t stick around to watch Dick perk up at that, already sweeping out of the room towards the zetas. “B?”
“It’s nearly time for patrol.”
Dick seemed to get the message. “See ya, Ollie,” he called out cheerfully and scrambled after Bruce.
Damian was less than pleased to be replaced as Batman’s partner for the night, even by Dick, towards whom he was usually relatively permissive. He was even less pleased to be ‘babysat’ by Tim instead – and nor was Tim to be recruited into the role of babysitter, for that matter. They were, as ever, not especially shy about voicing these opinions. Bruce took some small pleasure in leaving Dick to mediate the aftermath. Still basking in his presumed triumph, Dick didn’t even complain.
Uncharacteristically, Dick managed to hold his tongue until they were already running across the rooftops.
“Told you I’d wear you down,” he said smugly when they stopped on a high ledge overlooking the city.
“Only because you’ve been stalking me.”
“Oh, calling it stalking seems harsh, doesn’t it? I’m literally just asking you to hang out and talk, not sending you unwanted gifts or leaving threatening voicemails on your work phone.”
“I’m sure that was next week’s game plan.”
Dick grinned. “Nah. There isn’t one. I knew I wouldn’t need another week.”
Bruce shook his head. He suddenly felt too tired to dance around things anymore.
“I have to admit,” he said slowly, “I don’t understand why you’re so dead set on talking about this.”
“Oh, that’s easy,” Dick said. “Because I ‘ship’ it.”
Bruce blinked at him slowly – although Dick wouldn’t be able to see that through the cowl. “You what.”
“Tim taught me that word. It’s like, when you want two fictional characters to get together or something.”
“I wasn’t aware I was a fictional character.”
Dick waved a hand. “You’re at least two fictional characters, but that’s not the point. The point is, I’ve watched you make googly eyes at Clark for what feels like most of my life. Now I’m invested, see?”
Bruce glared at him, honestly offended. Of all the ridiculous— “I do not make ‘googly eyes’.”
“Sure,” Dick said easily. “Then what would you rather I call it? Cow eyes? Mooning over him like a lovesick schoolboy? Put it however you like, as long as you’re not trying to tell me you’re not in love with him.”
Bruce’s jaw tightened. He didn’t like to put a name to that vague, aching warmth in his chest. Words made everything more real. “I suppose I do,” he said eventually, keeping his tone carefully neutral. “He’s a close friend.”
Dick looked supremely unimpressed. “Oh my god, who are you even fooling at this point? But sure, fine, we can talk around it if you want. We both know I’m right. We both know that we both know I’m right.
“The point—” he jabbed a finger into Bruce’s chest “—is this: you love him. On and off, sure, but real, actual love. For years. Over a decade, probably, and—nothing. Nada. Zip!” The finger jabbed again, a little harder. “So cut to the present day where I see you brooding over him in the cave, and I think: maybe he’s thinking about getting his shit together. I am, cautiously, optimistic. And now I hear from Tim that you’re finally making moves, and that you’re doing it in the lamest, least romantic way possible! Literally how could I not want to talk to you about it?”
Dick was getting increasingly frustrated as he spoke, gesticulating with his whole body the way he always did when he got a good rant going. Bruce had a sudden flashback to the little boy who’d stamped his foot when Bruce forced him to skip patrol, because he didn’t understand why he couldn’t be out there on the streets, helping people. He’d always cared so much, for such a tiny kid.
God, these things always hit you at the weirdest times.
Undeterred by Bruce’s silence, Dick was still going. “Do you need tips? Because I can give you tips. First off, I asked Tim to give me the full rundown and, um, don’t do any of that. At all. That’s very important. Second, Clark likes sunflowers, as I’m sure you have on file somewhere like a total creep. Sure, I know flowers are kind of cliché, but that’s because they really do work. So, like, jot that down. Third—”
“That’s enough, Dick,” he interrupted and pressed his lips together when Dick looked at him expectantly. Slowly, he said, “Maybe I should have known better, given your persistence, but I genuinely didn’t think you cared so deeply about this.”
Dick’s expression softened. “We’ve been over this, B: I care about you and want you to be happy.”
“And you’re nosy.”
He grinned. “And I’m goddamn nosy. Who do you think I learned that from?”
Bruce sighed. All the fight was gone out of him now, damn him. “Well, I hate to disappoint you, but it’s nothing like you think. I won’t speak on the details as they’re not mine to give, but what Tim saw was truly a misunderstanding. Nothing happened between me and Clark. I was not making any kind of…‘move’.”
Dick studied him for a long, tense moment. Eventually, he deflated with a deep groan. “Damn it. You’re telling the truth.”
“I am.”
Dick scowled. “Ugh. That’s so boring.”
Bruce huffed out a quiet laugh. “You’d really prefer it if I was having an affair with a married man? I think I’d take boring instead, personally.”
Dick rolled his eyes. “Oh please, he’s only technically still married. You have multiple exes who are wanted criminals. If that’s too scandalous for you, then you’ve clearly gotten boring in your old age…” he trailed off, peering at Bruce in confusion. “Uh, B? You okay?”
Bruce was still stuck on the first part of what Dick had said. “Technically still married,” he repeated.
Dick hesitated. “What? Yeah, because… Oh.” His eyes widened with unease. “You. You didn’t know? I thought by now he would’ve…”
Absently, Bruce noted that Dick looked increasingly uncomfortable as he stood there, fingers twitching like he wanted something to fidget with. Not a joke, then. And the way he’d said it, it was something he was confident about, assumed common knowledge.
So that’s what Clark had been hiding. He and Lois had separated. When? For what reason? He hadn’t heard Clark mention moving; neither had Dick or Damian, who were at the Kents’ semi-regularly. So was Clark still living with Lois and Jon? Was the break-up amicable? How was he coping with it? Why hadn’t he mentioned it?
“Um,” said Dick, edging backwards with his hands held up placatingly, “this has been fun, but I feel like this is my cue to cut and run, so, uh, see you around!”
“Nightwing,” he snapped – no, too harsh, try again. Softer this time. “Dick. I just want to understand. Did he tell you that himself?”
Dick deflated. His hands dropped to his sides with a resigned sigh. “No, he didn’t. I just figured it out,” he explained and gestured vaguely with one hand. “You know, since I pick Damian up from the Kents’ sometimes. It was little things, but put together it all seemed pretty obvious. They’re less PDA-y than before, although it does seem they’re still getting along just fine. I happened to see in through the bedroom door, and I noticed only one side of the bed was slept in. And once when I went over to hang out with Jon and Damian—”
“Fridays,” he mumbled. “He never used to visit on Fridays.”
Hesitantly, Dick nodded. “Yeah. Date night. A couple months ago when I dropped Damian off, Lois was there without Clark, about to go out alone. I thought that was weird at the time, since they always used to go out together. But I haven’t seen them do that for a while, now. And I— I thought you knew and weren’t doing anything about it because, you know. You’re you. I just wanted to give you a push.”
For a while, he’d said. So that meant— “How long.”
“At least four months,” he replied and something in Bruce splintered. There was a hint of apology in Dick’s voice when he added, “That’s why I thought you’d know by now.”
Dick was right. He should have known. Even without Clark telling him, he should have been able to figure it out after four months. Clark was a decent liar when he wanted to be, but he was normally no match for Bruce’s insight. Dick had figured it out, who had every advantage Bruce did.
No. He had one more advantage than Bruce: he wasn’t personally invested. Bruce had been complacent, ignored the signs, because Clark and Lois’ marriage felt immutable to him. Because it was convenient for him that Clark’s unavailability was a fixed state, unalterable. Because he was too wrapped up in his own hang-ups to think about his closest friend. But looking back, it was all there: the stress, throwing himself into his hero work, repeatedly seeking out Bruce’s company when he’d normally be with his wife. A dozen small moments, all adding up to a picture Bruce had ignored.
“We should get back to it,” he told Dick. Dick, who was now looking at him with unnecessary concern. He looked like he wanted to say something. But in the end, he just nodded and followed.
He sent Clark a message telling him to meet him at the cave after patrol. Part of him expected Clark to still be avoiding him, so he was almost surprised to receive a notification that Superman had entered the cave just as he and Dick were finishing up, Dick making his own way back to Blüdhaven. He spent the drive back alone with his thoughts, trying to twist the knot in his stomach into something productive.
The cave was empty when he entered, Tim and Damian long since returned, except for Clark – definitely Clark, not Superman, barefoot and wearing what looked suspiciously like his pajamas (a worn Met U jersey and sweats) – perched a little awkwardly on one of the benches.
His smile was wary, almost shy. It fell completely when he saw Bruce, his body tensing. “B? What’s wrong?”
Bruce took off the cowl and looked him in the eye. “Tell me about Lois,” he said.
A flinch. Clark’s mouth twisted into a grimace. There was a brief silence.
“So,” he said finally. “You figured it out?”
“No.”
“Then…Dick figured it out?”
“He did.”
“And he told you, just now?”
“He did.” He paused slightly. “It was an accident. He thought you’d have told me by now.”
Clark winced. “Ah. Yeah.”
Bruce’s jaw was tense. “I thought it was just a fight. I should have noticed.”
Clark waved away the half-formed apology before Bruce could say anything more. “Don’t be silly. You’re a detective, not a mind-reader. Leave that to J’onn.”
A ludicrous argument, given that Dick had figured it out without the help of psychic powers. This didn’t seem like the time to argue, however. “It’s been months, hasn’t it? That’s quite a long time to not mention something like that.”
“Yeah, I guess it is.”
“You should have told me,” Bruce said. “If you had, I could have talked to Lois, helped you two work it out—”
“No, you couldn’t have,” Clark said, perfectly matter of fact. There was nothing in his tone or posture that indicated either sadness or relief. “And even if you could have, I think that ship has sailed now. And it’s for the best. Really.”
Bruce moved to perch beside him on the narrow bench. He felt huge and clunky in the suit. “Even so. You could have told me.”
Clark breathed out a long sigh, slumped forward with his elbows on his knees. He suddenly looked tired, his hunched form swallowed up by the cavernous ceiling of the cave. “I’m…sorry.”
“Don’t be,” Bruce said immediately. “What happened, Clark?”
Clark didn’t say anything, staring bleakly ahead. Not for the first time, Bruce wondered what he was seeing when he got lost in his own head like that. Right now, he couldn’t help but notice, they were at the right angle for Clark to see all the way to Metropolis if he wanted.
“So, I take it the separation wasn’t your idea,” Bruce prompted him.
Clark dragged his gaze away from the middle distance to throw Bruce a half-hearted glare. “You’re an ass.”
“But am I wrong?” When Clark just scoffed, he continued lightly, “You know, choosing to talk about your problems is generally the healthier option.”
Clark's glare turned into a look of affronted disbelief. “Really? You’re saying that to me?”
He shrugged. “I’ve never claimed not to be a hypocrite. And citing my behavior is hardly a good defense. Since when did you figure my stellar example was the one to follow?”
“Point,” Clark grumbled. “You’re still an ass.”
“I wouldn’t have to theorize if you’d give me something to work with,” Bruce pointed out.
Clark looked at him again then, intent and piercing. And then:
“You’re worried about me,” he said finally, a touch of surprise in his tone.
Surprise which frankly felt uncalled for, Bruce thought. “This is a pretty big deal, Clark. I don’t see why that comes as such a shock to you.”
Clark immediately looked upset, which wasn’t what Bruce had been going for at all. “No, no, you’re right. You show it differently, and I know that. I’m sorry. I’m just…in my own head about this, that’s all.” His gaze returned to the middle distance, fingers gripped tight on his knees. His mouth was a grim, flat line.
Bruce was suddenly feeling very out of his depth. In retrospect, he wasn’t entirely sure why he’d ever felt in his depth in this conversation. They didn’t often talk about this sort of thing – although Clark was admittedly a much better communicator than him, neither of them were exactly open books. And Clark hadn’t told him. Didn’t that mean something?
He cleared his throat. “If you… You don’t have to tell me. I just—”
“I know, B,” Clark said softly. “It’s fine. Let’s talk.” He dropped his gaze again, fiddling with the cuff of his sweatshirt.
“You’re right, of course. It wasn’t mutual. Lois broke up with me.” Bruce nodded, which for some reason made Clark let out a little laugh and shake his head, so Bruce stayed carefully still as Clark continued. “She told me it wasn’t working. That I didn’t love her anymore.” His voice was quiet as he spoke, like the words were a confession. Maybe they were, for him.
“And do you?” Bruce asked.
“I…I thought she was wrong. For a long time, I didn’t understand where she was getting that idea from. I thought we were happy together – heck, everyone did. I thought I just had to win her over, show her the obvious truth, that I…” He drew a heavy breath. “But then a while back, Lo sat me down to have the talk about ‘seeing other people’ and…I knew it was over for real. Not even because of what she said, but because I realized then that she was right. I do love her, obviously. But not…the right way, the way to you need to, to be together with someone like that. Not anymore.”
That didn’t sound right to Bruce, but it certainly wasn’t his place to say that. Instead, he said, “Lois is usually right about these things. About a lot of things.”
“That she is,” Clark said with the barest hint of a smile, bitter but still fond. It looked undeniably wrong on his face, a face meant for certainty and reassurance. But it was worse when that smile crumpled into something like guilt as Clark finally turned to face him again. “I wasn’t even sad. The whole time, I was just worried about things changing, about losing the life I was so comfortable with, with the family I’d built. But I wasn’t sad for us. What kind of guy wouldn’t feel sad when a woman as great as Lo leaves him? After years of marriage. Isn’t that messed up?”
“It’s not messed up. There’s no invalid way to feel about a separation. Sadness is only one of many likely emotional responses.”
Clark chuckled at that, albeit without mirth. “Wow B, you sound like a psychology textbook.”
He folded his arms in a way that he hoped didn’t come across as defensive. “Textbooks are published for a reason – presumably because the information contained is sound.”
“Wait,” Clark said, “were you actually quoting a textbook?”
“Clark, focus.”
“Sorry, sorry,” he said, holding up his hands in placation. “As I was saying…uh, what was I saying?”
“You were talking about the breakdown of your marriage.”
“Right. Thanks for the tactful reminder,” Clark said a little dryly and smiled – a real smile this time, not the unpleasant facsimile from before. Bruce felt something in his chest unclench.
Clark gave a little shrug. “So, it’s over, for real. I’m splitting time between ho— the apartment and the Fortress. Jon’s… He knows something’s up with us, but he seems to be dealing with it okay so far. I’ve been putting off having the actual talk with him until things are finalized, but…it’ll be soon. And Lo and I are still on good terms – great terms, even, considering.
“And, well. That’s basically the whole, sorry story,” he finished. When Bruce didn’t say anything, Clark nudged him with a shoulder. “What, bat got your tongue? After all that effort to get me to talk?”
“I think,” Bruce said slowly, “that even if it ended, even if it’ll never be the same, you guys had a great run. That doesn’t go away just because it’s over.”
Clark seemed to sense that he wasn’t just talking about Lois. “No,” he sighed, shoulders slumping. “It doesn’t.”
They settled into a companionable silence then, Clark clearly mulling something over. Bruce was content to let him ruminate.
“You know, you were right,” Clark said eventually.
“Hm?”
“What you said before. Talking about it did make me feel better. I should have done it sooner.”
“Why didn’t you?”
“I don’t know,” Clark said slowly. “I guess I was…guilty, maybe? Or just embarrassed. It felt like I’d failed somehow.”
“Clark,” Bruce said seriously. “Consider who you’re talking to. You have nothing to be embarrassed about.”
“Hm. Yeah, I guess that’s true.”
Bruce gave him a look. “I know I brought it up, but would it hurt you to agree a little more reluctantly?”
“Okay, sure.” He paused. “Hmmm. I guess that’s true,” he said and turned to Bruce with a smile. “Better?”
“Infinitely,” Bruce said, returning Clark’s smile with one of his own. “But really, you could have just told me. I thought we established last time we had a heart-to-heart like this that my good opinion of you is pretty hard to change.”
Clark groaned. “Oh god, please don’t remind me about that. This is already a low point for me.”
And just like that, something clicked in Bruce’s mind. “Oh.”
Clark looked at him, wary. “Oh?”
“They’re related. Your breakup with Lois, and your recent indiscretions—”
“Lord, don’t describe it like that,” Clark said, looking horrified. “You make me sound like some kind of…sexual harasser.” He stopped short, the horror on his face deepening. “Although, uh, I suppose—”
Bruce rolled his eyes. “Stop, Clark. You’re fine. Then, your crisis of sexuality. Is that better?”
“Barely,” he muttered.
“I’ll take it. Lois and your sexuality crisis are related,” Bruce concluded. “You’re sexually frustrated.”
Despite being a grown man with no doubt considerable sexual experience, the topic seemed to make the usually levelheaded Clark unusually flustered. He glanced around the cave as if expecting one of Bruce’s children to jump down from a stalactite, cheeks turning slowly pink. “I, um. Well. It sounds so crude when you put it like that, but I suppose…maybe a little.”
It didn’t sound particularly crude to Bruce – if anything, it was fairly clinical. But Clark had always been a little shy about this sort of thing. “The timing fits. The break-up was—what, 4 months ago? 5?”
“Four and a half,” Clark mumbled.
Bruce hummed, considering. “Given what Lois told you, I’m guessing the sexual side of things trailed off a while before that. And I’m assuming that, with your busy schedule and your general reluctance to engage in casual sex, in these last four and a half months you haven’t been with anyone else.” Clark opened his mouth to protest and then quickly shut it, which was as good as confirmation. “So, a prolonged dry spell, perhaps combined with the stress of the breakup. It’s not unexpected that you’d start feeling urges that have been suppressed for a long time.”
“You know, I much prefer when you go all World’s Greatest Detective on villains rather than on me,” Clark grumbled. “Why do you look like you’re enjoying this?”
Bruce shrugged. “We can continue talking about your non-sexual feelings, if you’d like.”
Clark sighed, but he seemed more amused than disgruntled now. “No, that’s alright. I think I’ve said my piece for now. And I do feel better. Like I said, the talking helped.”
“Something to keep in mind for your next separation,” Bruce said. Clark huffed out a quiet laugh. “And another thing to keep in mind for next time: I expect you to keep me up to date on this sort of thing. If you’re willing.”
“Of course, B,” Clark said gently. His smile turned gently self-deprecating. “Gosh, look at me. And I’m always complaining that you don’t tell me when something’s bothering you.”
“We can both be hypocrites together,” Bruce said lightly. “The World’s Finest need at least one fatal flaw.”
“That’s not very…heroic for a fatal flaw, is it? We might want to workshop that one,” he replied with a little grin, soft around the edges in a way that Bruce refused to make anything out of. “I’ll keep you updated from now on, promise.”
“Good.” Bruce studied him. He definitely seemed a little lighter than before, the tension mostly abated from around the corners of his eyes. But not gone entirely.
He stood. “Since you’re here, I have a surprise for you. This seems like a good time for it.”
Clark blinked at him. “You do?”
Bruce was already walking. “I do. Follow me.”
“This is your one of your training rooms.”
“Yes.”
Clark looked dubious. “Your surprise for me is… a room?”
They stood in one of several training rooms Bruce had built in the cave. This one most closely resembled a small dojo, with training mats on one side and a large punching bag on the other. Bruce had already removed the suit, left in bare feet and the underlayer he wore beneath it. His former teachers would probably turn in their graves if he wore his boots on tatami.
“Not just any room.” To the room at large, he said: “Cave, initiate Krypton Protocol in training room 4.”
At Bruce’s command, the yellow-white glow of the artificial lighting softened to a dim red. Clark’s eyes widened in understanding. “Red sun radiation,” he said.
“Yes.”
“…Why?”
“In general, for training purposes. I thought you could use it for sparring practice here, if you wanted. In this specific case…” Bruce gestured to the punching bag. “I’ve always found hitting things to be an excellent outlet for frustration. Sexual and otherwise.”
Clark flushed. “Geez. Are you ever going to let that go?”
“Oh, grow up, Clark. We’re both adults here, there’s no need to be embarrassed. Just trust me, it’ll help.”
Clark folded his arms in front of his chest. “You’re saying this from personal experience? I wouldn’t have thought you’d need that kind of outlet, given your whole…you know.”
“Bruce Wayne has been less ‘active’ in recent years,” Bruce reminded him neutrally. “And besides, you’re forgetting the ‘and otherwise’. It’s an all-purpose solution. Observe.” He squared up to the bag and struck: an explosive flurry of jabs, a feint, a left hook and then a high kick, leaving the bag swinging on its chain. He relaxed back into a neutral stance and threw Clark a little smirk. “See? I don’t know about you, but I’m feeling better already.”
“Uh-huh,” Clark said, looking at him a little oddly.
Maybe it was the radiation. “Has it kicked in yet?”
“Uh. I think so? Hold on.” Clark concentrated for a moment – trying to fly, probably. His heels remained firmly on the ground. “Yup, looks like it.”
He gestured to the bag with a flourish that was all Alfred. “Then it’s all yours, if you want it.”
Clark eyed the bag contemplatively and shrugged. “Oh, what the hell. Why not?”
“Atta boy.”
Clark approached the bag and dropped into a ready stance. He swung a punch with a small wince. His right fist hit the bag with a gentle thwap.
Bruce raised an amused eyebrow. “Christ, Clark, you’re not going to hurt its feelings. Just go for it.”
“I know that! Just making sure,” Clark grumbled and tried again. This time it didn’t look like he was holding back, the strike hitting with a more respectable, muted thud. He blinked at his own fist for a moment, then went for another strike. And another. Soon he was getting into the swing of it, the controlled placidity he so often wore on his face replaced by something grim and triumphant. Bruce had been planning on making some quip about imagining the bag was Luthor’s face, but it wasn’t necessary. Clark seemed to be managing.
Bruce left him to it, folded himself onto his knees near the wall and meditated, let the thud of fists against leather and the occasional grunt of exertion wash over him until the sounds eventually ceased.
“Ow.”
He opened his eyes. Clark was frowning at his own hands, which looked a little raw. Too late, he remembered that the usually invulnerable Clark had absolutely no calluses. “I should have warned you. Or better yet, given you some wraps.”
“It’s fine, I’ll heal once I’m out of here anyway,” he said with a grin. He actually did look a little more relaxed, stance loose, breathing a little heavy and a light sheen of sweat on his brow. “Hey, could you demonstrate again? When you did it, the punching bag was swinging like crazy, but I can’t figure out how you hit it that hard. Are you really that much more powerful than me without my strength?”
“I’m just better at this than you,” he said, rising smoothly to his feet. “You have no technique.”
Clark raised an eyebrow. “I think that’s overstating it, don’t you?”
Almost certainly, since Clark often trained with Diana, and she had no doubt put him through his paces. “Perhaps. Show me.”
Clark rolled his eyes good-naturedly but complied, squaring up again and throwing a pretty solid punch. Certainly not bad for someone who could usually rely on super strength alone. But…
“You’re under-rotating. Here.” He moved behind Clark and nudged his left foot a little with his own. “If your feet are too far apart, you won’t be able to twist your hips as much. And—” he gently pressed two fingers into Clark’s right hip “—your weight isn’t quite balanced. You should practice keeping your ready stance as centered as possible.” He stepped back. “Try now. Focus on the rotation.”
“Uh,” Clark squeaked. “Okay?” He swung again. His fist landed against the leather with a soft thump.
Bruce stared at him. “What was that.”
“Um.”
“How did you get worse.”
Clark bristled. “Well, maybe you’re not a very good teacher.”
“Don’t be stupid. I’m an excellent teacher,” he said. “Here, let me—”
“No, that’s okay,” Clark said quickly.
Bruce blinked. “Is it.”
“Yeah,” he said. “I think I should probably stop before I actually split my knuckles. I don’t wanna get my blood all over your fancy training equipment, right? Maybe we should try something else, like—hey, why don’t we spar?”
Bruce was a little surprised by the sudden suggestion, but… “Sure, but you might regret it. Give me your best shot.”
Clark paused. “What, you mean, just…go for it? Right away?”
“Yes.”
“Okay,” he said easily.
The strike came hard and fast, a right hook with minimal telegraphing. Bruce could see it coming from a mile away. He lightly dodged the strike, and the next, and the next. Clark went for a feint; Bruce smoothly ducked under his follow-up.
“You’re going easy on me,” Clark said, a challenging grin stretching across his face. “Come on, are you really just gonna dodge all day?”
Bruce smirked. “You asked for it.”
When Clark’s next blow came, he parried, turned, gripped the arm with both hands and threw him over his shoulder. Clark’s back hit the tatami with a crash and he lay there for a moment, blinking up at the ceiling. “Wow. What just happened?”
“Basic parry and throw. Using the opponent’s momentum against them when they’re off balance from the strike,” he explained, not bothering to mask the smugness in his tone. “Feels different without superspeed perception, doesn’t it? Here, let me help you up.”
“Okay, tha—gah?!”
Before Clark could find his balance, Bruce swept his feet. He fell with Clark, landing across his torso with the arm still in his grip. “Rookie mistake. You should know by now not to trust your opponent.”
Clark was wide-eyed and a little winded. “Okay, now you’re just showing off.”
“Maybe,” he said mildly.
“And, um. Why are you on top of me?”
“If you knock your opponent off their feet, you should immediately try to incapacitate them. This is basic, you should know this.”
“Yes, but when I said we should spar, I was thinking more, you know. Punching and kicking. Not…” he trailed off awkwardly.
“You already know how to do that passably well. Your ability to ignore gravity means you rarely need to grapple like this. Taking the fight to the ground when you’re without your powers is the obvious strategy.” He wrapped his free arm around Clark’s neck and pressed his weight into his solar plexus, pinning him more securely. Clark grunted in discomfort. “You told me not to go easy on you, so I’m not. Don’t worry, I won’t hurt you. Much.”
“Huh. Not sure how I feel about that ‘much’.”
“You’ll be fine. Just try to get free.”
To his credit, Clark did try. When ineffectual wriggling didn’t seem to be getting him anywhere, he twisted enough to get his feet between them and used the leverage to push Bruce away. Not bad. Not good enough, though. Bruce let himself be rolled onto his back but whipped his legs up for a triangle choke. Clark’s eyes widened a little in shock as he struggled to figure out how to dislodge him.
“Are you okay up there?” Bruce asked serenely.
Clark somehow managed to pull off exasperated with his face smushed between his shoulder and Bruce’s thigh. Clearly Bruce wasn’t trying hard enough. He quickly fixed that with a firm squeeze of his legs, eliciting a choked gasp and an attempt to jerk away and—
There, he was off-balance again. It was child’s play to pull him overhead, rolling them until Bruce was straddling him and pinning his arms.
“Uh, Bruce, could you—” Clark’s breathing was loud and heavy in his ear. He struggled for a moment and then abruptly went still.
Bruce immediately stopped. Had he been too rough, somehow? He pulled back far enough to see Clark’s face, his wide eyes and the anxious twist to his mouth. “Clark? Are you okay? Tell me if you’re hurt.”
His voice was tight. “Not hurt. I-I’m fine.”
Bruce looked at him dubiously. “I’m not sure you could have sounded less confident in that if you tried.”
Clark let out a breath, smiled a little shakily, a clear attempt at being reassuring. “No, really. I’m not hurt. It’s just—could you get off me please?”
“Oh.” Bruce blinked. “Yes, of course.” He shifted his weight back.
He froze. Clark froze. Bruce stared down at Clark’s slowly reddening face.
Clark was…hard.
There was a long, uncomfortable silence while they both processed what was happening.
“I,” Bruce began and then gave up. “Hm.”
“Oh god,” said Clark faintly, mortified. If his arms weren’t still pinned down, Bruce was certain he would have been covering his face. But as it was, Bruce realized, Superman was essentially powerless. Powerless to stop his breathing from accelerating in a way that could resemble panic or something else entirely. Powerless even to push Bruce off him, wrists trapped firmly against the floor.
Clark’s erection was an insistent pressure against him, the heat of it bleeding through their clothes.
Slowly, Bruce released his grip and carefully sat up. “Well,” he said as neutrally as he was able, “you’re certainly giving a whole new meaning to the moniker ‘Man of Steel’.”
He’d hoped Clark might crack a smile at that, take it as an invitation to laugh the whole thing off. Instead, the man seemed nervous, almost panicked. He hadn’t moved a muscle, arms still lying limply near his head on the tatami, eyes wide as he stared up at Bruce. “I’m so sorry, this isn’t—” he began breathlessly and swallowed heavily. “This never happens. I think it’s the radiation, maybe, I can’t— It’s not like normal. I don’t—”
He clamped his mouth shut and closed his eyes. His hands clenched into fists. The flush had crept all the way to the tips of his ears now, staining them a shockingly delicate pink.
If Bruce focused, he could feel the shape of Clark through the thin fabric of his sweats, pressing up thick and solid against his ass.
“Sorry,” Clark whispered.
Bruce swallowed.
As a rule, he didn’t let himself look. He had at least that level of self-control, even if he couldn’t always conceal the way his breath caught when Clark smiled at him with naked affection; even if he hadn’t been able to stop the clench in his stomach when Clark had looked at him like he wanted to devour him whole. Because if he looked, if he let himself think about it, he wasn’t sure he’d ever be able to stop.
He was looking now. Clark was upsettingly beautiful. He was biting his lip – a nervous habit, nothing deliberately enticing, but Bruce was enraptured nonetheless by the press of teeth into soft, pink flesh. His chest rose and fell with every breath, stretching the sweat-damp sweatshirt taut against the gentle swell of his pecs, and Bruce suddenly wanted nothing more than to rip it off him, to reveal acres of golden skin, let his fingers trail across it, his mouth—
Jesus, he needed to get a grip.
“No need to apologize. These things happen,” he said, surprisingly even – but damn it, his voice sounded rougher than it should. Bruce was glad for his protective cup, even though it was already becoming a little uncomfortable. It would otherwise be pretty obvious how he felt about sitting astride Clark’s erect cock.
“Sure,” Clark said feebly. He still wasn’t looking at Bruce, eyes now fixed somewhere to the right of him.
“Really. It’s the adrenaline. It’s not a big deal,” lied Bruce, to whom this currently felt like a Very Big Deal. In fact, Clark’s Very Big Deal was front and foremost in his awareness right now, unyielding and unignorable. Feverishly, Bruce wondered whether he’d still be thinking about this stupid, hopeless moment on his fucking death bed.
“Right. Adrenaline. It happens.” Clark chuckled weakly, a painful, forced thing. “Not since I was a teenager, though. Thought I’d moved past all this when I hit 30.”
“Some men your age would be jealous,” he said. It was difficult to focus on keeping his tone light. Clark was still so, so hard against him, his erection shockingly persistent despite his clear mortification.
Bruce had been carefully not thinking about what it meant that Clark was attracted to him, because what did it matter? Clark was with Lois. Clark wouldn’t actually want that from him, never him. And even putting that aside, there were a slew of other reasons that toeing this line was a bad idea, but…
But now things had changed, just a little. Maybe just enough. Clark was single. Clark was single and attracted to him. And right now, present evidence suggested that, at least considering facts recently established, maybe—
Maybe Clark was hard because of him.
If Bruce pressed his weight down, what would Clark do? Would he let his mouth fall open on a gasp? Thrust upwards, grind his hips against Bruce’s ass until Bruce could feel him soaking through their clothes? What did Clark look like—sound like when he came?
God, he should— He should get up, that’s what he should do. He needed to get up and leave the room and take a long, cold shower and get his goddamn act together.
But. When he moved to shift his weight off Clark, the way Clark shivered and bit his lip a little harder as if trying to suppress a gasp caught him by the throat and held him there. Frozen once more. Ass barely brushing against the shape of Clark’s cock.
He’d never stood a chance.
“Or maybe it’s not adrenaline,” he found himself saying. “Maybe you just need to get laid.”
Clark flinched. “Bruce, please—”
“It’s fine.”
Clark finally looked at him again. “It’s…fine?” he repeated slowly.
“Completely,” Bruce said lowly. “You know, physical aggression is only the second most effective solution for…stress relief, in my experience. If you’re interested, I have another idea.”
It was not a good one. The timing was awful. The man was barely out of a near decade-long relationship. He was clearly going through a lot, with the divorce and discovering he liked men; he wasn’t thinking straight. He’d probably look back on this experience and feel embarrassed that he’d let things go so far.
Right now though, rather than embarrassed, Clark was looking a little dazed and…intrigued. “Oh yeah?” he said, cautious.
The risk was too great. It could make things awkward between them. The sensible thing to do would be to stop this in its tracks.
Bruce licked his dry lips. “I could help with that,” he suggested, as evenly as he could manage. “If you want.”
Clark’s eyes went very dark.
Bruce slowly lowered himself again to press against Clark. This time, Clark did gasp. Bruce waited.
Clark hadn’t moved at all since Bruce had released him. Now he let his hands tentatively skate up Bruce’s spread thighs to settle at his hips, a barely-there pressure through the fabric of his undersuit. Bruce felt it like a brand nonetheless, skin burning at this lightest of touches.
“Do you?” Clark said, low and quiet, like a confession. “Want.”
As if that was even a question. “Just don’t tell Tim.”
Clark blinked at him in sudden confusion. “Wha— Why the hell would I—”
“Cave, lock down training room 4.” As soon as the mechanical door lock clicked shut, he rolled his hips down in a slow circle. Clark’s head fell back against the tatami with a soft thud and he let out a soft groan, a low rumble from deep in his chest, whatever he’d been about to say apparently forgotten.
God. Okay. So he was doing this.
He stared at Clark spread out before him, an artist before a blank canvas. His chest was rising and falling with too-quick breaths – somewhere between nerves and anticipation. Clark’s gaze dragged over him, burning with the same heat that had started all this. His hands gently squeezed Bruce’s hips. Permission. Trust. Bruce could do whatever he wanted right now.
But of course, he couldn’t, not really. Shouldn’t. It would be too much like giving into temptation to lean back and feel the solid muscle of his thighs flex under his hands. It would be too much like self-indulgence to press his palms into his chest instead, drag his fingers across the ridges of his stomach. And that, all of that, was dangerous, might take him somewhere beyond what Clark wanted from this.
So instead, he carefully placed his hands on the tatami to either side of Clark’s waist to support his weight and, heart in his throat, began to roll his hips. Even restraining himself, it was far too easy to settle into a rhythm, easier still when Clark’s hands tightened on Bruce’s hips and he began to rock his own up to match his movements.
As sexual encounters went, grinding his ass against Clark through about three layers of fabric should not have been particularly exciting for either of them. They weren’t teenagers anymore, after all. Clark seemed to be enjoying himself, though, if his reactions were anything to go by. Perhaps unsurprising, if it had really been as long for him as Bruce thought. And Bruce—
Bruce, who never thought he’d have even this much, felt like he was drowning.
The cup was borderline painful now, the rigid plastic digging in all the places it shouldn’t, but he didn’t care, too caught up in Clark. He was so warm and solid between Bruce’s thighs, every small movement a tangible pressure – really here, beneath him, letting him do this. Panting open-mouthed now, each exhale edged with a soft groan that sounded impossibly loud in the empty silence of the training room. Bruce greedily drank in the little noises he was making, every sigh and gasp, the way Clark’s gaze was growing hazy and heavy-lidded with pleasure.
“Fuck, Bruce,” Clark swore and flexed his grip on Bruce’s hips. His usually clear baritone was rough with need. The sound of his own name on Clark’s lips was a revelation, the uncharacteristic curse tantalizingly percussive. Clark’s thumb just barely grazed the skin between Bruce’s waistband and his shirt – their only skin-to-skin contact, almost completely innocuous, and yet Bruce felt it like an electric shock.
God, he was going to regret this when it was over. Clark would forget this in time, the distant memory of an unhappy period between his past relationship and his next, while Bruce lingered endlessly on what ifs. What it would have felt like to let himself touch Clark in earnest while he had this chance. To rip off their clothes and his stupid, suffocating cup that wouldn’t even let him get fully hard. To feel the hot, slick slide of Clark’s cock against his sensitized skin. Just that might be enough for him, with Clark spread out beneath him, flushed and beautiful, gazing up at him with that heated gaze and groaning Bruce’s name—
He was so turned on it hurt.
“God,” Clark gasped out, “h-hold on, Bruce, I’m—”
And then he was actually coming with an agonized groan, eyes squeezed shut and hips stuttering. Bruce couldn’t help but watch him through it, entranced, drinking in every detail, every minute shift in his expression. Clark’s fingers dug harshly into Bruce’s hips as he pulled him against him, almost hard enough to bruise despite the still-present radiation sapping him of his strength. When he was done, Clark lay there panting at the ceiling for a long moment. Bruce used the time to try to find his center. He needed to look like less of a mess than he felt on the inside, or he was bound to give something away.
He lifted himself off of Clark and got to his feet. The cup shifted painfully against him as he moved, and the seat of his pants was unpleasantly damp – the unfortunate consequence of making Clark come in his pants like they were teenagers.
“I need a shower and new pants,” he announced with a grimace. “And so do you.”
Clark was breathing heavily, spread out on his back, color still high on his cheeks. God, but he was achingly gorgeous. Bruce still felt the heady thrum of desire running through him, so strong he was almost dizzy with it.
Clark pushed himself into a sitting position. His post-orgasmic haze was already giving way to a nervous apprehension. His eyes flicked down to Bruce’s crotch. “Shouldn’t I— I mean, do you need, uh…?”
Clark’s uneasiness was a splash of ice water – enough to bring him back to his senses. Even so, Bruce felt his cock throb at the offer, traitorous thing that it was.
“That’s not necessary,” he said briskly, already walking away. “Take your time. I’ll leave a change of clothes out for you.”
He stripped off quickly when he reached the shower room, fully hard almost as soon as he was no longer restrained. He slid behind the curtain of the nearest stall, turned on the spray, pressed his forearm against the wall and jerked himself roughly for maybe 20 seconds before he was muffling an embarrassingly loud groan into the crook of his elbow and striping the shower wall with a silent prayer than Clark wasn’t listening in.
He gave himself a few short seconds to let the afterglow ripple through him before he let the full weight of what he’d just done crash over him, forehead pressed against the wall of the shower.
He let out a long breath. Forced himself to straighten.
The rest of his shower was brisk and methodical. He cleaned up the wall and himself and let the evidence wash away down the drain. After a while, he heard the sound of Clark entering another stall and turning on the shower. By the time Clark emerged, dressed in the clothes Bruce had left him, Bruce was already back at the computer and close to calm once more.
“I have to write up a report from tonight’s patrol. Don’t feel obliged to stick around,” he told him.
Clark, irritatingly, didn’t leave. “Are we…not gonna talk about it, then?”
“There’s nothing to talk about.” He paused, mostly for effect. “Unless you have any feedback.”
Clark hesitated. “No, I don’t. I just—”
“What.” He finally turned to face Clark. Clark, who met Bruce’s stare with a pinched expression, fidgeting with the hem of his borrowed t-shirt, clearly trying not to seem awkward.
Bruce felt his jaw clench; deliberately relaxed it.
Clark was uncomfortable. Of course he’d be uncomfortable. Bruce had crossed a line, broken one of the important boundaries that defined their relationship. Christ, the man was barely out of a marriage and already his supposed best friend was pawing at him. His best friend, whom he’d just opened up to about his divorce. His best friend, who had promised his support through what was clearly a difficult time for him. And just look at what he’d done instead. What had Bruce expected to happen?
Clark was frowning now, tinged with uncertainty, an unhappy crease between his brows. “I just think we should talk about it. I want to, at least. I wanted to say—”
“I know,” Bruce interrupted harshly. And he did. Clark wanted to talk it out properly, to check and double check they were on the same page, picking at the scab, not content to leave the obvious unsaid and move on. “I don’t need to hear it, Clark.”
“Oh. I…see.” Clark’s face was unreadable and, given what Bruce expected to find there, he wasn’t especially motivated to try to decipher it. He stared sightlessly at the screen instead.
“As I said before, you can just think of it as stress relief,” he continued evenly. “A friendly favor, if you prefer.”
“W-what? Bruce, that wasn’t—”
“It’s fine,” he cut in, intentionally dismissive, before the man could finish his sentence. “I know you’re not very experienced with this kind of thing. I am. So trust me when I say it’s not a big deal. It doesn’t mean anything.”
Clark didn’t respond for a long moment. When he finally spoke, his voice was cold and quiet. “You know, I hate when you do that.”
“Do what.”
“Act like I’m some naïve idiot to shut me up.”
Bruce fingers froze, hovering above the keyboard. They curled into fists. “Clark, I—”
“I don’t know what exactly you think you’re playing at,” Clark said darkly, “but from where I’m standing, I’m starting to wonder how much of Bruce Wayne is an act after all. Are you this kind to all your ‘conquests’? Or just the ones you’re already friends with?”
“That’s not what this is,” Bruce snapped, recoiling. “I… You were upset.”
“And you thought,” Clark said, eyes flashing red, “that getting me off and then all but telling me to fuck off and forget about it would make me feel better?”
Well. It sounded worse when he put it like that. “I didn’t want you to get the wrong idea about my…” he trailed off helplessly, swallowed. “…About my motivations. When we can just as easily move past it.”
Clark’s eyes grew even harder at that, his voice cool steel. “If you don’t want to talk about this, we won’t. God knows we’re both used to that by now. But Jesus, B, don’t try to manage me. We’re equals. Or have you forgotten?”
Bruce didn’t have a good response to that.
Clark huffed, the sound uncharacteristically bitter. “Okay, great. Good talk. See you ‘round, Bruce,” he muttered. And then he was gone.
Bruce was alone.
Notes:
Nice one, Bruce. Nailed it.
Was the Clark-is-divorced twist obvious or a total surprise? And hoo boy, putting porn I wrote on the internet where people can actually read it is significantly more nerve-wracking than expected, even if it's a pretty gentle E-verging-on-M so far. I really hope you enjoyed this chapter!
Next time: The dramatic fallout! Will our intrepid heroes talk it out within a reasonable timeframe like the mature and responsible adults they are? Or will they drag it out and make it everyone else's problem? (Spoiler: It's the latter. Because of course it is.)
See you next Thursday!
Chapter 3: The Argument
Summary:
Bruce tries his best to handle the fallout. Unfortunately for everyone, his best is still pretty abysmal.
Notes:
Huge thanks again to everyone who commented or gave kudos!
Mild content warning in this chapter for injury detail, nothing super explicit. Also bickering. A lot of bickering. You have been warned.
(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)
Chapter Text
Clark hadn’t spoken to him in a whole month.
Well, technically they’d spoken. They’d certainly seen each other around the League – a certain degree of contact was unavoidable without avoiding the Watchtower entirely. But it was mostly limited to brief, blunt commands in the field, without any of their usual banter, and Clark had kept his distance wherever possible.
It was probably for the best. When they did speak, it didn’t always go particularly well.
“Attending these peace talks is the only path to a bloodless solution!” Clark said, voice raised to just below a shout.
Bruce shook his head. “It’s too risky. They’ve shown themselves to be aggressive already, we can’t be sure it’s not a trap.”
“Maybe. But if we let ourselves be ruled by fear and paranoia, we’ll make enemies of half the galaxy.”
“If we let ourselves succumb to the naïve hope that every potential ally is honest and well-intentioned, we’ll be made into fools.” Bruce hardened his jaw. “Or have you forgotten what happened last time, Superman?”
Clark’s lip curled into a snarl. “This is not the same and you know it—”
“Gentlemen!” Diana’s voice rang out across the Justice League’s meeting room. Her tone brooked no argument. “Let us keep this civil, please.”
Clark slumped back in his chair still glowering, arms folded. Bruce tore his gaze away to glare at the wall.
Hal leant towards Wally and stage-whispered, “Ooh, mom and dad are fighting!”
“Lantern,” snapped Bruce and Clark at the same time. Hal held up his hands in an insincere gesture of apology. Wally let out a nervous laugh.
Diana sighed. “Perhaps it would be better to table this discussion for another day, since the League—” she looked pointedly at Bruce and Clark “—seems to be so divided on the topic. Is there any other business before we adjourn?”
There was a ringing, slightly uncomfortable silence.
Clark let out a sigh, lips tugging into a weak smile. He looked tired. “You’re right, Diana. It’s been a long meeting and we all deserve a break. For those of you who don’t need to head off straight away, Ma had a big baking weekend and made me promise to share with my ‘superhero friends’. I couldn’t say no, so I figured you all could just help yourselves. There’s casserole and plenty of pie for dessert. Consider it an apology for losing my rag, if you’d like.”
Wally beamed. “Aw gee, thanks, Supes. You know I can’t resist a free meal. And your mom’s cooking is great.”
“Uh, yeah, can Wally go last?” Hal suggested. “If he has his way, there won’t be anything left for the rest of us.”
“Hey! I’ve got a big appetite, I’m not rude. I can share.”
“I agree with Lantern,” J’onn said equably.
Wally pouted. “Et tu, J’onn? Man, this sucks. A guy thinks he’s got friends and then bam. Betrayal.”
“If it helps, Flash can have my portion. I won’t be partaking,” Bruce said. The idea of loitering in the Watchtower for no reason rarely held much appeal, and considerably less with things between him and Clark as strained as they were.
He wasn’t expecting Clark to look upset by this declaration. “Oh. You’re busy, are you?” he said, an edge of accusation in his voice.
Bruce bristled. “I usually am, as you well know. I certainly have better things to do than hang around here eating junk food.”
“Well, hang on a minute there. Ma’s homemade cooking is not ‘junk food’. It’s comfort food.”
“Hardly. That casserole is a heart attack waiting to happen. I don’t find that very comforting.”
Clark scowled. “You told her you liked her casseroles!”
“I enjoy them as much as anyone can enjoy a meal that is at least 30% lard,” he said flatly. “I was being polite.”
“Oh, what, so now you’re insulting my mother’s cooking? That’s real mature, Bruce.”
“There’s no need to take things so personally—”
“Oh my fucking god, could you two give it a rest already?” Hal groaned loudly, harsh and frustrated. “We all know you’ll be buddy-buddy again sooner or later, so hey, here’s a novel idea: maybe this time we could just skip to that part? Just this once?”
“Lantern,” they snapped as one.
Wally stood up quickly. “So, pie? Pie. I’m going now, like right now,” he said, and disappeared in a streak of red.
“Ah shit, he is not getting my slice,” Ollie muttered and hurried after him. The other members quickly filed out of the room, no doubt eager to escape the oppressive atmosphere created by two of their founders. That or they just really wanted pie. In Wally’s case, at least, it really could go either way.
Bruce watched Clark stride out without a backwards glance and ignored Diana’s weighty look as she followed after him. It was obvious that she wasn’t happy with them – with either of them, but especially with Bruce. Bruce was sure that if this kept up much longer, she’d be paying him a visit. He was not looking forward to that.
Hal Jordan was the only one who remained, lounging against the table and smirking at him. “So, what’d you do this time, Bats?”
Apparently, he was determined to be a royal pain in the ass today. Looking at him was not helping Bruce’s mood so he turned away, staring grimly out into the abyss of space. “Shouldn’t you go with the others? You’re going to miss out on your free meal.”
“I’m sure Ollie will save me some,” he said with a shrug. “I’ll go when you tell me what you did to piss the boy scout off like that.”
“You’re assuming I’m the one who did something.”
“Gee, wonder why that might be,” Hal said with a derisory sneer. “Look, Big Blue keeps looking at you like a kicked puppy, it’s not hard to figure out. And I gotta say, you antagonizing him isn’t helping.”
He grunted. “I’m not…trying to antagonize him.”
Hal blinked at him in what looked like genuine surprise. “Geez Louise. That was you not trying? Man, I knew you were a real piece of work, Spooky, but I didn’t realize you were so naturally gifted.”
“It’s none of your business, Lantern. Drop it.”
“Uh, it kind of is my business when you two spend most of an hour-long meeting bickering like you’re Mr. and Mrs. Constanza.”
Bruce paused, considering. “Hn. A Seinfeld reference. Kind of a deep cut, don’t you think?”
A shrug. “Yeah, well, I may have been on a binge recently. It’s not important. Look, I’m running on four hours’ sleep here, cut me some slack.”
“Never.”
“Yeah, don’t I know it,” Hal muttered, not a little bitterly. “Look, I know this is just a thing you guys do sometimes, alright? We’re all used to it. But it’s been weeks of passive-aggressive bullshit already and now this, and I know I’m not the only one who’s sick of it. So I’m thinking one of you – probably you, considering literally your whole deal – should pull his head out of his own ass already and… Fuck, I dunno, have you considered apologizing maybe?”
Bruce stared hard at the floor.
Hal made it sound so easy. But it didn’t seem that way to Bruce. They’d argued before, sure – mostly over League business, gods and monsters and moral dilemmas and stupid decisions made in the field. Never over something like this. Rarely for so long.
It was clear in retrospect that affected nonchalance had not been the best response to what happened between them in the cave. Clark was more upset than he’d accounted for. He should have apologized immediately for taking advantage of Clark’s compromised emotional state, allowed him to air his grievances then and there. As much as he’d tried futilely to avoid it, hearing Clark say then that he didn’t want him after all, that it had all been a mistake, would be preferable to their current state of affairs. Maybe if he’d done that from the jump, they’d be on speaking terms again by now. But it was too late for regret. He could only move forwards.
Unfortunately, Bruce was generally a lot better at breaking relationships than fixing them. Hell, the usual strategy – waiting until one or both of them were Over It enough to extend an olive branch (and then, blessedly, never speak of it again) – might not even apply here.
Still, he was hardly about to tell Hal Jordan any of that.
“It’s…not that simple,” was all he said.
Hal just rolled his eyes. “Then figure it out. How hard can it be?”
“Very,” he muttered darkly.
Before Hal could respond to that, there was the sound of beeping from his earpiece – not from his League communicator but the Bat one. The pattern was Dick’s. “Hold that thought,” he told Hal and tapped his earpiece. “Nightwing.”
“Hey, B,” said Dick. He sounded flat and uncharacteristically hesitant.
Alarm bells were already ringing. It was evening, so Nightwing was likely on patrol in Blüdhaven. Had he run into trouble? At least he still had access to his comm, but if he needed back-up or an extraction, there was no time to waste.
“Hey, we’re still talking here,” Hal protested when Bruce abruptly turned to leave. Bruce ignored him – which Hal did not appreciate, judging from the colorful wording of his objections.
That was unimportant. He hurried towards the zetas. “What’s happening.”
“Yeah, so—you and Clark. You guys are still fighting?”
Oh. Bruce stopped short, then forced himself to resume walking. “Who—”
“Flash told me.”
“Hn.” That was quick. How fitting for the fastest man alive: even gossip was spread at lightning speed.
There was a rustling sound on the other end of the line. Dick was fidgeting with something. “It’s not… you know, because of what I told you?”
“No.” He could feel his mouth twisting into a bleak grimace without his permission. “This one’s on me.”
“Oh, good,” Dick said, clearly relieved. He then quickly amended, “Uhh, I mean, not good. Definitely not that. Very bad.”
“Thanks,” he said dryly. “Is that all?”
There was the sound of shifting fabric, Nightwing adjusting his position. The hesitancy from before was gone. “Actually, no. While I was on patrol, I found something interesting. I thought you might want to see.”
“You want my help with a case?” That was unusual. Dick was generally fond of his independence.
“Not exactly,” Dick said. “It’s— Didn’t you say a while ago that you were looking into experimental kryptonite?”
A fraction of Bruce’s earlier tension returned. Luthor. He’d been quiet lately, despite those plans Clark had found all those months ago. And he knew Clark had been looking for him – or rather, for whatever he was working on. If whatever Dick had found was related to that, then…
“I’ll meet you there,” Bruce said and stepped into the zeta.
Batman and Nightwing perched on a quiet rooftop in Blüdhaven, overlooking a warehouse. Being mostly comprised of under-utilized harbor, the city had an almost endless supply of near-identical abandoned warehouses with convenient waterfront access – perfect for any enterprising criminal looking for creative avenues into the shipping industry. This one was nothing special compared to its neighbors: ugly, half-rusted corrugated iron and crumbling brick, boarded up windows surrounded by over a decade’s worth of general detritus. Nothing to distinguish it at all.
That is, unless you knew what you were looking for.
The windows were covered seamlessly, half-rotted boards that let in glimmers of sparse sunlight replaced with fresh ones. The faint impression of recent tire tracks in the muck surrounding the building – HGV, some kind of delivery. Signs that the generator out back, previously rusted shut, had been pried open with something much stronger than a crowbar. All signs suggested it was being used for something more sinister than shelter for squatters.
“I’ve been trying to track down the new manufacturing location for one of the local drug rings,” Nightwing explained. “But when I had a look inside, rather than a drug lab—”
“—they were working with kryptonite,” Batman finished. Nightwing nodded. “There’s a very good chance it’s Luthor’s. Not many people have the knowledge, resources or motivation to try something like this, considering the expense and difficulty relative to the expected payoff.”
“Yeah, but a dirty warehouse in Blüdhaven hardly seems like his usual style, does it? I always thought he had more class than that,” Nightwing said dubiously.
“Careful. You’re getting dangerously close to complimenting a power-mad supervillain.” He watched as a man loitering outside the warehouse took out a walkie-talkie. Short-range, but not so short he couldn’t pick it up.
Nightwing flashed him a grin. “What, you worried I’m going to be swayed over to the dark side?”
“Maybe. Have you experienced any sudden urges to shave your head and monologue recently?”
“Not particularly. Although I bet I could pull off the bald thing.”
“Hm. That’s what you said about the mullet.”
“Hey, I totally did pull that off.”
“Agree to disagree,” he said mildly. He fiddled with the controls for the radio receiver in his gauntlet and the guards’ radio chatter entered his ears through the cowl. It seemed that whoever was inside was finishing up for the day. “We’ll have our chance to infiltrate soon. Be on your guard.”
Nightwing seemed hesitant. “Sure, but…shouldn’t we let Superman know first?”
“No need.”
“Uh-huh,” he said easily. “And is that because you don’t think he needs to know about this, or because you guys are still fighting?”
Batman sent him a warning glare.
Unbothered, Nightwing simply shrugged. “Hey, it’s his supervillain, right? The whole archnemesis deal? I just thought that, you know—” he broke off suddenly, eyes fixed just behind Batman’s shoulder. His jaw snapped shut. “Oh. Uh, hi?”
He stilled. Now he could hear it: the gentle rustle of a cape behind him, the sound getting closer despite a telling lack of footsteps. He stifled a grimace and turned around. “Superman.”
“Batman,” came the chilly reply. There was Superman, drifting closer with his arms folded and eyes flinty, floating just high enough that Batman had to crane his neck slightly to meet his gaze.
God, Bruce hated when he did that. He knew Bruce hated it when he did that.
“Hey, so I’m curious,” Superman said, his tone a parody of lightness. “What don’t you think I should know? And does it perchance have anything to do with that suspiciously lead-lined warehouse you guys are clearly staking out?”
Batman squared his shoulders, met his cold stare head on. “Don’t you know it’s impolite to eavesdrop?” he asked.
Superman’s nostrils flared. “Don’t you know it’s impolite to go behind your friends’ backs?”
He tightened his jaw, forcing the instinctive, juvenile protest back down. “I wasn’t aware that was the level we were operating on. You’ll have to forgive me for having a slightly more complex decision-making processes than a middle schooler.”
“Oh, do you now? Interesting. Because all I see is you deliberately trying to shut me out of my own case because you’re avoiding me. That seems like a pretty middle-school level of petty to me.” The stern cast to his face hardened into a glare. “I’ve gotta say, when I brought you those files, I wasn’t expecting a hostile takeover of my own case.”
“That’s not what’s happening here.”
“Then what is happening here? Help me out, because I’m really struggling to think of anything else this could be.”
“I would have thought it obvious,” he snarled. “It’s kryptonite, Superman. If there’s any present in that warehouse, it would be dangerous for you to go in. Your involvement only complicates things.”
“And that somehow makes it okay for you to just not mention it when you find the exact place I’ve been looking for?”
“Technically, Nightwing found it,” Bruce said.
They both turned to Nightwing.
Nightwing, for his part, looked immediately out of his depth, his gaze flitting between Superman and Batman with a nervous energy he rarely displayed. “Um. Hi, Superman. Sorry I didn’t tell you first.”
Superman’s gaze quickly softened. Bruce pushed down a sudden, irrational stab of jealousy, because of course he— It was Bruce he was upset with, not Dick, that was— “Hi, Nightwing. That’s alright, I understand.”
“Also, sorry for telling B about the whole…” he trailed off awkwardly.
Superman smiled – albeit a little weakly – and dismissed the apology with a wave of his hands. “You’ve got nothing to apologize for, really.”
“Oh good, ‘cause I—”
“Hold that thought.” Superman turned back to him, gaze cooling abruptly. “And where do you think you’re going?”
Batman stilled with his hand halfway to his grapple. “I’m going to scout for the best route in.”
“You’re breaking in,” he said.
It wasn’t a question. He answered anyway. “Obviously.”
Superman’s jaw clenched. The hard stare was back, blue eyes cool as steel. “I’m coming with.”
“No. Were you not listening? We don’t know what’s in there yet. It could be dangerous. Just do the sensible thing for once and let me deal with it.”
“Believe it or not, this isn’t my first rodeo. I can take care of myself. And besides,” he added with an edge of challenge, eyes briefly flashing red, “you can’t stop me.”
Batman narrowed his eyes. Superman’s face was made of stone, impassive and unyielding, unmoved even when Batman’s lips pulled back into a combative snarl.
“Uhhhh,” Nightwing said. “Should I. Should I go? I should go.”
“No,” Batman snapped.
Nightwing wilted. “No?”
“You should stay,” Superman said, more gently. “This is your city. Your jurisdiction.”
“Oh. Are you sure?” Nightwing said, tone pleading.
“Superman’s right,” Batman said and carefully ignored the meaningfully raised eyebrow Superman sent him – Oh, so you can actually admit that sometimes, can you? “It’s your city. And besides, your expertise on the criminal element in this city may be useful.”
“Great,” Nightwing grumbled under his breath as he walked past them to the edge of the rooftop. “Then I guess I’m third-wheeling tonight. Joy of joys.”
They waited until the building emptied. About twenty minutes after Superman deigned to grace them with his presence, there was a scrape of metal on metal and the warehouse door swung open. A group of tired-looking people drifted out of the building and towards a van out back. Probably the scientists working on the synthesis, ready to be dropped off somewhere that was less suspicious to commute to than an abandoned warehouse on a desolate stretch of harbor front. The man out front with the walkie talkie remained. Sturdy build, well-worn combat boots, the kind they give rank-and-file soldiers when they join the military. Almost certainly security, and likely not going to budge until a shift change. And also, judging from the walkie, not the only one stationed at the warehouse tonight.
After some negotiating, Superman agreed to let Batman and Nightwing do an initial sweep before joining them. “But as soon as you find something damning, I’m coming in,” he insisted. “I need to see what he’s planning with my own eyes.”
“Fine,” he agreed reluctantly. “But not unless Nightwing and I give the all-clear. Got it?”
“Funny, I don’t remember agreeing to take orders from you. Since when were you in charge?”
“Since I became one of only two people here not deathly allergic to kryptonite, that’s when.”
“I don’t know about that. That doesn’t really put you above Nightwing, does it?”
“Oh my god, do not involve me in this, please and thank you,” Nightwing said, a touch of weary creeping into his voice. “Look, I’m going to look for the best way in, alone. My jurisdiction, remember?” he added sharply when Batman opened his mouth to protest. “And while I’m gone, for the love of god, will you two try to have a civil conversation and figure this out? 5 minutes, tops. Promise.”
And with that, Nightwing threw himself off the edge of the rooftop with slightly more gusto than usual, like he couldn’t wait to get away from them. There was probably some truth to that.
Batman and Superman were left alone, the atmosphere tense and awkward.
Batman cleared his throat.
“So,” Superman began stiffly. “How’ve you been?”
“Fine,” Batman said. “And you, how’s the…” he trailed off when he couldn’t think of an appropriately neutral euphemism for ‘impending divorce’.
“Progressing,” said Superman. A pause. “We told Jon. He took it well.”
“Good.” He resisted the urge to clear his throat again, tried not to sound as hesitant as he felt. “About what happened in the cave,” he began. Beside him, he felt Superman stiffen, probably almost imperceptible to anyone less familiar with his mannerisms. “Did you talk to Lois?”
“Oh.” There was a pause. “Yes. She didn’t— It’s fine.”
“Good,” he said again uselessly, suddenly at a loss for any other adjectives. “That’s…good.”
The uncomfortable silence descended again.
“B,” Superman said on a sigh. Hearing the nickname from him after so long without felt like a punch to the gut. “Honestly, I don’t like this. I don’t want us to fight. But…”
“It was a mistake,” he said roughly, the words grating against the inside of his throat. “If I’d known it would bother you this much, I never would have done it.”
He wasn’t expecting a flinch at that statement. But there it was: a tensing of the shoulders, a flash of something reminiscent of hurt. With a touch of bitterness, Superman said, “Which part? The sex, or telling me not to let the door hit me on my way out?” His mouth twisted. “Oh wait, sorry, not ‘sex’. What did you call it? ‘Stress relief’?”
He suppressed a wince, although there was no chance Superman wouldn’t pick up on it anyway. “Take your pick,” he said honestly.
That didn’t seem to go down well either. “Then why did you do it?”
“Which part?” he couldn’t help but echo.
Superman raised an eyebrow. “Take your pick.”
And well, he wasn’t sure how to honestly answer either question without giving too much away. So he chose neither. “Whatever else you may think of me, I do respect you. That never changes.”
“I know. I do know that,” Superman said, suddenly sounding tired. “But you have a funny way of showing it sometimes.”
He clenched his jaw, unsure what to say to that. He wasn’t sure what to say about any of this. Maybe this would be the last time, when Clark would finally decide he wasn’t worth it. It’s not like Bruce could even blame him at this point.
“Okay, guys, five minutes are up,” Nightwing said as he reappeared at the rooftop’s edge. Bruce wasn’t entirely convinced he hadn’t just been waiting out of earshot with a stopwatch. “And your combined aura is definitely more depressed than homicidal now, so you know what? I’m counting this as a win.” He clapped them both on the shoulder. “See? That wasn’t so bad. Now come on, we’re losing daylight. Night. Whatever.”
He shot Superman a loaded look. “Well?”
Superman clenched his jaw. “Fine. I’ll listen for your signal.”
Batman nodded and headed towards the warehouse. Nightwing followed, muttering under his breath.
There was a high window around the back of the warehouse which was out of sight from any of the stationary guards, mostly shielded behind an older, unused generator. It was obvious from the slightly loosened boards covering them that it was from there that Nightwing had spied on the warehouse’s operations in the first place. An easy spot to enter through, provided they were quick.
Without prompting, Nightwing scaled the building with practiced ease, only the barest whisper of fabric against metal marking his ascent. He pulled himself up by the ledge and quickly began to pry the boards from the window, passing them down when they came free. Batman stashed them out of sight beneath the generator. Once the window was unblocked, Nightwing fiddled with the lock, flashed him a thumbs up and easily slid himself through the window.
Batman followed. By the time he landed, Nightwing was already peering around the floor of the abandoned warehouse. Not that it looked very abandoned from the inside. At least through the filter of night-vision, the interior was as finessed as any lab at Luthorcorp, all polished tile and sleek counters and state-of-the-art equipment. There was a rack of unnecessarily stylish lab coats on the far wall and even a break area for the scientists, with a foosball table and a couple of plush leather sofas. The only nod to the building’s origin as a warehouse was the fully open-plan design – helpful, as it made it immediately clear that there were no guards inside. He allowed himself to relax slightly.
The main lab space was most likely to contain something incriminating. At minimum, they should be able to find some information about the experiment’s progress. At maximum, they would be able to obtain a sample of whatever Luthor was working on. Knowing what was coming was one thing; being fully prepared was another.
“Now this is Luthor’s style,” Nightwing murmured. “Seems like a cushy gig for the scientists. Cushier than vigilante work at least. Think I should change careers?”
Batman headed over to a bank of large, expensive-looking machines, trying to parse what they might be used for. “Focus, Nightwing. We’re here to investigate, not to make small talk.”
“Fine, grumpy guts,” Nightwing grumbled and followed Batman deeper into the lab itself. “You know if you’re going to be like this, you might as well just say sorry already.”
He paused in his inspection of the contents of a large centrifuge. “What?”
“Say you’re sorry. To Cl— Superman.”
He glared at the centrifuge. It was annoyingly devoid of suspicious vials, luminous green or otherwise. “Why does everyone assume it was my fault?”
“Because if it was Superman’s fault, he would have caved and apologized already.” Nightwing tilted his head. “But also, you did basically tell me already. ‘This one’s on me’, right?”
Bruce clenched his jaw. There seemed little point in denying it now, even knowing that Clark was no doubt listening in. He was waiting for their signal, after all.
“I tried,” he admitted slowly. “Just now. It didn’t work.”
“Uh-huh. Did you actually say the words ‘I’m sorry’?” When he didn’t respond, Nightwing just sighed. “Yeah, that’s what I thought. You really suck at this.”
Bruce had nothing he wanted to say to that. Certainly not in Clark’s earshot. “You shouldn’t concern yourself.”
“Oh, believe me, I’ve learned my lesson after last time. I’m staying out of it, for the most part. I just feel like maybe you should act in your own best interest sometimes, especially since you’ve been a total grump for weeks.”
That made him pause, because this was the first time he’d seen Nightwing in person since that night on patrol. “Who—”
“Robin told me.”
Christ. Did everyone he knew do nothing but gossip about him to Dick? He grunted.
“Robin’s worried about you, you know,” Nightwing continued.
He shot Nightwing a quick, disbelieving look. “He told you that,” he said doubtfully.
“Of course not. You know what he’s like. I think he said something along the lines of—” He adopted a comically austere frown. “—‘Father’s recent conflict with the alien has clearly affected him. If it continues much longer, it may distract him from the mission’.”
“Codenames only in the field, Nightwing,” he warned, more on principle than with any hope of changing his mind. Nightwing tended to decide on his own what was a sensible precaution, very much separately to whatever Batman told him he should do. “And that’s ridiculous. The mission takes priority.”
“I know that,” Nightwing acknowledged easily. “And so does he. Ergo, he’s worried about you. Or maybe just annoyed. He said he’s barely seen you this week outside of patrol.”
“Busy week,” he grunted.
“Too busy for breakfast?”
He sighed. “Is the full guilt trip really necessary?”
Nightwing shrugged. “Hey, that’s not what I’m going for. Just passing it on.”
“Hn.” Pointedly, he focused on examining what looked like an X-ray diffractometer.
“On the other hand, Red Robin seems fine with the whole thing,” Nightwing continued, with an odd note to his voice that Batman didn’t trust. “If anything, I think he’s kind of relieved. Because at least if you’re fighting, you guys probably haven’t been using the cave to ba—”
“Nightwing,” he snapped, possibly a little too loudly. When no guards came bursting in to apprehend them, he fixed Nightwing with a poisonous glare. Dick had no way of knowing (god, he hoped), but that particular jab hit a little too close to home right now.
Nightwing was frustratingly unrepentant. “Batman,” he replied amiably.
“You’re aware that Superman can hear us,” he said through gritted teeth.
“I am,” Nightwing said with a grin. “Hiya, Supes. Don’t forget to say hi to the Superboys for me.”
“Less talking, more searching,” he snapped and turned his back pointedly.
“Fine, fine,” Nightwing said easily and drifted off to look elsewhere. Quietly relieved, Batman returned to his investigation.
Unfortunately, it was not bearing fruit so far. The machines had been left empty, not even trace residues of whatever they’d contained, and the computers used to operate them contained no experimental data. The cupboards held nothing but general lab supplies: gloves, beakers, pipettes, and so on. The large industrial fridge and cryostat were filled with common reagents. Certainly nothing illegal.
It seemed like the scientists were too careful to leave any samples of their project out in the open.
Nightwing seemed to have the same idea. “Do you think they take all their materials with them when they leave?” he asked dubiously.
“Possible. But unlikely. The vehicle used to transport the scientists didn’t look secure enough to safely transport anything so precious or so radioactive.”
“So there should be something to find here,” he concluded with a brief nod. “Then I’m going to look for wherever they’re hiding the samples. I found these, but I think these might be more your speed than mine. I dropped Villainous Crystallography back in high school so I could take AP Calc.”
He handed over a couple of thick notebooks he’d extracted from a locked filing cabinet. Batman flipped them open. It looked like these were the scientists’ lab books, containing notes on each experiment. “Pretty old-school to have this on paper,” he observed.
“Isn’t it?” Nightwing was already wandering away, carefully inspecting the floor and benches. “I noticed last time that there aren’t any computers in here. Kind of a bummer. We could have just asked Oracle to find what she could on the servers before we went to all the effort of breaking in.”
“Maybe that’s why they stuck to paper. In a way, it’s more secure.” The lab books didn’t say much about the actual substance directly, but with enough time he’d probably be able to parse out something useful based on the experiments they’d conducted and the progress they’d made, if any. It wasn’t as good as a sample, but at least they wouldn’t be leaving empty handed tonight.
He was just finishing up his digital scans of the books when Nightwing let out a triumphant, “Aha! Jackpot!”
He looked over to Nightwing, who had unearthed a secret compartment in one of the benches. A sturdy-looking safe sat within, of the kind used as much to protect its contents from people as it was to protect people from its contents. In other words, the exact kind they were looking for.
He hurried over. “Careful, Nightwing. It could be booby trapped.”
Nightwing raised an eyebrow. “What, so one of the scientists can get a face full of tear gas if they’re sloppy? Seems like an HR violation waiting to happen.”
“It’s Luthor,” Batman pointed out. “I wouldn’t put it past him.”
“Point,” Nightwing said and retreated with a little flourish. “Then, after you.”
He approached carefully. Nothing stuck out as a sign of a trap, but he couldn’t be too careful. He got out his safecracking tools and got to work.
It was when he heard the final click of tumblers that it happened.
There was a shout from behind him. “Batman, 3 o’clock!”
He instinctively dove away. But just as he heard a loud bang, the world shifted around him in a way that he hadn’t expected.
Should have expected, perhaps. Because there was Superman standing before him, in the warehouse, despite explicit instruction to stay away until they were sure it was safe, the sentient shield he had neither asked for nor needed. His hands were clasped around Batman’s biceps. Presumably after picking him up and moving him around faster than he could perceive. Like he was a fucking mannequin rather than a person—
“What the hell are you doing?” he snapped, knocking away the hands with perhaps more force than necessary. “I told you to wait outside, why don’t you ever…”
He trailed off when he saw Superman’s face. His eyes were wide and confused, skin pale with shock. The hands Batman had knocked away were shaking.
His veins turned to ice. “Superman? Tell me what happened.”
Superman opened his mouth to respond but no words came out, just the sound of air rushing from his lungs like it’d been punched out, an inhale that scraped against the edges of his voice. And then he was crumpling forwards. Batman barely managed not to stagger as he caught him, lowered him to his knees as gently as he could manage.
“Man down. Nightwing, secure the area,” he barked.
“On it,” came the immediate, tense reply and he distantly noted Nightwing darting off. He scanned Superman’s trembling form, ripping off his gauntlet to press two fingers to his neck. “Superman? Can you hear me?”
Clark’s eyes flickered up to his and then fluttered weakly shut again. He was aware, then, but heavily disorientated. His pulse was elevated, breathing stuttering and erratic, eyes unfocused.
Kryptonite poisoning.
He gritted his teeth. This was exactly why Superman shouldn’t have been here. Of course any traps Luthor put in here would be laced with kryptonite. It may even be laced with whatever Luthor had been working on. They didn’t even know for sure what they were dealing with.
Damn Clark and his incessant need to help.
“You’ve been hit with kryptonite. I’m going to try and remove it,” he told a barely conscious Superman as he laid him down on his front to get a better look at the wound. He sucked in a breath. There was a crossbow bolt sticking out of his back through the suit, maybe an inch or two deep in the meat of his left shoulder. It was an ugly thing, dull iron shaft fading to poisonous green near the tip. Grimly, he peeled back the blood-soaked suit. The skin around the wound was already discolored, veins pulsing a sickly green-black.
The risk of additional bleeding from removing the bolt was secondary to preventing over-exposure. He had to get it out, now.
“This is going to hurt. Breathe through it,” he murmured, as much for his own benefit as Clark’s. Clark showed no sign that he could understand him, numb and shivering with his clammy cheek pressed against the warehouse floor. He pressed one hand into Clark’s shoulder, grabbed the shaft with the other and yanked.
The singular upside to the extensiveness of the kryptonite poisoning was that the tissue was as vulnerable as a human’s. The shaft slid out smoothly with a sickening squelch, blood rushing from the open wound.
Clark gasped and jerked against his hold, face creasing with agony. He quickly threw the bolt as far away as he could and used his other hand to keep pressure on the wound until it could close up. “Shh, Superman. Kal.”
Clark’s eyes fluttered open again, hazy eyes finally focusing on Bruce. “B? What…?”
“Yes, I’m here.” He gripped Clark’s hand, squeezed it. “You were hit with a kryptonite projectile but I’ve removed it. How are you feeling now?”
Clark grimaced. “Ugh… not great. But you’re…?”
“Me?”
Clark blinked sluggishly. “You good?”
Bruce ruthlessly suppressed the urge to scream.
“I’m not the one who’s been poisoned,” he hissed. “What were you thinking? You were supposed to wait for my signal, not get yourself shot.”
“S’okay, knew you’d help,” he slurred. His speech had been slurred since the bolt had been removed.
Which was odd, Bruce realized. Why was he still so disorientated?
“Kal?” he asked, with slightly more urgency. Something wasn’t right. Clark was doing a little better without the bolt in him, but removing the kryptonite should have resulted in a near-instantaneous improvement in his condition.
Unless…
With rising concern, Bruce inspected the wound again.
Dread pooled in his gut. The wound was still open, flesh torn and angry and bleeding heavily, not even beginning to seal shut. Worse still, the infection in the surrounding skin had not cleared at all. Was there some fragment still left inside? But no, careful prodding of the wound showed it was clear of any debris. Then a residue? He rolled Clark onto his side and tried flushing the wound with the sterile saline he kept in his belt, but it didn’t seem to help.
Clark wasn’t healing. The infection didn’t seem to be spreading now that the bolt had been removed, but it wasn’t getting better either. Whatever was on that bolt was inside him now, and Bruce didn’t know how to get it out.
Was this what Luthor had been working on? It had to be. They’d never seen this before. Not a novel effect, but a novel mechanism perhaps, kryptonite packaged as a poison that lingered beyond initial exposure.
Who knew when – or if – Clark would recover from this on his own?
“Kal! Stay with me,” he hissed urgently. He focused on keeping his hands steady so he could bandage the wound as tightly as possible, minimize blood loss. “Listen, we’re getting you out of here. You’re Superman. You’re not going down like this, I won’t let you. Just hang on.”
“I know. Trust you,” Clark mumbled, but he seemed barely conscious now, eyelids fluttering.
“We need to move, the guards noticed the window,” Nightwing said as he appeared behind him. His breath caught on a silent gasp, gaze flickering between Clark and the bloodied crossbow bolt lying several tens of feet away from them. “He’s…not better? What—”
“We need to get him to medical. Help me get him up,” he ordered, already maneuvering a barely cooperating Clark onto his knees.
Nightwing was very pale. “B, what’s happening to—”
“Just help me!” he barked, and Nightwing didn’t need any further prompting. Together they managed to drape Clark’s mostly limp form across Bruce’s shoulders so he could be carried out. “I’m going to get to the nearest zeta and take him to the Watchtower. J’onn can take care of this. I need you to clear a path for us out of here. Take that bolt on the floor over there and bring it to the cave. Have whoever’s available analyze it and send the results to J’onn as soon as they’re ready. Do not let it anywhere near Superman.”
“Okay,” Nightwing said with a nod that was reassuringly steady. With one more worried glance at Clark, he picked up the bolt and darted ahead towards the exit.
By the time they made it to the Watchtower, Bruce’s legs were nearly shaking with strain. Clark was more unconscious than not, functionally dead weight and a lot of it. They were greeted by a tense Martian and a gurney, and Clark was whisked off to be examined while Bruce slumped against the wall and caught his breath.
It was somewhere between 15 minutes and an eternity later that J’onn called him in.
“Your hypothesis was correct,” J’onn told him, his normally inexpressive face grim. “The kryptonite particles have been absorbed into the cells around the wound.”
He closed his eyes. Sometimes he hated being right. “How.”
“I’m not yet sure. My best guess is that a molecular form of kryptonite was packaged within something Superman’s cells recognize as nutrients so that they absorb it. Or perhaps it’s conjugated with a very fast-acting virus. I can’t be sure without further testing and I’m still waiting on the results from your compatriots in Gotham. Either way, once the compound is inside the cells, we can’t remove it safely with our current technology. And the infection has spread far enough from the wound that amputating the affected tissue might risk his life. The safest option is to wait for Superman’s own immune system to replace the damaged cells with healthy ones.”
Bruce tensed, glanced down at the pale, semi-conscious form of Clark stretched out on a cot in the medbay, surrounded by an array of sunlamps. The harsh light made his anemic skin glow a sickly yellow, threw the pained creases in his forehead into sharp relief.
He looked back at J’onn. “Is he even stable enough for that? What’s the chance that he succumbs to kryptonite poisoning before he can process the damaged tissue?”
“I can’t be 100% certain, but I believe he’s stable enough, yes. His condition has not deteriorated in the time I’ve been examining him,” J’onn told him in the tone he adopted when he was trying to be soothing. “Trust him. He is Superman. He has overcome worse.”
You’re wrong, Bruce wanted to say. Because this wasn’t Superman. J’onn had stripped him of the torn suit and his hair lay in messy curls across the pillow. This was just Clark, who snorted unattractively when he laughed too hard, who sometimes started levitating when he got distracted, who acted petty and irritated at Bruce when they were fighting. Clark, who nonetheless made the moronic decision to get shot in a building containing the only thing in the universe that could kill him in an unwanted attempt at protection.
This was Clark. And while Superman was all but infallible, Clark was not.
Bruce looked away. “If he’s stable, there’s no reason for you to stay here. I’ll monitor him.”
J’onn’s gaze was uncomfortably knowing as he looked at Bruce. “Very well. Let me know if you need me.”
“I will,” Bruce said and sat down in the chair beside the bed. And waited.
It was 6 hours and 20 minutes before Clark stirred again.
Bruce spent some of the time doing what Alfred would have called ‘fussing’: dabbing sweat from Clark’s brow, readjusting the pillows, checking and rechecking the monitors and the slow crawl of his vitals back to acceptable levels. Most of his time was spent watching the slightly labored rise and fall of Clark’s chest in a semi-meditation, trying to keep the creeping sense of exhaustion at bay.
Waking was a slow process. A subtle increase in his heart rate. Minutes later, a twitch of his fingers. Minutes later still, his eyelids were finally fluttering open and then all of a sudden he was awake, wincing away from the harsh light of the sun lamps. Bruce quickly turned them off. “Clark.”
Now no longer blinded by artificial sunlight, Clark’s foggy gaze drifted over the room until they finally landed on its other occupant. “Bruce…?”
“You’ve been sleeping a while.”
“Yeah, I…” He tried to sit up and winced, right hand darting across to hover over his injured shoulder. Despite the pain, he looked much better, the healthy glow returned to his skin. Almost like himself again, if not for the hospital gown and the pained grimace on the face of a man usually invulnerable.
“Here,” Bruce said and helped him sit up properly. He peeled back the bandage on his shoulder. The poisonous tint to the skin was all but gone, the stitched-together wound already starting to fuse shut. “Better. Looks like you’ll live.”
“Wonderful news,” Clark said cheerfully, with an edge of sarcasm. Like this was all some joke, some minor accident. Like he hadn’t been—
Bruce tightened his jaw. “We should talk.”
Clark’s eyelids drifted shut tiredly. “Can it wait? I’m still pretty exhausted.”
“No.” He took a breath, felt his lips pull into a snarl. “Clark. What the fuck was that?”
Clark’s eyes flew open at the venom in his voice. “Wha— B?”
“What the fuck was that?” he repeated. He’d taken the cowl and his gauntlets off while he waited, which made it all the more obvious that his hands were shaking. He clenched them together in his lap, squeezed until his fingernails were digging crescents into his skin.
Clark’s brow was creased in annoyance but also confusion. This was hardly the first time they’d had this fight, but it felt different now. They could both sense it. “I… heard Nightwing yell out a warning, I heard the shot. And I couldn’t see inside, but I thought—”
“Wrong. You didn’t think. Because if you had, you wouldn’t have tried to act like a human shield in a warehouse that was potentially filled with kryptonite.”
Clark’s eyes hardened. “That’s not fair. I admit I acted on instinct, but…you were about to be shot, Bruce.”
“There was a good chance I’d have dodged it. And even if I got hit, I’m not the one with a deathly allergy to kryptonite. What you did was beyond reckless. You could have died, Clark.”
“I… I know. I know that, but—.”
“‘But’ nothing,” Bruce snapped. “When are you going to realize that you’re not as invulnerable as you think you are? This kind of self-sacrifice isn’t noble, it’s fucking moronic. You should know better by now.”
And just like that, all the contrition burned out of Clark’s eyes. Good. “Oh, that’s rich coming from you. You, of all people. You go out every night with fresh stitches and cracked ribs and god knows what else.” His good hand tightened on the sheets, knuckles white. “Multiple times you’ve decided your own life is the one that should be sacrificed out of all of ours. Without consulting anyone. And you’re lecturing me?”
“I am. Because this isn’t about me; this is about you.” His mouth twisted into a sneer. “For god’s sake, Clark, there is one substance in the universe that makes you as vulnerable as any of us – is even lethally poisonous to you – and you just can’t fucking help but throw yourself at it at every opportunity—”
“Well, what was I supposed to do?” Clark snapped. “Let you get hit? Just stand there and let you die? That’s not happening, Bruce.”
“Don’t be dramatic, I could have dodged—”
“‘Could have’ isn’t as good as ‘would have’. It was, literally, a split-second decision. I wasn’t about to take that chance.”
“The chance of what? I have armor for a reason. I can take a hit or two without it being lethal.”
“And I can heal,” Clark argued. “From almost anything. So why shouldn’t I—”
“Because you’re too fucking important, Clark!” he shouted.
Clark stilled, eyes widening fractionally. Whatever he saw on Bruce’s face, whatever he heard in his voice, it had brought him up short. “…Bruce?”
Bruce sucked in a sharp breath. “When will you get it through that thick head of yours? You’re too important to just…die. Too important to the League. To the world. To me,” he snarled, and damn it, he was being too emotional, too uncontrolled, voice too loud and too raw by far. But he was also too furious to care, had spent hours letting the sick feeling of dread and panic and distant guilt coalesce into rage. Rage, and exhaustion, and, maybe most of all, the fear that Clark’s last memory of him would be that barely-a-conversation on a dingy Blüdhaven rooftop. He gripped Clark’s uninjured shoulder with tense, shaking fingers. “I ca— We can’t lose you. We can’t. Why don’t you understand that? What do I need to do to make you understand that?”
Clark had been staring at him as he spoke, almost stricken. But then somehow in the face of Bruce’s fury, something about him softened, melting into something terrifyingly affectionate, all determination and conviction and bewildering kindness.
“You say that as if…as if my life matters more than yours,” Clark said, soft but intent. “But that’s not true, not to me. What I did tonight was a little reckless, sure, but… Bruce. I would do it a thousand times over if it meant you walked out of there.”
“No,” he hissed. “I won’t let you sacrifice yourself like that. I won’t.”
“No, you won’t,” Clark agreed. “And that’s why it’s not sacrifice. Because I trust you. I trust that I’ll still be around for you to yell at me after taking a risk like that, for trying to save you or someone else, because you’re going to be there to save me right back.” His eyes were clear and bright, imploring. “You’re the same, Bruce. You’re too important. To the world and to me. When are you going to understand that?”
Something tightly wound snapped in Bruce’s chest. He heaved in a breath, but the air was thick with a tension he couldn’t name, and it was catching in his throat and his ribs and his lungs, and Clark wouldn’t stop looking at him. He was so—he was just so—
“Stupid,” he hissed, and then he was kissing him, hard and bruising. Clark made a shocked noise against him but didn’t offer any resistance. Bruce let out a helpless growl, somewhere between rage and desperation, and tangled his fingers in Clark’s sweat-damp hair so he could press in closer.
When he finally forced himself to pull back, Clark was blinking at him dazedly. “You… I… What was that?” he stuttered, gratifyingly breathless. “You said before—stress relief. Is this…?”
“Do I not look stressed to you?” Bruce snarled. It startled a laugh out of Clark, which was great because when Bruce leaned in for another kiss it was blissfully easy to deepen it. God, he shouldn’t be doing this. This was idiotic. Where had this gotten him last time? But he couldn’t make himself stop because Clark was kissing back eagerly, reaching around with his uninjured arm to haul him closer. He couldn’t really feel the touch, not through layers of Kevlar, but the phantom pressure still sent a thrill through him as though it were skin on skin.
This time, he only pulled back when he realized Clark was trying to urge him onto the bed. “Clark,” he murmured warningly. “We’re on the Watchtower. J’onn could come in at any time. And you’re still recovering.”
Clark reluctantly loosened his grip. “Sure, that’s…probably sensible,” he said and winced. “Actually, now that you mention it, my shoulder really doesn’t feel great.”
“I’ll bet,” Bruce said. Cautiously, he added, “You don’t seem mad anymore.”
“Well. I still am a little,” he admitted. “You’re very aggravating when you want to be. And sometimes when you don’t.”
“I know.”
“But, uh… Admittedly, anger isn’t exactly my primary emotion right now,” Clark added a little weakly, eyes flickering down to Bruce’s mouth.
Belatedly, he realized he was still gripping Clark’s hair by the roots, keeping him within breathing distance. He had to force himself to relinquish his grip and lean all the way back. He swallowed.
“For what it’s worth, I’m still sorry. I…regret how I handled things,” he said finally. Genuinely. And the feeling was genuine, even if he was no longer entirely sure what he was apologizing for. He’d thought he’d known. For trying to blow past his indiscretion as if nothing had happened, for one. And for another, for taking advantage, crossing a line, altering the parameters of their friendship by reckless, selfish impulse.
But present evidence suggested Clark didn’t mind that last part so much.
Clark just smiled. If Bruce had thought that smile devastating before, it was ten times worse at close range, with his flushed cheeks and his kissed-red lips and his hair still mussed from Bruce’s fingers. “I know. To be honest, I’d already decided to accept your apology, and saving my life tonight only puts you further in the black. Although let’s not make a habit of resolving fights this way, huh?”
He grunted. “Seconded.”
“Besides,” Clark added, almost teasing now. “If you freaking out on me like that over uncomfortable emotions was a deal-breaker, we wouldn’t have been friends this long. Don’t worry, B. I’m in this for the long-haul.”
“Good.” Bruce swallowed. “Still, I’ll try to be more…communicative in future.”
“Mm,” Clark said. He looked down at his hands, suddenly a little preoccupied, like he was steeling himself for something. “Uh. Bruce?”
“Hn.”
Clark was twining his fingers in the bed sheets. “I know last time you made it pretty clear that… I mean, don’t worry. I get it, and I’m fine with it now. And we don’t have to, you know, talk talk about it, if you don’t want to. But…hypothetically. If, sometime when we’re not at our place of work and I wasn’t recovering from a serious injury, I were to say I was stressed…” He paused to lick his lips. A nervous habit rather than anything designed to be enticing. Bruce still had to force himself not to follow the motion. “What might you say to that?”
Bruce stared blankly at him for a too-long moment. He’d been prepared to just have that one time. He hadn’t let himself consider that there would be more.
More would be inadvisable. Unless. Maybe, if he was careful enough, he could keep things separate. Avoid pushing too far. Make this unbelievable thing work.
Maybe Bruce could have almost everything he’d wanted from him.
“I would say,” he said slowly, “that I could help you out with that.”
“Oh. Alright then,” Clark said with a smile that Bruce hadn’t seen on him before, pleased and a little hungry. Bruce suppressed a shiver.
Notes:
They made up! They still haven't actually talked about anything! This is fine :)
To anyone who expected that last scene to result in a love confession and was let down: I hear you, I understand, and I am sorry. In my defence, extremely homoerotic caring that they both construe as completely platonic is basically comics canon.
Also, fun fact: although the comic book science in this chapter was definitely exactly that, it is actually based on real things scientists can do to put things in cells! What's perhaps unrealistic is being able to do that with a radioactive alien rock rather than something biological, but technically it hasn't been shown not to work sooooo...
Next time: Bruce and Clark work towards a new normal. (Hint: it's the same as before but with sex. There is no way this could go wrong.)
Chapter 4: The Reconciliation
Summary:
With their differences resolved (?), Bruce and Clark get to know each other better. If you know what I mean.
Notes:
I'm still so grateful to everyone who gave kudos, commented, bookmarked and/or subscribed to this! We're finally in the latter half of this fic so I hope you continue to enjoy reading.
As you might have guessed from where the last chapter ended, this is where we really earn that E rating. So content warning for that, I guess!
(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)
Chapter Text
It was now almost 6 months since Lois and Clark’s break-up – to all appearances the most amicable divorce in history, considering that they’d gone from marriage back to friendship in only a few months. Bruce had assumed Clark had been downplaying things, but bizarrely that didn’t seem to be the case. Things between them really seemed to be fine.
When questioned on this, Lois just shrugged. “Well, yeah. I mean, us not getting on was never the problem. And he’s kind of annoyingly likable, as you know. It would frankly be more effort not to be friends with him. Sure, there was an adjustment period, but after that it was all gravy.” She folded her arms as she regarded the dark shape of him, perched on her kitchen windowsill. “But really, Bats, it’s the middle of the night. Any reason this couldn’t have been a text?”
“I’m multitasking.”
“Uh-huh,” she said. “Well, you might as well come in. Tea?”
“Another time,” he apologized. “I’m in the middle of something.”
A sigh. “Of course you are. Well then, I suppose I’m flattered I got a visit.” She smiled then, but it wasn’t without edge. “Take care of him, okay? He was pretty miserable while you guys were fighting. I know you’re pretty tied to the whole stoic brooding schtick, but it might be an idea to talk things out at some point. Food for thought.”
He hesitated. “Noted.”
The look she fixed him with was as disbelieving as it was unimpressed. “Yeah, I’m sure it was. Now fly away before I’m forced to drag you in here and ply you with Earl Grey.”
He went.
So that was pretty much that. The divorce papers had been signed, so the legal side had been taken care of. The rest of the League had been informed now that things were official, something Clark had been a little anxious about doing. Certain members predictably insisted on dragging Clark out to a bar for ‘consolation drinks’ – which mostly entailed Hal and Ollie progressing from obnoxious-drunk to sad-drunk while the rest of them, especially those with literally superhuman tolerance, looked on with amusement. Still, Clark seemed a little lighter afterwards, so the outing seemed to have achieved the intended purpose.
All in all, the separation was proceeding about as smoothly as these things realistically could, with the notable exception that Clark was currently homeless.
“I’m not homeless,” Clark had insisted to Dick and Tim over post-patrol cookies in the cave. “Honestly, it feels kind of unfair to people who are actually homeless to compare my situation with theirs. I’m hardly struggling.” And from there he’d launched into a whole spiel about how Lois was still letting him stay on her couch a couple times a week, and he had the Fortress of Solitude the rest of the time which wasn’t actually as lonely as it sounded, and the commute into Metropolis from the Arctic wasn’t actually that bad – kind of bracing, like a cold shower in the morning if anything, and weren’t those supposed to be good for you?
Dick had absorbed that whole speech with an expression of growing bewilderment before he turned to Bruce with wide eyes. “Oh my god. Superman’s homeless.”
“I’m not!” Clark said indignantly. “Weren’t you listening?”
“No, yeah, you’re homeless,” Tim cut in bluntly. “You haven’t been able to find a new place yet?”
Clark sighed. “Not yet. There have been some setbacks,” he said, which Bruce knew was shorthand for, The Metropolitan housing market is a fucking nightmare and I send half my paycheck to my parents and set aside another chunk for Jon’s school so everything’s out of my price range. Not that Clark had actually said as much to Bruce, but it was easy enough to infer.
Taking a casual sip of his water, Bruce tried, “You know, if you’re struggling, I could always—”
“You’re not buying me an apartment, Bruce.”
Damn. “Who said anything about buying? I already own several that would be suitable.”
Clark shot him a flat look. “You… You do get how that’s not better, don’t you?”
Tim was nonplussed. “I dunno, why not just take him up on it? It’s not like he can’t afford it.”
When Clark just grimaced, Dick chimed in with a grin. “Or move to Gotham. I hear rent’s less steep here.”
If anything, that made Clark’s grimace deepen. “No offense, but I think I prefer the Arctic.”
And so the matter was dropped.
(For now.)
Still, with everything settling back into a degree of normalcy – or whatever resembled normalcy for super-powered aliens or bat-themed vigilantes, at least – there was still a singular sticking point for Bruce.
Clark had yet to follow up on their conversation in the medbay.
Some delay had been expected. The kryptonite slowed the healing of the original injury down considerably, which meant at least a week of minimal activity while the last of the poison left his system. And then there was the inevitable and necessary follow-up: picking apart Luthor’s new compound, figuring out countermeasures, confronting Luthor himself armed with all the knowledge they’d gained. Another week later, they’d managed to stop Luthor’s plan in its tracks, put him back in prison (again) and confiscate all samples and research data for his new anti-Kryptonian bioweapon.
That had been two weeks ago.
The problem – and it was a problem, Bruce had decided – was that he and Clark were both habitually busy people. This rarely felt like a problem, as they still saw each other plenty: with the League, at the cave or occasionally the Fortress, on missions with requirements slightly above what either of them could accomplish by themselves. But more rarely alone, away from the prying eyes and ears of their colleagues – or more frequently, at least one of their children. And both of their respective cohorts of children, albeit for very different reasons, required significant distance to maintain any sort of privacy.
At least, Bruce hoped that lack of opportunity was why Clark hadn’t brought it up. Because the alternative was that he’d decided this whole thing was a terrible idea. And while perhaps that would be for the best, the possibility was…unpleasant.
The trouble with opening Pandora’s box was that the evils of the world didn’t just head back in whenever it was convenient. Before, Bruce had squared Clark away firmly in the just-a-friend category, strictly off-limits sexually, regardless of his…personal feelings on the matter. Now that Bruce knew he could have this, that Clark wanted it, he couldn’t keep the knowledge tucked away.
The trouble was, Bruce spent a lot of time with Clark in a professional context, and the Superman costume left vanishingly little to the imagination.
Case in point: when Superman drifted down beside him on a quiet rooftop in Gotham on a rare night he was patrolling alone, it actually took palpable effort to keep his demeanor perfectly placid. He shouldn’t assume anything. Just because they were alone, it didn’t mean that Clark wanted to…that he still…
“Business call?” he asked with a gentle tilt of his head.
“No, no,” Clark said with a smile. “I just…wanted to talk? If you’re not too busy.”
Bruce’s throat was dry. “No more than usual.”
Clark hummed. “So, extremely?”
He felt his lips pull into a small smile. “Exactly. But I’m sure I can spare a few minutes for…” He trailed off, suddenly struck by all the other, less pleasant reasons Clark might seek him out to ‘just talk’. He felt like an ass. “Or however long you need. Is everything…?”
At this, Clark looked somewhere between amused and embarrassed. “Yes, it’s not—This isn’t some emotional crisis or anything,” he said quickly. “Things are good. Well as good as they can be under the circumstances, which is still pretty good. Really.”
Bruce grunted. Clark could be running on no sleep in the last week and literally be on fire and still cheerfully insist he was fine. Although, if something was really wrong, Bruce trusted that he’d tell him. He’d promised, after all.
The corner of Clark’s mouth quirked up. He ambled over to the edge of the roof and sat down, legs dangling over side, and patted the space beside him. “Sit?”
Bruce acquiesced. “Is there any reason we’re socializing like the Men At Lunch?”
There went the other corner. “That doesn’t seem like an accurate comparison. They didn’t have grapple guns to protect them from falling.”
“Or flight.”
“Or flight,” Clark agreed. “Either way, the stakes are different for us, aren’t they? For me, it’s actually kind of comforting being high up like this. It’s the same for you too, right?”
“I wouldn’t say comforting,” Bruce replied, although he thought he understood what Clark meant. There was a sense of belonging he got sometimes when he was high above Gotham like this. Like this was where he was supposed to be. “So. How have you been?”
“Didn’t I answer that already?”
“Not in any detail.”
“True.” Clark tilted his head, considering. “Well… I came out to Lois the other day. Well, officially. Obviously I already told her about… Uh.”
Bruce carefully didn’t wince. Even now they’d made up, the topic of what happened between them in the cave still felt raw somehow, a line of tension between them that neither of them wanted to put any pressure on lest it snap. “It’s still good to make it official.”
“Yeah, that’s what I thought.”
“I assume she was supportive?”
Clark’s smile widened. “In her way. She rolled her eyes and said, ‘What, you want a cake? Join the club, Smallville’.”
Bruce snorted. “That’s very Lois.”
“Yeah, it is,” Clark said, smile widening into something a little soppier. He was clearly still smitten with her, even if the feeling was no longer romantic. At least, according to him and Lois. Bruce himself was hard-pressed to tell the difference. “All in all, it wasn’t the most dramatic coming out I could have had. And I’m a little put out that everyone else seemed to know before I did. Well, you and Lois at least.”
“Not everyone else,” Bruce agreed soothingly. “I’m sure Booster Gold didn’t notice you checking him out last time he was in the Watchtower.”
“I did not,” Clark gaped, affronted. “You take that back.”
“Okay, fine. I made that one up.”
“How very dare you,” he huffed. “Of all the people to joke about.”
He smirked. “I knew that one would get you.”
Clark shook his head in disappointment. “One day, you’ll learn that the true meaning of friendship is not joking about your friends being attracted to Booster Gold. And on that day, I’ll accept your apology.”
“Don’t hold your breath,” Bruce said with a snort. Clark chuckled.
He expected some kind of follow-up jibe, but instead Clark lapsed into silence, suddenly oddly tense. His eyes were unfocused, fixed on the hands resting in his lap.
“Clark,” Bruce prompted with a frown, once the silence had grown uncomfortable.
Clark looked up at him startled, almost like he’d forgotten Bruce was there, then lowered his gaze back to his hands, wet his lips. He was nervous. “Well, I was wondering if…you remembered what we talked about in the medbay.”
Oh.
“You know,” Clark continued, “about—”
“Yes.”
Clark blinked. “Yes you remember? Or—”
“Yes,” Bruce repeated, pressing the sequence of buttons on his gauntlet that would turn his comms fully dark. “To both.”
“Oh, good,” Clark said, nervousness thawing into something pleased and hopeful. “I was starting to wonder if it was all some kryptonite-fueled hallucination.”
“Green kryptonite doesn’t make you hallucinate,” Bruce said, pushing himself up onto his knees.
“Well, I wouldn’t know that if I were hallucinating, would I? That’s—” Bruce swung his leg over Clark’s and settled into his lap, “—oh. My god?”
Bruce tilted his head as he settled his gauntleted hands on Clark’s broad shoulders. “Is this not what you were going for?” he asked. The question was largely rhetorical, given that Clark seemed anything but upset at this turn of events. “You did bring it up.”
“I did,” Clark acknowledged, eyes flickering down to his mouth. They were already so close that Bruce could count his eyelashes. Behind him was a near sheer drop, but in some ways the narrow gap between them felt steeper, yawning and vast and bottomless, dangerous. There was a tautness pulling at his chest now because yes, yes, finally—
He swayed forward and caught Clark’s bottom lip between his teeth, plush and soft. Tugged it gently as he pulled back. Clark swallowed and absently swiped his tongue across where Bruce’s teeth had been mere moments ago. Bruce watched the motion, rapt.
Clark took a deep breath and released it. “Okay then,” he said, and then he was the one leaning forward, tilting his head up to capture Bruce’s lips in a kiss.
Bruce didn’t hesitate to deepen it, tilting his head so he could press in closer. Kissing Clark now was even better than it had been in the medbay, that desperate passion replaced with something searingly sweet. Now Clark was hale and hearty, tasting like coffee and breath mints and smelling faintly of ozone. And god, it just felt so right. Clark was unbelievably solid and warm beneath him and pressed up against him and around him, breathing a sigh into his mouth as his hands slid up Bruce’s back beneath the cape.
But as thoroughly enjoyable as it was, Bruce had other plans. Hell, he had an itinerary. Batman was patient by necessity; Bruce decidedly was not.
He slid off his gauntlet. Very deliberately, he pressed his bare palm to Clark’s chest and slowly trailed it downwards. Clark didn’t seem opposed to the proposal of escalation, pressing into the touch. Feeling bolder, Bruce continued his journey down along the hard plane of Clark’s stomach until he reached between Clark’s legs. And squeezed.
Clark broke away with a groan that went straight to Bruce’s cock. “Oh god, Bruce. Wait.”
Bruce shivered. Fuck, he could listen to Clark say his name like that forever.
“Yes, Clark?” he said indulgently.
Clark’s hands settled on his hips. “Are we actually doing this? Out here?”
“Why not?” Bruce said. “There’s no-one around. No-one can see or hear us up here.” He punctuated his argument with another firm squeeze which elicited another delicious noise, this one muffled against Bruce’s lips as he tugged Clark back in for a kiss.
Clark finally pulled back after a long, dizzying minute. “And you’re still wearing the cowl,” Clark gasped accusingly.
“Is that a problem?”
“I—” Clark began and then sighed. “No,” he replied almost sadly, like he felt slightly embarrassed that it wasn’t.
Bruce smirked, trailed his fingers up to the waistband of Clark’s costume. Teasingly, he ran his fingertips along the inside.
And then—
“Don’t fucking move, kid!”
“G-get back!”
He stilled. Far, far below them were the sounds of two people, their raised voices echoing up through the narrow walls of the alleyway. One voice was scared and young, probably a teenager; the other older and full of menace. Beneath him, Clark had also stilled, suddenly alert. He shot a worried glance at the alley beneath them.
God damn it. The night had been quiet so far. This just had to happen right now, didn’t it?
Suppressing a sigh, he disentangled himself from Clark and pulled on the gauntlet he’d removed. “Be right back,” he said and toppled backwards over the edge of the roof. His grapple caught on a window ledge and he swung smoothly into the mouth of the alley.
In the end, his presence was barely required. Or rather, only his presence was required. As soon as the scumbag who’d pulled a knife on a kid noticed the dark shape emerging from the shadows behind her, she screamed and sprinted towards the mouth of the alley. She didn’t get far before Batman tripped her with a shot from the grapple, used spare cord to restrain her legs and wrists and shot off a quick alert to the GCPD for collection.
He turned to the kid, half slumped against the brick wall of the alley. She couldn’t be much older than 14 or 15 but she looked even younger now, fear-widened eyes now glittering with awe. “Holy shit,” she breathed. “Holy shit.”
“Are you injured?” he asked, crouching down to avoid looming over her.
She blinked down at him. “Nah, I’m cool,” she said a little shakily, but she seemed to be telling the truth from the way her breathing was already starting to even out.
“You shouldn’t be out alone at night,” he told her.
At this, she huffed and rolled her eyes. “Yeah, well, I am. So—” She froze, eyes now fixed on the sky. “Oh my god. Is that Superman?”
Bruce jerked his gaze to the sky just in time to see a red and blue streak disappear into the night.
God damn it.
He suppressed a sigh and turned back to the kid. “Would you like a lollipop?”
She gave him a long look. Then she shrugged. “Yeah, fuck it. Why not?”
He fished one out of his belt and handed it to her. “Go straight home. I’ll make sure no-one else troubles you,” he told her and grappled back up to the roof.
He still had a city to patrol.
“You look grumpy,” Tim observed when he returned to the cave several hours later.
Bruce grunted, pulling off the cowl and his gauntlets. “I thought you were still with your team.”
Tim shrugged. He was in civvies, comfortable. Clearly he’d been back for a while. “Finished early. Is it about Clark?”
Bruce paused halfway out of his armor. “What.”
“Your bad mood. Is it about Clark?”
“What makes you think that?” he asked, carefully neutral.
Tim jerked a thumb over his shoulder towards the cave proper. “Because he’s here.”
Bruce’s fingers tensed on the clasp of his utility belt.
For whatever reason, Tim let out a beleaguered groan. “Oh, hell. I totally owe Dick twenty dollars,” he grumbled as he stood and turned to leave. Bruce realized belatedly that he must have been waiting up for him. “I’m heading to bed, right now, immediately. Night, Bruce.”
“Goodnight,” Bruce said distantly and continued to efficiently strip himself of the rest of the costume.
“B?”
He turned. Clark was hovering a little uncertainly about 10 feet away and 2 inches off the ground, brow furrowed in apology. “Sorry, there was a—”
“—an emergency, I know,” he finished. He’d gotten the alert for a four-alarm fire in a Metropolis tenement block soon after Clark had left. Undoubtedly a job for Superman.
“Right,” Clark said. “Right. Of course you know. I just wanted to apologize for leaving so abruptly in…the middle of things.”
“It’s fine.”
“Right,” Clark said again. “Good. I’m—”
“Clark.”
He blinked. “Yes?”
“Did you want to continue?”
“Oh.” Clark paused, eyes widening. He glanced away. “You know, I really did just come to apologize, I didn’t come here with the intention of…”
“I know,” Bruce said, suppressing the urge to roll his eyes. “Although I wouldn’t mind if you did.”
“Okay,” Clark agreed in a voice that was a touch higher than his usual baritone. “I just don’t want you to think I’m trying to take advantage, or—”
Bruce actually did roll his eyes this time. “You’re fine.” As if Clark was the one taking advantage. Bruce was the one eager to take any opening he could to initiate things, now that this was on the table. Which, Bruce told himself, was for perfectly legitimate reasons. Putting other, less comfortable feelings aside, Bruce liked sex and Clark was an incredibly attractive man – and better yet, one he didn’t have to hide his identity from. It didn’t have to mean anything beyond that. Not if he didn’t let it.
For all his hemming and hawing, Clark didn’t seem especially averse when Bruce came closer. His gaze drifted over Bruce’s body. He was glad the scars weren’t a turn off, at least. “So you… Really?”
“Mm. You don’t want to?”
Clark flushed a delicate pink. “I—Of course I do. Just, I mean— Where should we…? It’s not exactly private here.”
In his impatience, Bruce almost suggested they just continue here and now, save themselves a trip. Then half a second later he remembered, among other things, the distinct lack of lockable doors in this part of the cave. “You’re right.”
“Oh. I am?” He sounded disappointed.
“Yes. We should relocate.” Bruce turned to grab some clothes and a towel. “Meet me upstairs. I’ll be 5 minutes.”
“Oh,” Clark said, now almost relieved. Then: “Oh! Sure thing.”
He didn’t seem to need further prompting, vanishing in a gentle rush of air. Bruce himself wasted no time, taking the world’s most perfunctory shower and pulling on a clean t-shirt and sweats. He headed straight to his bedroom, bypassing the kitchen and living room so as not to bump into any of the family.
He pushed open his bedroom door to find Alfred standing in the center of the room, facing an uncomfortable-looking Clark, no longer in costume and with shower-damp hair. He stopped.
Alfred turned to eye him placidly. “Master Bruce. Good evening, and my apologies for the interruption. I came to check the balcony when I saw that the alarm had been triggered. It’s been some time since your last…late-night visitor.”
Since Selina, Alfred meant. Bruce tried not to grimace. That was not an association he wanted to make.
Alfred’s gaze returned to Clark. “As I was saying, I am quite well. Thank you for asking.”
“That’s great to hear,” Clark said warmly.
“And I would like to offer my most heartfelt condolences regarding your marriage,” Alfred continued.
Clark’s answering smile was polite and appropriately grateful. “Thanks, Alfred. That means a lot.”
Bruce pinched the bridge of his nose. Unbelievable. Here Clark was, the late-thirties equivalent of a teenager caught by his girlfriend’s dad with one leg through the bedroom window, and nonetheless compelled by some terrible, Midwestern instinct to attempt small talk. Only him.
Alfred glanced over at Bruce, his right eyebrow the barest fraction higher than his left. “I do hope Master Bruce has been offering adequate support in this difficult time,” he said, perfectly neutral in a way that was, for him, incredibly pointed.
Clark blinked and turned red.
Bruce only sighed at that, hardly surprised, because there was no universe in which Alfred hadn’t already figured out what Clark was here for the moment he’d found him sneaking in through the balcony in civvies. “Alfred.”
He bowed slightly. “My apologies, Master Kent, but it would seem I am needed elsewhere. Have a pleasant night.”
“You too, Alfred,” Clark called out weakly. Alfred disappeared into the hallway. When the sound of footsteps had faded, he turned to Bruce. “So. He knows that—”
“Yes.”
“Oh.”
“Problem?”
“Well. No, but—”
“Good,” he said and firmly closed – and locked – the door behind him. He wasted no time crowding Clark against the balcony door, hands pressed into broad shoulders – perhaps too eager, but damn it, he’d been waiting for this for hours, for yea— weeks. Clark let him, the immovable bulk of him falling back easily.
Like this, he could actually feel the inch or so Clark had on him. Having to tilt his head up slightly to murmur into his ear evoked an unfamiliar but certainly not unwelcome feeling. “Now, where were we?”
Clark sucked in a breath. “Well, I think we were… Oh…”
Whatever he’d been about to say died in his throat when Bruce scraped his teeth just under his jawline. Clark let out the softest of gasps when Bruce sucked at the skin there, trailed lower to the collar of his shirt. He made a mental note, hopefully the first of several: enjoys oral stimulation to the neck. Encouraged, he let his hands slide down to Clark’s hips and bit at the juncture between neck and shoulder, gently so as not to break his own teeth but hard enough that he was sure Clark would feel it.
Clark’s head fell back against the door. “Jesus,” he breathed.
Bruce tipped his head back to smirk at him. “Just Bruce is fine,” he said.
Clark let out a breathless, startled laugh. “Oh my god, I can’t believe you— That’s such a cliché.”
“I know.”
“And to think, people think you don’t have a sense of humor. But in reality, you do, and it’s awful.”
“You’re laughing,” Bruce pointed out.
“I am,” Clark agreed. His hands came up to cup the back of Bruce’s neck, warm, thick fingers ruffling the short hairs there as he gently urged him closer again. “Can I…?”
“Don’t need to ask,” he mumbled and leaned in closer. Clark eased their mouths together, a soft, sweet slide that made Bruce’s toes curl against the carpet. He pressed in closer, helplessly drawn in, and Clark’s hands shifted round to cup his jaw, and it felt—
It felt like Clark was holding something precious. And the thought of that was dangerous, made Bruce’s heartbeat speed up treacherously, curled sharp and sour in his gut.
He wrenched Clark’s hands away from his face to place them firmly on his ass, threading his own fingers through Clark’s hair so he could pull him in closer. Clark responded immediately with a firm squeeze, let Bruce lick into his mouth with a pleased little noise and fuck, now it was perfect. Clark’s huge hands pulling him closer, the wet heat of his mouth, that impossibly powerful body warm and solid against him and god, so responsive. Clark wasn’t loud, exactly, but the noises were constant. Just little things: each exhale edged with a groan, every press of his hips or scrape of blunt nails against his chest evoking a hitched breath or a rumble in his chest. It was intoxicating.
And then Clark’s fingers were sliding up to dip under the hem of Bruce’ shirt and skate along his bare skin, and it took everything Bruce had to pull back long enough to suggest, “Bed?”
“Sure,” Clark agreed hoarsely and then they were maneuvering their way to Bruce’s bed, an act made slightly more difficult by the fact that Bruce was tugging him backwards by his belt loops and peppering his jaw with more kisses, just to make him squirm.
At the last second, he pivoted them so that Clark landed on his back on the bed. And for a single, frozen moment, he just looked down at Clark. Clark, propped up on his elbows, looking back at him with his hair mussed and clothing rumpled by Bruce’s fingers.
“Hi there,” Clark said wryly, a twist in his smile that was endearingly shy on a man usually so unshakeable.
Two thoughts immediately came to his mind. First was the terrifying realization that he was never going to be able to erase the image of Clark here like this, spread out across his bed, warm and golden against dark sheets; that his phantom presence would linger here as he tried fruitlessly to fall asleep tonight – and probably for many nights after this.
The second thought was a conviction.
He was going to give Clark the best head of his life.
He knelt on the bed above Clark, bracing himself over his prone body. “I’m going to suck you off,” he announced.
A gratifying heat flared in Clark’s eyes. He said thickly, “Oh. Okay. You know, some people might have phrased that as a question.”
“Pants. Off.” He grabbed at Clark’s belt, sliding the leather free from the buckle. He was distantly relieved that Clark had changed. He hadn’t figured out exactly how to take the supersuit off yet, and he didn’t have the patience right now to figure it out. That was something to add to the to-do list.
“Okay, Mr. Bossy,” Clark said but complied, taking over from Bruce. His eagerness was belied by the slight blurring of his fingers. (Clearly Clark didn’t mind his sexual partners being demanding in bed. Unsurprising, given he’d married Lois. Bruce made another mental note.)
He didn’t wait for Clark to finish undressing completely, just until his pants had been pushed down below his hips. Then he was taking over, peeling down those slightly damp boxers, and…
Fuck. He had touched Clark before, felt him through his clothes, but it was another thing entirely to see him bare, huge and thick and flushed red and so hard for him, even though they’d barely done anything more than kiss. Bruce felt his mouth begin to water.
Beneath him, Clark shifted uncomfortably. “Geez, Bruce, you don’t have to stare at it like that.”
Bruce dragged his eyes up to Clark’s face, took in the unmistakable hint of self-consciousness in the teasing smile. Right, this was about Clark, not him. This – Bruce – was new to him. He shouldn’t let himself forget that if he wanted to ensure a repeat performance.
This wouldn’t be like last time. He wouldn’t let it. This time, he would keep himself under control.
“Sorry,” he murmured and bent forward to press a lingering kiss to Clark’s lips. Clark seemed to melt into it, the subtle tension easing from his shoulders.
He kissed the barely-stubbled skin at his jaw, dipped his head to scrape his teeth against a nipple through his thin t-shirt. Clark shivered and stifled another groan when Bruce pulled it between his teeth, relaxing into Bruce’s touch as he worked his way down that beautiful body, pulled his shirt up enough to nose at the dark trail of hair leading to his cock.
And then, finally, he was wrapping his lips around the tip. Clark tensed as soon as he made contact, made a little punched-out noise that made Bruce eager to push further, see what other noises he could draw out. But he forced himself to take it slow, to let the moment really sink in. Clark was hot and huge in his mouth, silk-soft skin and salt on his tongue. When he glanced up through his lashes, Clark was watching him, gaze intent and a little dazed. Bruce pulled back with a long, slow suck, and Clark pulled his bottom lip between his teeth and let his eyes flutter shut.
He slid down further then and began to bob his head. Soon his senses were filled with Clark: the feel of his hips twitching beneath his hands, the little noises he kept making, the scent and taste of discount body wash and the particular, overwhelming musk of male genitalia. The thrill of it was heady, having the most powerful man in the world at his mercy, straining to not buck his hips up into his mouth.
Bruce catalogued the experience without thinking too deeply about any of that, because if he did, he might stop thinking altogether.
Fortunately, the thought of making Clark fall apart beneath him was significantly more inviting than the thought of rutting against the bedclothes like some kind of animal, as tempting as that seemed just then, so the urge was easy enough to suppress. He worked him with his tongue, thorough, methodical – trying every trick he knew to take someone apart and repeating the ones that made the muscles of Clark’s thighs and stomach tremble.
His efforts seemed to be paying off, judging by the vaguely broken little sounds Clark was making now. With each bob of his head, he worked that thick, gorgeous length a little deeper into his mouth until it was almost bumping the back of his throat. And then – slowly, since he was a little out of practice – he took it even deeper.
Clark threw his head back with a noise that was almost a shout, his whole body tense and trembling, hands fisted in Bruce’s sheets. “Oh my god— shit, B, you’re—”
Bruce hummed, watched the way Clark shivered all over, a strangled moan dragged from his throat. He pulled back when it became too much, flicked his tongue against the slit. And then if he could just— The angle was awkward with Clark’s boxers barely tugged below his hips, but he managed to slide his hand in to gently tug at Clark’s balls, stroking them delicately with callused fingers.
“Bruce— Incredible, you’re incredible,” Clark was babbling, staring down at Bruce with something akin to desperation in his eyes. “Shit, I’m not gonna last, you gotta—”
In lieu of replying, Bruce sank down again until his nose was almost pressed against Clark’s stomach, tongue moving firm against the underside of his cock. He edged his fingers lower to stroke firmly just behind his balls – and just like that, Clark was coming down his throat with Bruce’s name on his lips. He pulled off just enough to let the thick, bitter liquid flood his mouth and feel Clark twitch against his lips.
When the Man of Steel was shuddering with aftershocks, he slid off him in one long, slow pull. Clark’s eyes drifted open to watch Bruce swallow thickly, clean him off and lick the stray drops of come from his own lips.
“God,” Clark said, raw. And then Bruce was being hauled up along the bed for a bruising kiss. Clark’s mouth was rough, eager, devouring, teeth pulling at his lower lip. When Bruce opened his mouth on a small sound of surprise, Clark pressed his advantage, licked into his mouth with dizzying intensity—
—and for a terrifying moment, Bruce’s head filled entirely with static. He was suddenly excruciatingly aware of how turned on he was, how unbelievably arousing it had been to have Clark in his bed, trying desperately not to fuck his throat, the sinful groan he’d let out when he’d come. The eager little noises he was making now, the powerful hands running over his back, pulling him closer. It was all he could do not to succumb and press in against him, let Clark feel the way he was most of the way to hard without even touching himself, just from this, fuck, from having Clark in his mouth—
He pulled back, panting. Clark’s stark blue eyes were almost completely black, still intense and hungry. He’d never known that Clark could look like this. Could look at him like this.
He let out a huff of surprised laughter. “Christ, you want to go again already?”
Clark blinked, slow like his brain was still coming back online. “Uh.”
“I thought you’d need more of a breather,” he said, glancing down to Clark’s softening cock. “Unless… what’s your refractory period? Does Kryptonian biology work similarly to humans in that regard?”
“Um, I— Huh? It’s…pretty fast, I guess.”
That was…intriguing. In a number of ways. “I could do that again, if you’d like,” Bruce offered, just the right side of nonchalant. “But do you mind if I used my hand this time? My jaw will get sore if I try that again. As you might have noticed, you’re hardly small.”
But already, the hunger had faded from Clark’s eyes, replaced with a faint embarrassment. “No, no. It’s not— I’m good,” he mumbled. His hands slipped from Bruce’s back to rest demurely against the bedsheets.
Hm. In retrospect, he could see how an interrogation about his biology might kill the mood. Something to keep in mind for next time. He shrugged, trying not to seem disappointed that this was over already. Because that would be stupid and overeager, neither of which he could appear to be.
“Suit yourself,” he said mildly and slid off Clark and the bed. It was alright, he told himself. Clark had clearly enjoyed himself. Bruce was almost certain there would be a next time – quite possibly more than that. “Feel free to use the ensuite to clean up. I’ve still got to write up tonight’s report.” And then, remembering the first time they’d done anything like this and realizing how much the words sounded like a dismissal, he paused and added, “You’re welcome to stay, of course. I didn’t mean—”
“That’s alright,” Clark said quickly. “I ought to get back anyway. Early morning. I’ll just…” And then he was clambering out of the bed and making his way over to the bathroom.
When the door closed, Bruce shut his eyes and took a couple of deep breaths, counting prime numbers until his arousal subsided. He could return to it later. When he was once again fit for polite company, he ventured downstairs to the study to get his tablet.
The study, where for some reason Alfred was waiting, making a pretense of some dusting.
“Master Bruce,” Alfred greeted him politely as he entered.
Bruce raised an eyebrow. “It’s pretty late for you to be up, isn’t it?”
“On the contrary, I would consider this rising early,” Alfred replied.
Bruce felt abruptly discomfited. “Ah. Did Clark wake you coming in? That wasn’t…”
Alfred waved a hand. “Think nothing of it. I would have been up in a short while anyway.” He paused delicately. “I must say, I am…surprised to see you out and about so soon.”
Bruce snorted. “How unexpected, coming from you. Was that a dig at my stamina? Or at Clark’s?”
“Nothing so crude. Merely an observation,” he said neutrally. “I also observe that you’re without Master Kent. Is there some pressing matter you must attend to?”
“I still have to write up my report,” Bruce said, which they both knew wasn’t really a yes. “Is the third degree necessary?”
The look Alfred leveled at him was distinctly unimpressed. “That seems like a rather dramatic interpretation of the single question I’ve asked you thus far. But in the spirit of your comment, I simply question whether this is…” he paused for a long moment, as if trying to find the right word, “…wise. That’s all.”
“I understand your concern,” Bruce assured him, “but Clark’s a big boy. He’s fine.”
“It wasn’t just Master Kent I was referring to,” he muttered. He reached over to the desk and picked up the tablet, held it out to Bruce. “I expect you’re looking for this.”
“Thank you, Alfred,” Bruce said, accepting the tablet. “Oh, and regarding what we discussed earlier. Proceed as planned.”
A nod. “Very good, sir. Good night.”
Bruce returned to his bedroom. Clark had already left, and only recently at that judging by the steam emanating from the bathroom. Bruce felt a strange mixture of relief and disappointment and ruthlessly suppressed both. He prepared himself for bed on autopilot, half of his attention focused on the report he was compiling on his tablet.
As soon as he was done, he slipped into bed and tried to fall asleep. But as sometimes happened, sleep didn’t come. It was all too obvious why. The scent of Clark’s hair on his pillow was a distraction, a battering ram on the walls of his mind.
With a tired sigh, he allowed the memories to flood in – the scent, the feel, the heat of him, the look in his eyes and fuck, the way he’d said Bruce’s name (incredible, you’re incredible) – and slipped a hand down to his cock. Potent as the memory was, it was barely a few minutes before it swept him under its tide and he was gone, shuddering into his hand with a choked curse. But it still wasn’t enough to repress the memory completely. He curled up on his side, trying to fill the sudden hollowness in his chest.
Sleep didn’t find him until long after sunlight had crept in through the gaps of the curtains.
Notes:
They're doing the sex now! Good for them. Just easy, uncomplicated friends-with-benefits. How could that possibly backfire?
Next time: Things start to come to a head. And hey now, that is not an innuendo how dare you suggest—
Chapter 5: The Mistake
Summary:
The situation progresses. Bruce has a good time until, abruptly, he doesn't.
Notes:
As always, your comments and kudos mean everything to me. Thank you again for reading! We're close to the finish line now.
(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)
Chapter Text
After that first night, their ‘arrangement’ continued.
He didn’t make the mistake of inviting Clark into his actual bed again. It was clearly too close to something Bruce couldn’t have. But nor could he let this opportunity pass him by. It wasn’t often that men like Clark needed a rebound.
And that was, at its essence, what this was, Bruce was sure of it. This was a critical period for Clark – or rather, the fulcrum of several. Months after a separation, certainly long enough that the idea of being single again and fooling around might seem fun and exciting. A recently discovered facet of his sexuality, which might feel rewarding to explore with whomever was willing and in possession of the right ‘equipment’, so to speak. A period of interpersonal stress in the life of someone already under extraordinary stress every day, where the novel prospect of casual sex might feel like the release of a pressure valve.
Bruce was not in the habit of believing in luck, but for this to come about for him, the stars must truly have aligned.
But the universe doesn’t stay stagnant. Time would pass, the planet would turn. Something crucial would shift. One day Clark would realize there was a wide, wide world out there, filled with people who’d line up around the block to help a successful professional, with the looks of an underwear model and the personality of a particularly paternal Labrador, sexually experiment beyond whatever he’d done with his ex-wife. In fact, Bruce would bet cash that there were already several videos on Pornhub with titles to exactly that effect.
But until that day arrived, Bruce planned to take full advantage.
So instead of waiting around for chances that may never arrive, he engineered…opportunities. He arranged a solo patrol on a quiet night he knew Clark was free, found an isolated rooftop when he spotted the telltale flash of red in the bleak Gotham sky – far away from any alleyways, so that this time, when he slipped his hand beneath Clark’s waistband, they weren’t interrupted. A few weeks earlier, Clark Kent was called to sub in last minute for an interview in Bruce Wayne’s office. It was not for the first time, certainly, but their previous interviews hadn’t ended with his esteemed interviewer sitting at his desk while the interviewee knelt beneath it. Bruce had worked at him diligently with his mouth until Clark was coming down his throat with a beautiful groan muffled into the crook of his elbow.
And tonight, Bruce Wayne ‘drunkenly’ spilled red wine on Clark Kent at a gala.
Clark seemed unsurprised to see him slip into the men’s room. They were, of course, the only occupants. Brucie’s fit of ‘clumsiness’ had taken place near the back corner of the hall, nearest to a restroom that was inconveniently out of the way for most of the guests.
“Really, Bruce?” he asked with a raised eyebrow. It might have come across as disapproving if not for the way his eyes tracked Bruce’s approach with a now-familiar flicker of heat. “Is this some kinda…thing for you? Exhibitionism?”
Bruce straightened his cuffs demurely as he met his eyes in the mirror. “I saw you looking at me,” he replied. “Was that not meant as an invitation?”
Clark leaned back against the sink counter to look at him head on and folded his arms across his chest, his partially damp shirt hanging open over his undershirt. He’d clearly given up on getting the stain out. “I was just admiring your suit.”
Bruce hummed. “And?”
“It’s a nice suit,” Clark said. “A really nice suit. Very flattering.”
“Thank you.”
“But I wasn’t trying to, you know. Initiate anything.”
“Well, I’m here now,” Bruce noted. He met Clark’s eyes, then allowed his gaze to shift lower – the dip of his collarbone, the flat plane of his stomach beneath his damp undershirt. It looked like his pants had been spared from the wine, at least.
“You are,” Clark agreed, shifting his weight.
“It’s been a while,” Bruce observed neutrally. It had. 23 days, to be exact. Bruce hoped it wasn’t obvious how much he’d been looking forward to it, the mere prospect a thoroughly pleasant but equally unwelcome distraction, one that grew more so with each passing day.
Clark swallowed. “It has,” he agreed, and something in Bruce thrilled at the suggestion that Clark had been anticipating these trysts too. “But…this isn’t very private, is it? We can’t even lock the door.”
Bruce flicked his gaze to the row of stalls. “Actually, I see plenty of locks.”
Clark’s eyes widened. “Oh lord. You’re serious.”
“Of course I’m serious. You’ll be able to sense anyone approaching long before they enter. It’ll be fine.”
“B, neither of us are exactly, uh, small. Would we even fit?”
“Trust me, they’re plenty big enough for this,” Bruce assured him and slipped into one of the stalls.
“I’m not gonna ask how you know that,” Clark muttered, but he was already following him. He didn’t object when Bruce slid the door’s latch closed and arranged them in the enclosed stall, crowding him against the wall. He definitely didn’t object when Bruce tugged him out of his polyester-blend dress slacks, palm already slick with the lube he’d kept in his inner pocket. Clark groaned, hands sliding down to palm at Bruce’s ass and, almost absently, Bruce found himself wondering whether he could convince Clark to fuck him.
But no. Too much, too soon.
If Bruce were honest with himself, Clark eventually losing interest was actually the optimistic outcome. Worse and more likely was this: one day, Bruce would get ahead of himself, push too hard, cross the line, reveal too much. Say the wrong thing. And just like that night in the cave, Clark would pull away, and Bruce would lose him all over again. Bruce didn’t want to take that chance. He didn’t want to push for anything he wasn’t sure Clark already wanted.
This was more than enough. This was Clark, letting out a sweet gasp as Bruce stroked him, head falling back against the flimsy divider with a hollow thunk. “Shh. You have to stay quiet,” Bruce murmured and kissed him and kissed him and didn’t stop until Clark was coming apart with a shudder and long, low groan muffled against his lips.
He pulled back to find Clark watching him, eyes dark, still hazy and lust-drunk, and this time he couldn’t help but imagine—
(Bruce pressed up against the cubicle wall, impossibly powerful hands holding him steady so Clark could fuck into him with slow, deep strokes. He would be gentle but inexorable, a benevolent force of nature, warm breath against his neck and Bruce’s name a groan on his lips—)
Someday, he decided. When they weren’t in a hotel bathroom, when he was sure he wasn’t moving too fast. He couldn’t risk losing Clark again. As it was, he could tell he was already pushing Clark’s limits. Clark dropped his face into his palm and let out a chuckle edged with faint hysteria. “Oh, sweet lord. Jesus, Mary and Joseph. A public bathroom? I can’t believe you keep talking me into this.”
Bruce lifted his now-soiled handkerchief, used it to clean the worst of the mess off his hand. “In my recollection, you didn’t need much persuasion this time. Or any time.”
“I know. That’s the worst part.”
Bruce gave him an encouraging pat on the shoulder. “Chin up, Clark. You’re still a boy scout in my eyes.”
Clark lifted his head just enough to send him a half-hearted glare over the tips of his fingers. “Thanks,” he said dryly.
“You’re welcome.” He stepped back, tucked the handkerchief into an inside pocket to deal with later. “Is the coast clear?”
Clark blinked and let his hands drop. “You’re…leaving? Already? I thought this time, maybe…”
“If I’m gone too long, people would start to suspect something,” he explained coolly, smoothing down his lapel. “It would hardly be an issue for Bruce Wayne’s public image, but I can’t imagine you’d appreciate it if people connected the dots to Clark Kent’s coinciding trip to the men’s room.” The whole exchange had taken a little under 10 minutes – perhaps already pushing the plausible deniability of how long he could pretend to be using the bathroom without inviting speculation as to his gastrointestinal health, but Bruce couldn’t bring himself to rush things too much after so long without.
“I…guess you’re right,” Clark said and began to awkwardly tuck himself back into his slacks. For once, Clark’s terrible sartorial decisions were useful beyond their role as a disguise: his unfashionably unstyled hair was barely more rumpled than usual for having Bruce’s hands in it, the easy-iron suit barely held a wrinkle, and the pre-tied bow tie would take seconds to reattach, just as pristinely awful as it had been before.
“I usually am,” Bruce agreed and left the stall to wash his hands. “Wait at least five minutes after I leave.”
He slipped out into the party, rejoined the guests with a fresh glass of champagne, making as if he’d just gotten lost on the way to the bar. Coming from Bruce Wayne, the excuse was entirely too plausible. He carefully didn’t react when Clark re-entered six minutes later and used his wine-soiled suit to politely excuse himself from the rest of the event, evidently having got whatever quotes he needed already.
It was clear this wasn’t tenable as a long-term solution. At some point, Clark would start to wonder why Bruce wouldn’t have him in his bed again. But for now?
Bruce could make it work.
“So, how are things going with Clark?” Dick asked him the next time he was in Gotham.
The cave was empty apart from the two of them and Alfred, who was quietly oiling a grapple gun. Bruce glanced over at Dick, who met his gaze with a casualness Bruce could tell was forced.
He looked back down at his tablet. “None of your business.”
“Ugh, not this again,” Dick said, slumping against the edge of the computer console with a stubborn frown. “Haven’t we been over this already? Alfred, help me out here.”
Alfred sniffed primly. “No, Master Bruce is quite right. Such sordid topics are best not discussed with one’s children.”
Dick made a face. “Sordid? There’s nothing ‘sordid’ about…”
He frowned contemplatively as he trailed off. His eyes flickered over to Bruce’s face, to his fingers tensing minutely on the tablet, to Alfred’s display of benign displeasure, and then back to Bruce. He gasped. “B! You’re not! Tell me you’re not!”
“I said, it’s none of your business,” Bruce said calmly.
Predictably, Dick was considerably less calm. He groaned and slumped forward to press the heels of his palms into his temples with characteristic melodrama. “Oh, god damn it. You gigantic, colossal, unparalleled idiot. You’re fucking him, aren’t you?”
“Language,” said Bruce automatically as Alfred looked on with disapproval.
Dick let out a derisive huff. “I’m 26, not 12. And I think the situation calls for it.”
“Does it.”
Dick whipped his head up to glare at Bruce, his expression an exaggerated mixture of disbelief and betrayal. “You’re doing no strings with someone you have feelings for. You’re one of the smartest people I know, so for god’s sake, why are you being so stupid. This is so obviously a horrible idea!”
Bruce raised a single eyebrow. “This remains none of your business,” he said, “but we’re both adults. I don’t see why you’re reacting like this.”
Dick shot him an incredulous look. “Don’t see why— Ugh, B! It is basic common sense not to have casual relationships with people you’re in love with! As obvious as, like, not hooking up with your college roommate during orientation, or not getting back with the ex who cheated on you. Teenagers know this stuff!”
Bruce had, in fact, done all of those things before. It did not seem helpful to mention that now. “Dick. It’s fine.”
“No. No, it’s not!” Dick snapped. “I don’t care how good you are at compartmentalizing, there’s no way this doesn’t end in tears. Or I guess in your case, in rage-filled silent brooding when the shi—uh, when the crap hits the fan. Sorry, Alfie.”
Alfred nodded. “Thank you, Master Dick.”
“You’re making a lot of assumptions,” Bruce said with a sigh, lowering his tablet. “I know what I’m doing.”
Dick narrowed his eyes, folded his arms defiantly across his chest. “Oh yeah? What’re you gonna do when whatever ‘arrangement’ you have ends and you still haven’t told him how you feel?”
Bruce stifled a pang of discomfort. The thought was not a pleasant one, but it was inevitable, and he had already come to terms with that. Dick’s worry was completely unnecessary.
“I have it handled,” was all he said.
Dick rolled his eyes and threw his hands in the air. “Oh, thank god, the paragon of emotional wellbeing, Mr. Bruce Thomas Batman Wayne, says he’s got his potential heartbreak ‘handled’. That really fills me with confidence.”
“You’re being a little dramatic.”
“I am being exactly as dramatic as the situation requires,” Dick countered with a forcefulness that was honestly uncalled for. “You’re being dumb, end of story. I’m sure Alfred agrees with me. Right, Alfred?”
They both turned to look at Alfred, who politely inclined his head. “I’m afraid it would be terribly inappropriate of me, as a servant of this house, to offer an opinion on the subject.”
Bruce sighed. “Thank you, Alfred.”
“On a completely unrelated note,” he continued smoothly, “I should like to praise Master Dick for growing into such a sensible and empathetic young man, despite the oft questionable emotional intelligence of his adoptive parent.”
“Thank you, Alfred,” Dick said, grinning smugly. Bruce grimaced.
Dick looked like he had plenty more to say. Fortunately, Bruce’s phone buzzed with a call notification. Without looking at the caller ID, he gestured to the phone and said, “I should take this.”
Dick scowled. “Fine. But you’re not getting out of this that easily!”
Bruce ignored him and picked up. “Yes?”
“You got me a shirt?” Clark said.
Bruce felt something inside himself perk up at the sound of Clark’s voice. He settled back in his chair with a smile. “To replace the one I ruined. Did you think I wouldn’t?”
“Is that Clark?” Dick hissed. “That’s Clark, isn’t it?”
Bruce gave him an unimpressed look, which he hoped communicated the futility of whispering about a being with superhearing. “Yes.”
“Tell Dick I say hi.”
“Clark says hi,” he told him.
A distant voice on the other end of the line called out, “Is that Bruce?”
“Yup,” Clark said. There was a pause and then he added, “B, Lois, would like a word.”
Bruce grunted in acquiescence. There was a rustle through the phone as it was passed along. Then, in Lois’ brisk Metropolitan brogue: “Bruce. You’re doing the sugar daddy thing all wrong. You’re supposed to get them something nice, not Walmart’s finest polyester blend. Step it up, for god’s sake.”
“Hello, Lois,” Bruce said. “I’ll keep that in mind.”
“Do that,” she said decisively. “And on a related note, I heard Clark mention he’s been wanting a Birkin bag.”
“Hm. Are you sure you wouldn’t like a Birkin bag, and you’re just saying it was Clark?”
Lois sniffed airily. “Of course not. How very dare you. I’m a woman of integrity, I’ll have you know.”
“Sure,” Bruce said. “Would you like a Birkin bag?”
“Didn’t you hear what I just… Wait. How— Shh, Clark, I’m busy.” In a conspiratorial hiss that Clark could definitely still hear, she went on to say, “So, Bruce. How serious are you being about this? Because I may be a woman of integrity, but sometimes integrity has a recommended retail price of fourteen thousand dollars plus tax.”
Bruce felt his lips twitch into a smile. “I’m serious. We can consider it a divorce present.” And maybe a thanks-for-being-okay-with-me-fucking-your-ex-husband present, but Bruce was hardly going to say that in front of Dick and Alfred.
“Holy shit,” Lois said. More quietly, as if she’d turned away from the phone, Bruce heard, “No offense, Smallville, but I think getting divorced from you might be the best goddamn thing that ever happened to me.” There was muffled laughter on the other end of the line.
“Is that all you wanted to discuss with me?” Bruce asked.
“Yeah, sure,” she said, sounding almost smug. “Here, Clark. He’s all yours.” The laughter turned into a cough.
“Hey, B,” Clark croaked. “Uh, just ignore that, okay?”
“Sure.”
“Great! Great. I actually called to say thanks. For the shirt. You didn’t have to.”
“It was no trouble,” Bruce said. “I made sure to get you one that’s awful and not your size, just the way you like.”
Bruce could perfectly picture the grin on Clark’s face from the way amusement curled around his words. “I saw that. You know me so well.”
“Are you touched?”
“Oh, extremely. Best present I could have asked for.” There was a pause and then the distant sound of voices again. Clark sounded apologetic when he continued. “Sorry, but I’ve gotta go. I only had a few minutes spare and, uh, Lo took most of them, actually. Just wanted to call to say thanks. I guess I’ll see you tonight for monitor duty?”
Clark could have just thanked him for the shirt later. It made him feel strangely warm that he hadn’t wanted to wait. He hummed. “Tonight.”
“Tonight,” Clark agreed, a smile in his voice.
Bruce hung up.
Dick was staring at him. Bruce stared back, brow quirked.
Then Dick turned to Alfred with a weary sigh. “Aw, hell. This is so frustrating. How is he so hopeless at this?”
Alfred shook his head slowly. “I have asked myself that very thing for years.”
Bruce, who was starting to feel unfairly ganged up on at this point, scowled at them both. “Don’t you two have anything better to do than stand around and harass me?”
Alfred fixed him with a Look. “Very well, Master Bruce. If my presence is no longer required, I can make myself scarce. I shall ring down when dinner is ready.” And he calmly set the grapple gun he’d been working on in the cabinet and made his way out of the cave without another word. It was a blatant bid to make Bruce feel guilty for snapping at him. Bruce hated that it worked.
Dick, however, lingered. “You know, joking aside, I really think you should just tell him. It might not go as badly as you think.”
Bruce clenched his jaw. As if Dick could possibly know that. “Didn’t you say you weren’t going to get involved?” he said, meeting his eyes with an even stare.
Dick stared back, level, assessing. The intensity in his gaze was at odds with his relaxed sprawl. The moment stretched on.
Then he tipped his head back, all the way back, and let out a deep sigh.
“I did. I did say that,” he said with an edge of frustration. He pushed himself to his feet in a fluid movement. “Look. I think doing this the way you are will only make things harder on you – maybe on both of you. But I hope I’m not right about that. Really.”
When Bruce didn’t respond, Dick just smiled sadly and left.
And Bruce pushed it to the back of his mind. Because why wouldn’t he? Dick was wrong.
Everything was fine.
Bruce had promised Clark that he’d drop the apartment thing.
He’d lied.
“Pack your things,” he announced when Clark opened the door to Lois’ apartment. “You’re moving.”
Clark gaped at him from the doorway.
“Congratulations,” he added when Clark didn’t respond. “And also, you’re welcome. May I come in?”
Apparently, that was what was what Clark needed to snap out of his shock. His expression hardened as he leaned closer, glancing around (slightly unnecessarily – he was Superman) to check none of the neighbors were in earshot. “B, I told you I didn’t want you to buy me an apartment,” he hissed. “This is a total violation of my wishes and my autonomy—”
“I didn’t.”
Clark looked dubious. “I also said that apartments you already own still count.”
Bruce rolled his eyes. “Not that either. Will you just let me in already?”
Clark regarded him warily for a long moment before reluctantly stepping back from the doorway. “Fine. 10 minutes,” he said flatly and then turned to call out into the apartment, “Lois, you have a visitor.”
Lois emerged from the living room and grinned. She was as put together as ever, dark hair styled into a neat, glossy bob. “Bruce! You’re late.”
“Traffic,” he said placidly.
She rolled her eyes. “Yeah, yeah, never heard that one before. You want anything? Coffee? Water?”
“No thank you.”
Clark was looking between them with an expression somewhere between confusion and betrayal. When his gaze eventually settled on Lois, betrayal seemed to win out. “You’re in on this?” he asked her accusingly. “Is that why you sent Jon over to the Waynes’ today? So Bruce would have free reign to harass me?”
“Of course,” Lois said with a sniff. “Keep up, Smallville.”
Bruce stepped into the apartment, shrugging off his jacket. “Lois is a sensible woman. She agreed with me that the current status quo vis-à-vis your living situation was unsustainable.”
“Oh,” Clark said, guilt flickering across his face. “Lo, you could have just told me you didn’t want me here, I would have—”
“That’s not it,” she said firmly. “Look, I meant what I said. I’m happy with you being here when you can, even if that means staying on the sofa. If nothing else it’s good for Jon, and I still like having you around. But you’ve got to start living your own life too at some point, and that means finding somewhere in Metropolis to live that’s not here. And if you’re gonna insist on me keeping the apartment and won’t let me help you out financially, that won’t be happening any time soon. Not without some outside intervention.”
Clark shifted his weight uncomfortably. “Well, even so—”
“Just hear him out, Clark,” she said. “Okay? For me?”
He looked unhappy, but most of the indignation was absent now. “Fine,” he said with a sigh. “I’ll hear him out. But I’m not promising anything.”
Lois smiled and tapped Clark’s cheek twice, a move that might have seemed patronizing if it hadn’t also been so clearly affectionate. “There’s a good boy. Now, if you gentlemen would excuse me, I’ve got a hot date with a mud bath and a masseuse.” And with that, she swept out of the apartment with a little wave over her shoulder. The door slammed shut behind her.
Clark turned to Bruce with a frown. “So, you bribed her with a spa trip, huh?”
“No. She decided in the end to save the Birkin bag for her birthday. The spa trip is her divorce present. Since I knew she’d be available, today just seemed like convenient timing.”
“Convenient.”
“Yes, that’s what I said.”
“That was a comment, not a request for clarification,” Clark said flatly. He sighed. “Well, I promised I’d hear you out. So go on. You have 7 minutes left.”
Bruce smiled.
In the end, he didn’t need the full 7 minutes. It didn’t take long to spin out the whole tale. The recent (and totally coincidental) discovery that some of Wayne Enterprise’s employees weren’t taking advantage of the company’s various financial support and housing schemes. That one employee in particular had been looking to move himself and his family out of his apartment in Metropolis and into something a little more spacious, but had struggled to find anywhere while his wife was still out of work. How Wayne Enterprises had been able to arrange for his relocation to a larger apartment conveniently located nearer the ferry, leaving his former apartment free for the taking.
“I did step in to negotiate with the landlord,” Bruce admitted. “With a little persuasion, she agreed to keep the cost low if I could find a reliable tenant straight away. And, well…” He gestured at Clark with a shrug. “I could think of few people more reliable than Superman.”
Clark’s expression was caught somewhere between disbelief, exasperation and amusement – incidentally, the three emotions he’d flickered between throughout Bruce’s story. “Convenient,” he noted again.
Bruce shrugged. “We make our own chances. But I would point out that I didn’t spend a single dime in the making of this particular chance, since that’s something you care about.”
“Uh-huh. And do I want to know what your ‘persuasion’ entailed?”
“That doesn’t seem relevant.”
The corner of Clark’s mouth twitched upwards. “So that’s a no, then.”
“It might be,” he said evasively. Clark hummed in response. “Any objections?”
“You know, as annoying as it is to admit it, I can’t think of any I actually believe,” Clark said, slowly, regretfully. “I guess I’m grateful? But you’ll have to give me a couple of days for gratitude to win completely over the irritation.”
Bruce shrugged. “That’s fair.”
“You know, you could’ve just looped me in from the start, rather than blindsiding me like this?”
There was no way Clark would have let things get this far had he known in advance. Mostly for the principle of the thing. For all that Clark berated his stubbornness, more often than not he was more than Bruce’s equal. But… “Technically, yes, I could’ve,” Bruce agreed.
“Technically?”
“Yes.”
“But?”
“But I didn’t.”
Clark scowled at him, but it was a weak effort. “You’re an infuriating man.”
“So I’ve been told.”
“As long as you’re aware,” Clark said, rolling his eyes. “Fine, then! You win this round, Grandmaster. Where is this place, anyway?”
And at that, Bruce couldn’t help but feel a little smug.
The apartment was a modest studio two blocks away from Lois’ apartment – wooden floors, cream walls, and a little balconette leading outside from the living room. The doorways were only just large enough that Clark could fit through without ducking his head, but that was just how it was when you were 6’5” and didn’t have the budget for a mansion. The fact that it was a fifth floor walk-up had naturally pushed the price down a little, but that would hardly inconvenience Superman. If anything, the proximity to the rooftop exit was a bonus.
Bruce pointed out the apartment’s various features, for some reason defaulting to a poor impression of an estate agent in the absence of any feedback from Clark, who was silently looking around the small space as Bruce talked with an unusually neutral expression on his face. Not that there was all that much to say, really. The apartment right now was just a series of empty rooms – all except the bedroom, which contained a king-sized bed and a brand new mattress.
“I may have exaggerated earlier when I said I didn’t spend a dime on this,” Bruce said from the doorway, gesturing at the offending piece of furniture. Clark still wasn’t saying anything. “I thought you’d like somewhere to sleep tonight, at least. Consider it a house-warming present if you’d like. Well, I call it a present, but I won’t be upset if you return it. It’s a matter of convenience, not sentimentality.”
At this, Clark blinked and turned to him. Bruce stilled, wary.
Clark kissed him.
Bruce stiffened with surprise. No matter how familiar he was by now with the feeling of Clark’s lips on his, they didn’t do this, kiss chastely like this without it being a prelude for something more. But by the time he relaxed into it enough to kiss back, Clark was already pulling away.
“Infuriating man,” Clark said happily and let go entirely, and Bruce abruptly remembered that he had never actually lived in a world where he could kiss Clark whenever he felt like it, just because he wanted to. “You’re so weird sometimes. As if I’d accept you doing a truly insane amount of legwork to find me an apartment I could afford and then draw the line at you buying me a bed.”
“I did a lot of outsourcing. But fair point,” he grumbled. Clark’s already radiant smile grew blinding.
Feeling suddenly ill-at-ease, Bruce stepped back and turned to lead Clark back towards the main room. “I assume you can organize the rest. Let me know if you need anything else.”
“Aw, B. You’d help me move?”
“Well, I meant more generally. But yes, of course,” Bruce said. “Why? What do you need?”
Clark’s gaze drifted speculatively northwards. Then he turned back to Bruce with a smile. “Well, I was wondering… What are you doing for the next few hours?”
And that’s how Bruce found himself waiting in a van in an out-of-sight corner of an empty parking lot just inside the city limits, while Clark filled it up with furniture he was picking up at superspeed from the Arctic.
All in all, not the weirdest way he’d spent a Sunday.
“Wouldn’t it make more sense to do this at night?” Bruce asked flatly, watching Clark try to negotiate a lamp between the couch and a stack of boxes. “You probably could have flown all this a lot closer to the apartment without anyone noticing.”
“Well, this way seemed more enjoyable than sneaking around in the dark,” Clark said cheerfully as he successfully finagled the lamp in horizontally along the couch cushions. “You know, I really only need you to help carry stuff up the stairs. You didn’t have to come along for this part.”
Bruce grimaced. “And let you leave a van – my van – full of personal effects and completely unaccompanied? No thank you.”
“Unaccompanied but locked. And for ten minutes at a time!”
“Someone could still steal the tires.”
“It’s Metropolis, not Gotham. It would have been fine,” Clark told him, but the undeniably fond way he was grinning at Bruce said he wasn’t too put out to have him there on guard duty.
Bruce felt uncomfortably warm in his shirtsleeves and slacks. He sunk a little further into his seat, glaring at Clark’s reflection in the side-view mirror. “Just load the van, Kent.”
Clark just grinned harder.
Coming up on three hours later, Bruce and Clark stood in an apartment that was now at least 60% furnished, most of the boxes already conveniently unpacked at slightly-below-superspeed. Meanwhile, Bruce had lent his questionable talent for interior design (at least, questionable according to Alfred, whose standards were admittedly higher than most) to the task of figuring out the best position for the couch.
It was around then that Lois poked her head in to check on their progress. She whistled. “Nice digs, Clark,” she said, eyes scanning around the sparse but spacious living room. She paused, head tilted in consideration. “Is that my rug?”
“If you mean, is that the rug I bought three years ago that you’ve kept untouched in the hallway closet ever since, then yes. It’s your rug.” Clark glanced up at her from the box of kitchen supplies he was unpacking. “Why? You want it back?”
“Nope. Keep it,” Lois said with a wave of her hand. “Nice job on the moving though. Very efficient. Did Mr Richy-Rich actually help any?”
“I helped with the carrying,” Bruce said. “As Clark correctly pointed out, it would have been suspicious if he’d carried a whole couch up four flights of stairs by himself.”
“Sure,” Clark said. “Although you could have tried a little harder to sell it. I’m pretty sure my new neighbor thinks you have superstrength after seeing you ‘carry’ your half one-handed.”
“I was multi-tasking,” he replied flatly, because he’d gotten a security alert on his phone and wanted to check it in good time, which was hardly a crime – the opposite, if anything. Clark just rolled his eyes.
“Better him than you though, right?” Lois pointed out. “I mean, for all they know, their totally normal neighbor is just pals with a pro weightlifter.”
“Exactly,” Bruce agreed mildly. “You worry too much, Clark.”
“Wow, that is rich coming from you,” Lois said. “When did you get replaced with a pod person, Bruce? And do the League know?”
“They’ve been informed.”
She snorted. “Well then. As long as they’ve been informed.”
She turned to watch Clark, who appeared to be dithering over where to put the pans, moving them from one cupboard to another at superspeed and frowning at the result. After a few long seconds, her expression shifted. She looked almost conflicted.
It was probably strange for her, seeing her ex-husband move into his own apartment after years of cohabitation. He wondered if he should tactfully give them some privacy.
Before he could decide, Lois turned to him with a small smile. “I’ll leave you to it,” she said. “But…be careful with him, okay?”
Bruce kept his expression neutral, unsure how to respond. She watched him for a few long seconds, oddly intent. She looked like she wanted to say more.
But then she shook her head and flashed a grin at him instead.
“Goodbye, boys,” she called out, turning to leave. “Bruce, let me know if you need any ‘tips’, okay? You have my number.” She added a wink, so as to leave no room to misinterpret her meaning.
“Lois!” Clark yelled indignantly, immediately flushing. Lois just cackled, the sound echoing from the hallways as she left. But even as Clark huffed and returned to his unpacking, muttering something under his breath, Bruce was still left with the uncomfortable feeling that he’d missed something. What was it she hadn’t said? It wasn’t like Lois to mince her words.
Clark had apparently moved onto plates, hands blurring as he stacked plates in the cupboard. Bruce was suddenly eager for a distraction. “Why don’t we take a dinner break?” he suggested. “I still owe you for last time.”
Clark perked up, probably as much at the idea of a break as out of any hunger he might feel. Even with the benefit of superspeed, he clearly found the unpacking more than a little tedious. “Pizza?” he said hopefully.
“You know, you could ask for something nicer since I’m paying,” Bruce pointed out, but he’d already pulled out his phone.
“I like pizza,” Clark said distractedly, taking the last couple of bowls out of the box. “Sal’s?”
“I was thinking Sal’s. Want your usual?”
“Of course,” Clark said. Bruce was already dialing.
The pizza arrived an efficient 25 minutes later. They settled in at the couch, boxes spread across the little coffee table Clark had salvaged from the Fortress. In the absence of anything in the fridge, including beer (the traditional accompaniment to pizza, or so Clark always insisted), he got them two glasses of water, fresh from their brand-new spot in the cupboard.
Clark grinned at him when Bruce was finishing off his second slice. “Isn’t this the wrong way around? The friends of the person who moved are supposed to get the free pizza.”
He shrugged “Well, it’s not like I actually did any of the heavy lifting.”
“At least you admit it. Although— Oh, shoot.”
Bruce glanced over to where Clark was grimacing at a glob of tomato sauce on the neck of his white t-shirt and snorted a laugh. “You have literal superspeed. How do you still manage to be so clumsy?”
Clark leaned forward to pick up a napkin from the table and started to dab at the stain. “I’m not always, you know, ‘switched on’ like that. This is hardly a life-or-death situation.”
“Any moment could become a life-or-death situation.”
Clark sent him a brief pointed look, lips quirked in amusement. “See? This is why the League never invites you to Friday night drinks.”
Bruce was about to point out that the reason he was never invited was because he always refused, actually, but he was momentarily distracted by Clark unfastening the half-buttoned shirt he was wearing over his stained t-shirt. It was one of his terrible, oversized plaid ones that Bruce made no secret of hating, but the stained t-shirt beneath was much more fitted, gently hugging the contours of his body. It was reminiscent of the undershirt he’d been wearing during their encounter in that hotel men’s room, right down to the open shirt overtop and Clark’s face twisted into a gentle scowl at his stained clothing.
The revisited memory was far from unpleasant.
Clark didn’t notice Bruce staring, too busy plucking at the stained fabric to get a better look at the damage and glancing ruefully towards the bathroom. “I guess I should go deal with this before the stain sets in.”
Bruce set his slice back in the box, cleaned off his mouth and fingers with a napkin and took a sip of water. “No need,” he said and settled his hand on Clark’s shoulder. “Allow me.”
He leaned across Clark and dipped his head to suck the fabric into his mouth. It tasted, predictably, of tomato sauce and fabric, but also a little bit like Clark’s skin. He chased that flavor, trailed his lips up to Clark’s neck, scraped his teeth across his pulse point.
Clark sighed above him, the sound soft and pleased. “Your aim is a little off,” he teased. “I’m not sure how much this will help with the stain.”
He brushed his lips against the underside of Clark’s jaw, smooth with only the barest hint of evening stubble. Much less so than his own cheeks, he was sure. Hopefully Clark still found the roughness a pleasant novelty. “I’ll buy you a new one,” he murmured distractedly.
“That can’t be your solution to everything,” Clark said, but he sounded similarly distracted.
“Try me.”
Clark took the challenge more literally than Bruce had intended it, but he had no reason to complain when Clark tilted his jaw up to kiss him, slow but deep. Already impatient, Bruce wasted no time in easing him down against the arm of the couch so he could half-straddle him. He trailed his hands down Clark’s firm chest, deepening the kiss when he felt him press into his touch. He hadn’t gone to the effort of finding this apartment with any ulterior motive, but the fact that they had real privacy here was a perk he wasn’t averse to taking advantage of.
Clark seemed similarly keen, clearly already on his way to hard when Bruce ghosted a hand across the front of his pants, pushed up the hem of his t-shirt—
Abruptly, Clark pulled back. “I-it’s okay, you don’t have to.”
Bruce paused with his hands on Clark’s belt buckle. He glanced down. Clark’s cock was still definitely very much interested, straining gently against the zipper of his jeans.
“I don’t have to,” he said dubiously.
“No, I just meant, you know. Don’t feel obliged, is all.”
He studied Clark, with his soft hair and dimples and cheekbones and perfect skin, the kind of gorgeous that makes most people feel bad about themselves. He looked down along the improbable, lean bulk of him, at the outline of his generously proportioned erection, and then back up.
“Trust me,” he said dryly, “it’s no hardship.”
Clark looked a little awkward. “Well, I feel bad, is all. I’m always the one who…you know.”
“The children are in bed, Clark. You’re allowed to use dirty words.”
Clark huffed. “What I’m trying to say is, you always do all the work, and I’m always the one enjoying myself. It feels like you’re not getting anything out of it.”
Bruce considered him for a long moment. “You think I’m not getting anything out of pleasuring you,” he said slowly.
“I know this might sound strange to you,” Clark said flatly, “but you’re allowed to actually respond to statements instead of just repeating them at people.”
Despite the sarcasm, he looked genuinely unsure. Unbelievable. “Clark, I know for a fact that you own a mirror. You cannot truly be confused about what I’m getting out of this.”
Clark’s expression melted from uncertain to faintly pleased as the unsubtle implication sunk in. “Oh. Oh. Well, that’s…good to know.”
“Why else would I be doing this?”
Clark shifted a little uncomfortably. “Well, believe it or not, initiating sex and then all but running away after I finish sends kind of a mixed signal. And you’re the one who all but described this as a ‘favor for a friend’ when…um, that first time. I was, I think understandably, a little worried that that was your whole motivation for…this.”
Bruce winced. He may have laid it on a little thick there. “Disregard that. That was… an inaccurate description. My motivations are entirely selfish.” He paused, considering the implications of what Clark had said, and frowned. “Did you really think I wouldn’t want this with you?”
Clark shrugged. “I guess I wasn’t sure I was your type.”
“My type.”
“Wow, you just can’t help yourself, can you? Yeah, your type.” Thankfully the hint of uncertainty was gone now, his grin teasing. “You know. Wealthy. Beautiful. Morally ambiguous. Usually has tried to kill you at least once.”
“You have definitely tried to kill me at least once,” Bruce pointed out.
“Mind control doesn’t count and you know it. And neither does red kryptonite,” he added just as Bruce opened his mouth to protest.
Bruce huffed. “Fine. At least my type isn’t people with the initials L. L.” He paused in mock consideration. “Speaking of which, I’ve always wondered about you and Lex—”
“Shut your mouth,” Clark growled and pulled in him for a bruising kiss.
They separated after a long, dizzying minute. Clark seemed notably out of breath, which was always especially gratifying since it meant he’d forgotten that he didn’t actually need to breathe.
“I think we’ve gotten off-topic,” Clark said.
“Have we?” Bruce let his hand slip down to play along Clark’s fly. “I thought we were finally getting back on-topic.”
Clark groaned, half exasperation and half anticipation. “I mean, sure, but what I was trying to say was… What I’ve been trying to say…” His tongue flicked out across his upper lip. “Maybe this time I could return the favor? As in, that’s something I’d, uh. Really like.”
Bruce stared at him.
“I mean, only if you wanted. It’s not a big deal,” Clark said quickly, clearly backtracking already which…god, why was Bruce letting him do that? “If you don’t then that’s fine, I’m not gonna push, or question your reasons—”
“I do,” Bruce said. Then, since apparently Clark needed these things clarified, he added, “I just wasn’t sure you’d be on board. You’re new to this. I didn’t want to overwhelm you.”
Clark seemed relieved. “Oh, is that all? Now who’s being obtuse?” He kissed him again, long and lingering, and rolled his hips up against Bruce’s hand as if in demonstration. When he spoke next, the words were murmured against Bruce’s lips. “I think you can safely consider me on board. And thoroughly whelmed.”
“Good to know,” Bruce said thickly. God, Clark hadn’t even done anything to him yet and already he could feel his careful grip on his self-control loosening. It was more than a little concerning. Maybe this wasn’t a good idea after all. But— “What do you want?”
“To touch you,” Clark breathed, intent. “Is that alright?”
“Yes.” Much more than alright.
They kissed again with renewed vigor. Clark nudged Bruce’s hand away from himself and got to work on Bruce’s belt instead, smoothly sliding the leather free. In short order, his slacks were unzipped and Clark’s hand was gently tugging him out of his underwear, already hard and leaking with anticipation. He hissed when Clark swiped a thumb across the tip and used the fluid to slick him up. And then that huge hand was closing around him and moving in earnest. Even here Clark’s skin was almost unnaturally soft, no trace of any calluses, the slide strange and smooth and perfect.
“Tell me what you like? I want you to feel good,” he murmured.
“You’re doing fine,” Bruce said stiffly, trying to keep himself from just fucking Clark’s fist. “Just—keep going.”
Clark did – firm strokes along the length of him, a twist at the top. Was this how Clark jerked off? The thought was unhelpful. The mental image of Clark in mussed bedsheets, hand fisted around his own cock, just made the heat pool faster in his belly.
“That’s good to hear. I’ve only done this for a guy once before,” Clark said. “You know, back home.”
“You’ve done this before? So you mean you gave someone a handjob heterosexually?” If Bruce could bring himself to look away from Clark for even a second, he would have rolled his eyes. “Oh god, you’re a walking stereotype. Did you tell him afterwards it wasn’t gay because your balls didn’t touch? Or did he say it first?”
“Hey, should you really be insulting the guy who’s trying to get you off?” He tightened his grip just slightly, swiped his thumb against the head again. Bruce’s breath stuttered.
“You may have a point,” he gasped, eyes fluttering closed without his permission. He couldn’t stop himself from rocking his hips into Clark’s hand now, starting to lose himself in the sensation. God, but that broad palm on his cock felt so good, he might not actually last that much longer if Clark kept this up.
Clark was quiet for a long moment. “Hey, Bruce,” he said eventually, voice tight. “Can we—together?”
“Yes,” Bruce replied and in the next instant he was on his back on the couch.
Clark appeared beside him a moment later, eyes wild and dark as he tugged frantically at his belt. “Sorry, wanted to get lube,” he said breathlessly, and then he was clambering on top of Bruce and kissing him, and Bruce couldn’t help but groan.
“Fucking hurry up,” he growled against his lips, taking over the urgent task of getting Clark marginally more undressed.
Clark pulled back to let him work, staring down at him with a touch of wonder. “You’re really into this,” he noted pointlessly.
Bruce did not have the mental wherewithal just then to come up with an appropriately cutting remark – which was a shame, since that question was stupid enough to deserve one. “Obviously,” he bit out. He finally managed to get Clark’s pants and underwear tugged down enough to free his cock.
“I’m glad,” Clark said. And then, ridiculously, he was smiling, as brightly and genuinely as Bruce had ever seen him. As if the thought that someone wanted to fuck his brains out was novel or surprising. What a ridiculous man.
God, he was so beautiful when he smiled like that.
Bruce heard the click of a bottle cap and suddenly a slightly cool, slick hand was easily wrapping around them both. Bruce was spared the dizzying experience of staring into too-blue eyes creasing in pleasure when Clark buried his face in Bruce’s neck and groaned, long and low, warm breath ghosting across Bruce’s skin as he began to move his hand in earnest. “Bruce, are you— Is this good?”
Bruce bit back a moan, eyes drifting shut. “Yes.”
“This is what I wanted,” Clark murmured into his skin, voice barely a low rumble in his chest. “You know that first time, in the training room? All I could think about was touching you, just like this. Just the thought of it – god. It got to me almost more than the feeling of your ass against my cock.”
His stomach clenched with heat. “Jesus, Clark. Since when did you have that kind of mouth on you?”
He let out a breathless chuckle. “Sorry, too much?”
“Never said that,” he replied, a little more fervently than he’d intended. In his defense, Clark was hot and huge against him, the slide and squeeze of his hand maddening. It was getting hard to think straight.
He opened his eyes just enough to let his gaze drift down along Clark’s body, a sea of red and white shifting like some hideous, flannel-patterned kaleidoscope, obscuring the shift of powerful muscles beneath his skin. Bruce suddenly felt inexplicably cheated. He tugged at Clark’s shirt and growled, “Next time, this comes off.”
Clark let out a breathy noise somewhere between a laugh and a moan. “You really hate the flannel that much?”
He hated that he was still wearing it. “Yes.”
Clark snorted lightly, sat up and released his grip. Bruce fought the urge to protest. “Alright, fine, you grump,” he said and quickly shrugged off his open shirt – and stripped off his t-shirt for good measure. Before Bruce had a chance to really appreciate the sight, Clark was already leaning down again to press a chaste kiss to his lips and wrapping a slick hand around them both again.
“Better?” he breathed.
Bruce hummed and wrapped his arms around him, watched his hands settle against Clark’s skin. Clark’s bare skin, so achingly warm and soft, intimate in a way he hadn’t anticipated. He watched his own fingers flex, pressing divots into the flesh of Clark’s back with something like reverence.
Clark was mouthing at his neck, his other hand skating along Bruce’s stomach, rucking up his shirt. “I— I don’t think I’m gonna last much longer.” His voice was strained, a rough edge to it that made Bruce’s skin tingle. “Are you—?”
“Yes,” he gasped because it was true, he could already feel his thighs clenching and stomach tightening and his balls drawing up between his legs. “Yes, shit, just—” he said and then he was tugging Clark down to kiss him filthily, fingers tangling in soft curls, succumbing to the sudden, overwhelming urge to have him as close as possible – but damn it, it wasn’t enough, it would never feel like enough. Clark moaned when the desperate grip in his hair tightened and then that was it, Bruce was coming across his own chest with a long, low growl. Clark was soon to follow with a fevered, “Bruce,” hips stuttering.
They lay there for a while to catch their breath. Bruce felt warm and sated, the press of Clark on top of him reassuring. At some point his arms had wrapped themselves around Clark, fingertips resting against his broad back, thumb stroking absentminded patterns against his skin.
Eventually, Clark propped himself up on Bruce’s chest to flash him a dazzling smile. “So. How was that? I’m full of good ideas, aren’t I?”
Bruce felt that familiar, dangerous warmth again, spreading through him – all the way, as if it couldn’t be merely confined to his chest. They hadn’t put up the curtains yet, so the glow of sunset drenched their little corner of the room, making even Bruce’s pale skin glow golden where his hands rested on Clark’s back. And Clark looked so relaxed, more so than Bruce had ever seen him. His eyes were warm and teasing and so unbelievably blue, kiss-swollen lips pulled crooked where his cheek pressed against his forearms, all dimples and mussed hair and undeserved affection. Looking at Bruce like they were the only two people in the world.
He was the most beautiful thing Bruce had ever seen and he was in Bruce’s arms and god, he couldn’t breathe.
“I guess you are, from time to time,” Bruce replied with a smile he hoped was more wry than pained. “I don’t suppose you could get off me now?”
Clark’s smile turned apologetic. “Oh, sorry. I’m heavy, aren’t I?” He lifted himself up. Bruce felt ice cold everywhere their skin had touched.
He managed to extract himself from the sofa and told Clark he was going to clean up, stripping off his soiled shirt. It wasn’t until Bruce was in the shower that he let the mask drop. He pressed his forehead against the tile, took in a shaky breath and blew it out in one long rush.
Fuck.
Notes:
Fuck indeed, Bruce. Fuck indeed. Don't you hate it when the guy you're fucking (platonically but also you're in love with him) gives you Big Feelings out of nowhere? Like, who could predict a thing like that?
Next time: The thrilling conclusion! The scales have finally fallen from Bruce's eyes. Surprising no-one, he fails to handle this maturely.
Thanks for reading!
Chapter 6: The Conclusion (pt.1)
Summary:
Bruce finally acknowledges what he hasn't let himself before. Things get worse before they get better.
Notes:
So, as the more eagle-eyed of you might have picked up on from the title of this chapter and the fact that this is now chapter 6 of 7, I may or may not have accidentally lied before about my plan for these uploads. You see, I decided to tweak some things, and then I beefed up the ending a bit, and then things spiralled from there because it turns out I'm utterly incapable of restraint when it comes to writing dumb banter. Now, as it stands, the rest of this fic would be ridiculously long as a single chapter, even considering the already ridiculous length of most of these chapters. Long story short, I decided to split the conclusion into two parts, which handily also gives me a teensy bit of extra time to decide whether I'm actually satisfied with the ending/epilogue or whether I'm lying to myself. But also I did say I'd post the ending this week, so it'll only be a day or two. Promise!
Please enjoy the (first half of the) finale!
(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)
Chapter Text
11 years ago in Greece, about a 35 minute flight from the Amazonian island of Themyscira, Bruce blinked himself into wakefulness on a feather-soft mattress with sheets of an unfamiliar texture. Not his own bed, he remembered. The sheets on his bed in the hotel suite they were staying in for the night – him, Diana and Clark. Which meant—
“Good morning, sleepyhead,” came a cheerful voice from beside him.
He let his head tip to the right. Clark was lying next to him, a polite 3 feet away on the obscenely large bed. He grunted. “It’s still evening.”
“Sure is. How’d you know that without even checking the time?”
“I’m Batman,” he said flatly, in response to which Clark just rolled his eyes. “Where’s Diana?”
Clark shrugged. “Said something about getting more of those fancy chocolates. We finished the boxes in the main room already.”
Bruce squinted at him. “Clark. There were three whole boxes in there.”
“There were. Now there are none,” Clark said easily, a wry twist to his mouth. “Dinner was a while back and it turns out both of us have a sweet tooth. So sue us.”
“You’re both lucky you can’t get diabetes,” Bruce grumbled. He made to sit up but was stopped by an immovable hand on his chest. He sighed. “What are you doing.”
“You should rest. You got pretty banged up by that sea monster.”
“Not particularly,” he said. “No more than any other night.”
Clark seemed unconvinced by this argument. “Your body clearly knows what it needs. You passed out as soon as you lay down.”
Bruce grunted. That in itself was actually a little surprising. Usually he had trouble falling asleep outside the well-secured walls of the manor or his office, wary of potential threats. It was how he’d been trained. And yet he’d managed a solid nap in an unfamiliar hotel room – and one also occupied by Clark and Diana at that. The noise of them chatting in the other room had apparently not been enough to keep him awake.
Maybe he’d been more tired than he’d thought.
“And besides,” Clark added reprovingly, “need I remind you that you do also have a literal bullet wound? Your body needs sleep to heal.”
Christ, not this again. “I told you both I was fine.”
“You were shot!”
“I was. And now I’m fine. It’s practically healed.”
“Practically,” Clark muttered to himself disbelievingly.
“Why are you here anyway?” Bruce grumbled. “Shouldn’t you be abusing the room service button with Diana?”
“We were worried you’d get lonely,” Clark teased, and Bruce couldn’t help but let out a snort of disbelief. “But, uh,” he continued, expression softening into something almost diffident, “we were actually more worried about you being okay. I know you said—”
“Clark,” Bruce interrupted sharply. “I may not be a superpowered alien or a demigod, but nor am I some fragile thing in need of your and Diana’s protection. I’ve been doing this longer than you have. I know my limits. I don’t need coddling.”
Clark shifted uncomfortably on the bed. Bruce could feel it as much as he could see it, the subtle shift of weight beside him. “Geez, it’s not— We know. It’s just that…” He glanced at Bruce obliquely, looking almost nervous. “It’s just that we care about you. That’s all.”
Bruce blinked at him until the sincerity in those too-blue eyes became uncomfortable. Then he blinked at the ceiling. “Oh.”
“You’re not mad?” Clark asked tentatively.
Bruce took a slow breath. “Why would I be mad?”
“Oh, I dunno,” Clark mumbled. “Something something letting emotions get in the way of professional relationships, something something the need to stay rational in crisis situations…”
Christ. Bruce knew he’d made no particular effort to counter the image most of the League had of him, but hearing it from Clark was unexpectedly…upsetting. He wracked his brain, trying to come up with anything that would convince the man he wasn’t some sort of emotionless robot.
“I’m not opposed to friendships among League members. If anything, I think they can improve team dynamics,” he said. More hesitantly, he added: “I also…do care about the members of the team. You and Diana included. Perhaps even…especially.”
“Oh,” Clark said.
“Yes,” Bruce agreed, still resolutely staring not-at-Clark. Later he could blame this whole conversation on the fact that he’d just woken up. His brain wasn’t 100% yet. It was fine.
“Bruce.”
“What.”
There was a soft laugh and Clark said again, “Bruce.”
Something about the tone of his voice made it almost impossible not to look at him then. When Bruce finally peeled his gaze away from the ceiling, Clark was smiling at him, softly enough that it almost seemed fond.
“Thanks. It means a lot to hear you say that,” he said warmly.
Bruce swallowed, fixed his gaze upwards once more. He could still feel Clark’s eyes burning into the side of his head. “Don’t mention it. No, really. Don’t,” he added, when he sensed Clark was about to say something else – probably something completely unnecessary. “I have a reputation to maintain.”
“You know, I don’t think any of the team would respect you any less if they found out you actually liked them.”
“We don’t know that for sure.”
“I am 99% sure.”
“I don’t like those odds.”
Clark huffed, light and amused. “Fine. It’ll be our secret then.”
“Good,” he said with finality.
There ensued several seconds of silence. Belatedly, he realized that his successful navigation away from the topic meant he either needed to think of something else for them to talk about now, or else just leave. He would normally leave. But annoyingly, he was actually very comfortable where he was. It was…nice, talking to Clark like this, even though it was a couple steps outside of his comfort zone. He felt reluctant to ruin the moment.
Thankfully he was saved from his indecision by the sudden appearance of Diana in the doorway, for some reason dripping wet and only wearing a small towel. “Gentlemen! I have made a wondrous discovery!” she cried excitedly, and then paused, no doubt taking in the stilted expression on Bruce’s face. “Hm. The mood in this room feels unusual. Have I interrupted some sort of masculine bonding moment?”
“Yes,” Bruce said simply, to Diana’s clear amusement. He glanced over at Clark, who had covered his eyes and was slowly turning red. “Also, you might want to put some clothes on. At this rate, I think Clark might actually die.”
Clark made a noise of protest, but he didn’t shift his hands. “Diana, why are you wearing a towel?”
“Ah, that is actually related to my discovery. Namely, that this suite contains an outdoor jacuzzi with very powerful jets. It is a wonder for sore muscles,” she explained cheerfully, smiling meaningfully at Bruce. “It may help with post-battle recovery, wouldn’t you say?”
“You’re both as bad as each other,” he muttered to himself. But if he was honest with himself, it didn’t actually sound like a terrible idea. The ever-present twinge in his shoulder had spread to his whole back after a solid hit from one of Scylla’s tentacles. He sighed. “Fine,” he said more loudly. “Since I’m getting up anyway.”
“Excellent! In that case, I shall source some swimwear for us,” she announced with an amused glance at Clark and darted out again, as abruptly as she’d arrived.
Bruce didn’t miss the way Clark full body relaxed beside him when she was gone. He smirked. “Wow, Kent. You’d think you’d only ever gone as far as holding hands before this.”
“Oh, shut up,” Clark grumbled. “Not all of us are quite so desensitized to women after casually dating a revolving cast of supermodels. I’m the normal one here.”
“Actually, it’s just been the one supermodel. Most of them are just regular models.”
“You are the worst,” Clark said vehemently, which only made Bruce’s smile widen. “No, really. You know, Hal was right about you having a really punchable smile. Maybe it’s for the best you’re always scowling.”
“And yet you’re still here,” Bruce shot back dryly. “What does that say about your taste in friends, Boy Scout?”
Clark stared at him, and for a moment Bruce was worried he’d somehow oversold the friendship angle, that maybe he’d misread something crucial somewhere along the line. Maybe that hadn’t been what Clark had been getting at after all, he thought with a sudden feeling of mild panic. But after only a couple of seconds, Clark was laughing, somewhere between a chuckle and a giggle. Kind of excessively, actually, since Bruce’s comment hadn’t been that funny.
And then Clark smiled at him, joyous, laughter still in his eyes. “Truly the worst,” he said. There was no mistaking the fondness for anything else now.
Bruce swallowed. Time seemed to slow. The stretched out moment felt suddenly but undeniably different in a way that was hard to quantify without resorting to embarrassingly trite simile. And there was no reason for this to feel like anything at all, for Clark’s smile to put him off balance like this. It was nothing Bruce hadn’t seen before a thousand times. And yet he couldn’t help but notice the way Clark’s hair fell in a messy sweep across his forehead. The incredible blueness of his eyes. The way they were barely close enough to touch, Clark’s fingers mere inches from his own. And. And he wanted—
There was a horrifyingly familiar flutter beginning beneath his ribs that would quickly become commonplace over the next several years. One that in time he’d learn to control, to suppress; over a decade of that familiar, ever-present ache nestling into his chest.
For now, though, he felt unmoored. Panicked. Stripped open.
Like he was falling in love.
“We should get up. We don’t wanna keep Diana waiting,” Clark said easily, unaware of Bruce’s inner turmoil. He pushed himself up, sliding smoothly off the bed, and made his way to the door. When Bruce made no move to join him, he glanced back over his shoulder and shot him a questioning look. “You coming?”
“Sure,” Bruce said, hoarse; his throat had suddenly gone dry.
He already missed the easy familiarity of 5 minutes ago. He thought of their dinner, the way Clark and Diana had chatted excitedly over their food. He thought of the way they’d laughed when he made a dry comment about the hotel’s décor. He thought of the strange sense of peace he’d felt when he’d gone to rest his eyes on this very bed; the vague and embarrassing thought, somewhere between sleep and wakefulness, that this was the first time in a long time that anyone outside of his family had felt like home.
And he decided something, then and there. A firm, unbreakable conviction.
Clark could never, ever know.
Bruce truly hadn’t meant for things to get to this point, but it was already too late. At some point over the past few months, he’d strolled confidently across the event horizon, propelled by the arrogant misconception that he of all people, a man who struggled just to keep his own family together, would surely find his way home.
But then that delusion had been inevitably, if anticlimactically shattered in a half-furnished, sunset-soaked apartment in Metropolis. And it was terrifying to feel himself want something, someone, with such ferocity again.
He couldn’t put that on Clark.
He couldn’t.
So he didn’t. He kept his voice neutral as he gave Clark some excuse about prepping early for patrol, didn’t let his expression or his posture or even his heartbeat betray the churning in his stomach until he was well past city limits. It was still early evening by the time by the time he pulled up to the manor, by his standards at least, so he still had a couple of hours left before he had to be out there.
He wasn’t in the mood for it tonight. He wasn’t in the mood for much of anything.
The mood in the manor did not match his own. Dick grinned up at him from the sofa when he walked into the living room, Damian and Jon beside him. “B, you’re back! How’d the move go? Come join us, we’ve just decided on a movie.” Nestled into the armchair, Tim glanced up briefly to flash him a quick smile, otherwise distracted by his phone.
In typically stark contrast to Dick’s cheer, Damian looked vaguely murderous. “Escape while you can, Father,” he said darkly. “Grayson has insisted on Zootopia.”
“Oh, don’t be a grump,” Jon said, elbowing Damian in the side. “I know you like Zootopia. You said you liked the way they designed the animal people.”
“That is purely an aesthetic appreciation. The story itself is a farcical parody of both actual detective work and animal ethics.” His eyes narrowed. “Exactly what is so funny, Drake?”
Tim was, in fact, quietly smirking to himself. “Nothing.”
“It’s clearly not ‘nothing’.”
He shrugged. “It’s nothing. I’m just happy I finally have confirmation that you’re a secret furry, that’s all.”
Damian bristled. “Am not.”
“Are too.”
“Am not!”
“Then why do you like movies about talking animals for ‘aesthetic’ reasons?” Tim asked with a pointed raise of his eyebrow. “It's okay, Damian. It's nothing to be embarrassed about. Just accept yourself.”
“Grayson’s the one who picked the film. Are you going to call him a furry too?” Damian sneered. “And besides, I don’t like it. In fact, I still don’t see why we have to watch movies intended for children rather than something more mature.”
Tim tilted his head. “Uh. Because you are a child?”
“Please, Drake. I haven’t been a ‘child’ since I was at least 5.”
“Uh, yeah, that’s not how that works. You’re literally a child.”
“Am not.”
“Are too.”
“Hey, guys?” Jon asked, frowning. “What’s a furry?”
Dick threw his hands up. “Guys! We already decided, so can we just watch the movie? We only have so much time before patrol starts.” The others seemed to accept this, although Damian was still glaring daggers at Tim, who seemed unperturbed. Dick rolled his eyes at this and flashed another grin at Bruce.
His smile froze.
“B?” he asked softly. “What’s up?”
The mood in the room shifted uncomfortably quickly, all eyes turned to Bruce, still hovering in the doorway. He felt unaccountably guilty, a gloomy presence at the edge of their good-natured bickering. He closed his eyes and said, “Nothing. Long day.”
Tim tilted his head. “Long bat day? Or…?”
“No,” he said curtly. And then, succumbing to an impulse he didn’t fully understand, he added, “Just…I think you were right, Dick.”
He didn’t see the look on Dick’s face at that, but he seemed to understand. “Oh, B,” he muttered sadly.
Bruce turned to leave. “Enjoy the movie. Good night, Jon. I’ll see the rest of you later for patrol.”
He left the room without waiting for a response.
No matter how Bruce was feeling, he still had a job to do. Fortunately, there was plenty to distract himself with. For all that he loved her, Gotham was never short on problems to solve – and the more he worked, the more of them he could uncover. For the next few weeks, he dove into his work as Batman in what was admittedly an attempt at avoidance.
That said, there were downsides to pushing himself like this for weeks at a time. When a true emergency arose, he could feel exhaustion pressing in at the corners of his mind. It made him slower, duller – not by much, but by enough to count when he was facing down a warehouse full of hired thugs armed with semiautomatics. He didn’t make any major slip ups, but he did get more dinged up than he probably would have if he’d been in top form.
Alfred looked resigned when he finished his examination. “12 stitches, two cracked ribs, a wrenched knee and a refractured tibia. Not to mention the bruising and split knuckles.” He tutted. “You do realize that you don’t have to catch all the bullets with your own body, don’t you?”
“I’ll keep that in mind for next time,” he said absently, mainly focused on keeping perfectly still as Alfred stitched him up. Local anesthetic only went so far.
Alfred just sighed. “I do wish you’d figure out some alternative coping mechanisms, sir,” he muttered, but gamely completed the neat row of stitches without further commentary. Bruce felt more than a little ridiculous with his wraps and brace and ice strapped to his chest, trussed up like a Christmas turkey.
Alfred was trying to hassle him into using a pair of (probably superfluous) crutches when there was a familiar ping from the computer – a perimeter alert. Bruce stiffened.
“Ah, that’ll be Master Kent,” Alfred said, his wearied expression brightening. “Perhaps he can talk some sense into you.”
An icy dread was spreading from the pit of his stomach. “You invited him?” he asked accusingly.
Alfred spoke with deliberate enunciation. The clipped tones of his accent were always especially so when he was trying to convey displeasure. “Not in so many words. He called as you were on your way back. He said he saw what happened on the news—” and here, Alfred fixed him with a Look “—and that you weren’t picking up your comm.”
Bruce scowled. “I was busy.”
“Undoubtedly, sir. In any case, Master Kent and I mutually agreed that perhaps in-person communication would be the way to go.”
Bruce scowled harder.
Predictably unbothered by Bruce’s displeasure, Alfred smiled serenely and called out, “In here, Master Kent.” Sure enough, Superman drifted into the medbay only moments later. The furrow between his brows deepened when he caught sight of Bruce. He was in costume and brought with him a faint smell of woodsmoke, so presumably he’d either been at a campsite or dealing with a forest fire.
Either way, he undoubtedly had better places to be than here.
“Clark,” Bruce greeted coolly. “This visit is unnecessary.”
Clark put his hands on his hips and cast a wry glance at Alfred. “Well, his personality’s intact, at least.”
“That it is,” Alfred agreed, equally wry.
“I guess I’m relieved. What are we looking at?”
Alfred rattled off his list of minor injuries and Clark nodded along seriously. Bruce bristled. “I’d appreciate not being discussed as if I’m not in the room,” he snapped.
“My sincerest apologies, sir,” Alfred said, despite the clear absence of contrition in his tone. He straightened and lightly clapped his hands. “In any case, I’ve done all that I can here. Straight to bed, Master Bruce, if you want to even think about going on patrol again before the end of the week. We can handle things down here for tonight, and the rest can be arranged in the morning.”
“I think I can at least handle writing a report, Alfred,” Bruce said archly.
Clark and Alfred shared another Look. Bruce staunchly refused to react to this in any way.
Finally, having evidently come to some agreement, Alfred sighed and said, “I’ll leave you gentlemen to it,” and left the room. Now it was just Bruce and Clark. Clark, whose arms were folded across his chest, radiating a stern disapproval that rarely failed to make the younger members of the League quiver in guilt and/or terror.
“Bruce,” Clark said, pointedly.
Bruce was not one of the younger members of the League. Clark was younger than him. And there was no-one alive today who could prove that he’d ever ‘quivered’.
He looked back, expression flat. “Clark,” he said, equally pointedly.
A moment passed. Five seconds. Ten. Clark raised an eyebrow expectantly. Bruce clenched his jaw. The stalemate continued.
And then, in a movement so small as to be almost imperceptible, Clark tipped his head to the right.
He felt himself crumble.
“Fine,” he spat bitterly. “I’ll go to bed and leave tonight’s report to Damian. But I’m not using the crutches.”
A muscle jumped in Clark’s jaw. “Fine. But I’ll help you if you struggle at any point. And no complaining when I do.”
“Agreed.”
“Good,” Clark said relaxing minutely. “Good. Then: after you.”
Bruce carefully tugged the leg of his loose sweatpants over his brace. Clark waited patiently for him and stayed a polite 3 feet away as Bruce levered himself onto his feet and tested the leg now that the adrenaline had mostly worn off. It was fine. It took a few careful steps to figure out the middle ground between limping and jarring his injuries, but once he did, that was fine too. He could walk.
He only paused when they reached the steps leading out of the cave. Every time he had an injury, he was reminded just how many of them there were. And why was the master bedroom on the top floor of the manor? In hindsight, it seemed like poor planning.
“Need a hand?” Clark offered. He was smug. Bruce wasn’t looking at him, but he could just tell he was smug.
“No,” Bruce said, setting a determined hand on the handrail. He began to climb.
But his breathing must have stuttered, or he made some minute facial expression, because after only a few steps Clark was muttering, “For heaven’s sake,” and then there was a long line of heat pressed against his side and along his back, and his arm was being slung across Clark’s shoulders.
“How are your ribs like this? Not too sore?” Clark asked.
“I don’t need you to—”
“You said no complaining if I stepped in. We agreed, remember?”
That wasn’t exactly what they’d agreed, but the support did reduce the pain of walking significantly and Clark was a pleasant, comforting presence beside him. The contact felt soothing in a way he didn’t like to examine. He grunted in reluctant acceptance and firmly ignored the pathetic urge to lean into Clark’s touch as they walked.
Clark was quiet until they reached the top floor of the manor. And then: “So.”
Now that there were no more stairs, Bruce shrugged off his support. He tried not to grimace as his full weight returned to his injured leg. He walked. “So.”
Clark was trailing after him at that same polite distance as before. “So…I feel like I haven’t seen you in a while.”
“We were both at a meeting together two days ago.”
“Outside of the Justice League, I mean.” There was a pause. “You, uh. Never returned my calls about lunch.”
Great. He’d clearly noticed that Bruce was avoiding him – but then, it had only been a matter of time. This confrontation had always been inevitable. Bruce had the sudden urge to walk faster, but he was sure Clark would kick up a stink if he did. He kept his steps measured and controlled.
“I’ve been busy,” was all he said.
“I see that,” Clark said, overtaking him briefly so he could open the door to Bruce’s bedroom for him. An unnecessary gesture, since it wasn’t Bruce’s arm that was in a brace.
Bruce slid past him into the dimly lit room. It was still a few hours before sunrise, only a faint light seeping in through the balcony doors. The same balcony doors he’d held Clark against when he’d—
He took a breath. His ribs ached.
“Did you need to talk about something?”
Clark shrugged and gave a small smile. “No, nothing in particular. Just wanted to catch up.”
“I’ll let you know when I have time in my diary,” he said briskly. “Now, if that’s all…”
He paused when he felt a touch at his elbow and looked over. There was Clark, brow slightly furrowed, the faint light from the balcony playing at the angles of his face. Bruce didn’t dare to even breathe.
“Bruce,” Clark said softly. “Stop trying to get rid of me. I’m not going anywhere. Okay?”
Bruce swallowed. This. This was exactly the kind of thing he needed to avoid, Clark standing in his bedroom, limned by moonlight, strong fingers gentle on his arm. Looking at him with fond exasperation covering a familiar concern. Concern for him.
The ache grew stronger. Wanting Clark to be gone would be a lot easier if he didn’t also want him to stay.
“Could we do this another time?” he said stiffly. “As you’ve pointed out, I’m not in the best condition right now. I doubt I’d make a particularly good partner.”
“What?” Clark’s brow furrowed in confusion for a long moment before abruptly shooting halfway up his forehead. “What? Jesus, Bruce, I’m not here to— Why would you think I was here for that?”
Bruce flicked his eyes over to his bed and then down to where Clark’s hand was still gripping his arm.
Clark immediately wrenched his hand away like Bruce had suddenly started glowing green. He looked almost as scandalized as he had when Bruce had gone to his knees in his office. “I can’t believe you’d think— You’re injured!”
“My point exactly.”
“I wanted to make sure you were okay!”
“And I’ve already succumbed to your and Alfred’s henpecking. If you don’t want sex, why are you still here?” he grumbled.
Clark seemed to hesitate. “Why? Because…because I care about you, obviously.”
It wouldn’t have hurt to hear that before. It did now. Bruce drew an uneven breath. “Well, maybe you should care less. Just because we’re fucking, doesn’t mean I need you to—”
He cut himself off before he could finish the sentence, biting the inside of his lip. He was exhausted. God, he— he shouldn’t be talking about this at all, right now. “Just leave me to it. I can manage on my own,” he finished. He turned to slip on his pajamas. The pants would be difficult with the brace, but he could manage the shirt at least.
Clark was quiet for a long moment while Bruce fiddled with the buttons, swearing under his breath when his stiff, bruised fingers kept slipping. Then there was a gentle nudge at his shoulder, a prompt to turn around, and Clark was taking over from him.
“I can do it myself,” he protested, but didn’t move to brush Clark’s hands away. Couldn’t. Clark’s fingers were sure and gentle, not even grazing Bruce’s skin through the silk of his shirt.
“I know,” Clark said quietly, gaze intent on his task. “Like I said. I want to make sure you’re okay.”
Bruce couldn’t see his eyes when they were lowered like this, just a smudge of sooty eyelashes, even the fine creases at the corners of his eyes obscured by the pervasive dimness of the room. He shifted uncomfortably, already feeling guilty for snapping at him. It wasn’t Clark’s fault that Bruce couldn’t keep his cool, after all. It wasn’t Clark’s fault that Bruce was in love with him.
“You don’t need to,” he murmured. “It’s fine, Clark.”
Clark’s mouth twisted. “I’m not sure it is.”
For some reason, Bruce got the feeling he was talking about something else. He narrowed his eyes. “What do you mean?”
Clark grimaced. “Look, B, I’m…I’m sorry. I’ll figure it out, okay?”
He was being unnecessarily cryptic. And why was he apologizing? “Figure what out.”
Clark just sighed. “Okay. I get it. We’re not talking about it, right?” he said. Bruce wasn’t sure whether he was imagining the edge of bitterness to his voice. But before Bruce could find a clever reply, Clark was already stepping back.
“Get some rest tonight, Bruce. I mean it. I’ll know if you don’t, and I’m not above tattling on you to Alfred,” he said with a smile. In the half-light from the window, Bruce couldn’t tell whether that smile was teasing or solemn. “Goodnight, Bruce.”
And then he vanished in a gentle rush of air.
Bruce wasn’t sure whether to be relieved or disappointed.
After that, Clark didn’t contact him. At all.
This was not normal. What was normal was this: as soon as Bruce was solidly back on his feet, or even before then, Clark would come to the cave, or maybe ambush him on patrol, and politely but firmly demand that Bruce tell him what exactly his problem was. Bruce would have no choice but to be evasive, and Clark would be rightly upset and tell him, in no uncertain terms, to pull his own head out of his ass. After all, Clark hadn’t done anything to deserve Bruce’s unexplained distance or snippiness, certainly not without an explanation on Bruce’s part. And he had no reason to be shy about pointing that out.
But instead, weeks after Bruce’s tedious recovery period had ended, there was…nothing. They saw each other at the League, and on missions, and that was it. Clark seemed normal, perhaps a little subdued. But he was, apparently, content to keep his distance.
Clark seemed to be taking ‘not talking about it’ very seriously.
Bruce wasn’t sure what to make of it. Perhaps it wasn’t fair to expect Clark to provide all the impetus in addressing a potential conflict, but he hadn’t expected him to just not try. Clark wasn’t always an open book, but he was also nothing if not stubborn. It was unlike him to give up. Unless this was really him giving up for good. But— But no, that didn’t seem right either. They’d been friends for more than a decade; to let things just fizzle out didn’t seem like his style either.
Bruce couldn’t help but feel like he’s missed something important during that strange conversation in his bedroom, but through the haze of exhaustion it was hard to pin down what that something was. Whatever the reason, one thing was clear: Bruce may have started out avoiding Clark, but now Clark was avoiding him.
Bruce’s intel was lacking. When he asked Dick if he’d heard anything from Superman lately, Dick told him in no uncertain terms to, “Call him your damn self,” and hung up, muttering something about grown fucking men and shooting messengers and not getting involved again.
He was roughly midway through the long, slow process of working up the nerve to follow Dick’s advice when Clark beat him to it. One minute Bruce was staring at his phone, watching the cursor on his messenger app blink; the next, the cave sensors were triggered by a familiar airborne arrival and Superman was standing before him in all his primary-colored glory.
Bruce blinked and put his phone face down on the table. “Clark,” he said, unable to keep the edge of wariness out of his voice.
Clark’s smile was false-bright. “Hey, B!”
Bruce stared. “Did you need something?” he asked.
“Yes,” Clark said. “I wanted to ask you if you'd go to Finland with me.”
He blinked. What.
“What,” Bruce said.
“Finland! Saunas.” Clark paused, then added emphatically, “You know. A boys’ trip. Remember, we were talking about it a while back, before…” he trailed off oddly.
Bruce was aware he was still staring but couldn’t quite bring himself to stop. So, no confrontation then. No discussion, or accusations, or reading of rights. Just a forced return to the status quo.
He wasn’t sure yet what to make of that.
The relentless smile had dimmed for a second while Bruce failed to react beyond blank staring, but Clark quickly redoubled his efforts. “Oh, come on, it’ll be fun!” he insisted.
“If I recall correctly,” Bruce said, which he did, “that suggestion was nixed on account of the fact that you don’t sweat. Or meaningfully feel heat within levels of human tolerance.”
“Nixed by you, maybe. And if I recall correctly, you didn’t have any better suggestions,” Clark pointed out, which admittedly was also true. “And besides. I do still feel heat. It’s just, you know. Pleasantly warming.”
“Saunas are not supposed to be ‘pleasantly warming’.”
Clark folded his arms across his chest. “Prescriptivism is dead, Bruce. Our experiences are what we make of them.”
“That’s not even— Are you referring to the moral or the linguistic philosophy? Because that’s not how either of them work.”
“Sure, but you understood what I meant, didn’t you?”
Bruce let out a snort despite himself. Even with both of them keeping each other at arm’s length for the past few weeks, it was always so easy to slip back into a pattern with him. The easy conversation, Clark coming in to bother him in the cave – it all felt so…normal. He already felt lighter than he had in weeks.
He’d missed it. He’d missed Clark.
“For real, though, B. It doesn’t matter what we do. I just, you know…” He paused and shrugged. “Wanted to hang out. And I really do like saunas, you know. I wasn’t joking about that part.”
“Okay,” Bruce said.
Despite the forcefulness of his earlier request, Clark actually looked surprised. “Wait. Really? Just like that?”
“Just like that,” he said. It was perhaps against his better judgment, but honestly, he didn’t want to avoid Clark like this. If Clark wanted to end whatever conflict Bruce had started, he'd gladly go along with it. None of this – the careful control, keeping his feelings under wraps – none of it was worth a damn if he couldn’t keep their friendship alive.
Unexpected though this was, maybe…maybe this approach was best. Don’t bring it up. Move past it, without examining the whys and wherefores. Maybe that way, they could return to some semblance of normalcy – this miraculous new normal they’d established. He just had to keep himself in check.
It was mind over matter, he told himself. And time and distance had surely helped. He could be what Clark needed without letting his useless infatuation get in the way.
Clark sagged slightly. “Wow. Talk about an anticlimax. I didn’t even get to show you my powerpoint.”
“There’s still time, if you’d like. When were you thinking?”
“Oh.” He shifted his weight. “Um. Tomorrow.”
Bruce’s eyebrows shot up. “Tomorrow.”
“Yup.”
“Clark, I can’t just up and leave Gotham without notice. I have to arrange cover for patrol. I need—”
“Actually,” Clark cut in, “I happen to know that you have enough feet on the ground in Gotham right now to cover patrol, no major ongoing cases, and no Wayne Enterprises business either. For the next couple of nights, at least.”
“Hn.” Bruce narrowed his eyes. “You’ve been stalking my calendar.”
Clark was avoiding his gaze. “Uh. Not exactly.”
“I should never have given you Alfred’s number,” he grumbled, but it was a token effort. “Then fine. One night,” he said and held up a warning finger. “But you’re not flying me. I’m taking the plane.”
Clark was chattering at him as soon as he disembarked. “So I picked somewhere remote enough that people would be very unlikely to know who you are. But it’s got great reviews, and the nearby village is really charming. Maybe we could visit? Oh, and I made sure to book a private sauna room, so you’d be more comfortable. Did you know, traditionally the Finns beat each other with birch twigs in the sauna, we could try that—”
Said chattering continued throughout the 20 minute cab ride from the airfield to the hotel. Clark was apparently not put off by the lack of any real verbal responses. If Bruce didn’t know any better, he’d say Clark was nervous. But what would he have to be nervous about?
The cab stopped in a remote area of snowy wilderness, just outside a moderately-sized, quaint building comprised of colorfully painted wooden slats and sloped roofing. A series of small huts were barely visible behind it – the saunas, he presumed.
“See, B? Isn’t it cute?” said Clark. His smile brightened when Bruce grunted in vague agreement. “Could you pay the cab fare? I’ll go check on our room.”
He watched Clark hurry off into the building, absently handing the driver a crisp 50 Euro note and pretending to be too blithely American to understand the driver’s insistence that it was too much for the short ride.
Room, he noted to himself. Room. Singular. Which meant they would be sharing.
Bruce felt a vague unease bubbling beneath his skin. Now that the reality was before him, he wasn’t sure he was ready to share a room with Clark. A room at a pleasantly quiet, cozy hotel in a peaceful stretch of countryside, all picturesque snowfields and glassy lakes, like something out of a postcard. Or a Hallmark movie.
It would be all too easy to make this into something it wasn’t.
He closed his eyes, let out a breath. He was being stupid, he told himself. It was mind over matter. He just had to stay rational about this. Keep everything casual and platonic.
It would be fine.
“So, uh, Bruce. I think they misunderstood me when I booked the room.”
Bruce’s left eyelid twitched.
The room Clark had booked was, quite clearly, some kind of honeymoon suite. The décor had a very consistent theme of love, with woven wall-hangings and chocolates and even a carved statuette in the shape of twin hearts. Even the (admittedly, less traditionally romantic) mounted deer head on the wall above the door had its antlers adorned with little red bows. Every surface was scattered with lit candles, casting the room in a warm, romantic glow.
And in the center of it all sat a huge king-sized bed, scattered with small, foil-wrapped chocolates and a veritable glut of rose petals.
“Misunderstood,” he repeated slowly.
Clark shrugged helplessly. “My Finnish is a little rusty?”
“Clark,” Bruce said, very evenly. “This room looks like the concept of Valentine’s day has projectile vomited all over it. What could you possibly have said in Finnish that could be misinterpreted as this.”
“Well, I think they automatically did the room up the same way as the last time I was here,” Clark said sheepishly.
Bruce felt his eyelid twitch again. “For, presumably, a romantic get-away with Lois.”
Clark looked, incredibly, even more sheepish than he sounded. “Um, yeah. Our anniversary.”
“So you’ve decided to take me, your friend and colleague, to the same place you took your now-ex-wife on your wedding anniversary.” He glanced again at the horrifying tableau of the huge, flower-strewn bed, which somehow got more sickeningly romantic the longer he looked at it. “With rose petals.”
“Okay, so to clarify, the rose petals were definitely not requested. This time.”
Bruce, who couldn’t imagine the rose petals would have appealed to Lois much more than they did him, merely grunted.
Clark was fiddling with his glasses, clearly uncomfortable. “Look, I asked for a twin, and definitely not for any, uh, extra decoration. This is all a misunderstanding. I’ll go check with the desk. Be right back.” He hurried out of the room at only slightly faster than normal human speed. Bruce thought he heard Clark mutter something like, “Why did I listen to Lois,” under his breath as he went. Bruce politely ignored it.
They were off to a great start.
Thankfully, the hotel had a spare room, so Clark took St Valentine’s Monstrosity while Bruce got settled into his modest double. But after a very pleasant lunch in the hotel’s restaurant, the restaurant manager brought over a small chocolate torte sprinkled liberally with cut strawberries and the word ‘love’ emblazoned atop it in what looked like icing sugar.
“It’s part of the package,” she explained in heavily accented English, setting the plate down in the middle of their table with a friendly smile. “Couples package, yes?”
Bruce could only stare at the thing with a resigned kind of horror. There were two spoons. Of course there were two spoons. How else would they feed each other mouthfuls of chocolate torte while gazing lovingly into each other’s eyes? He’d been foolish to expect otherwise.
Clark cleared his throat. “Um, I explained to the front desk already, but we’re not—”
“Ah, I recognize you!” she exclaimed suddenly. “Nice American tourist! We had a long conversation about Finnish delicacies.”
Clark brightened. “Oh, yes, so we did! It’s good to see you again.”
“I am pleased you came back. I remember you came here with your wife, yes? Years ago?” The woman peered at Bruce over the rim of her glasses and frowned. Gestured to Bruce. Looked back at Clark.
“Oh,” she said. “This is not your wife.”
“I am not his wife,” Bruce confirmed.
Her eyebrows rose, eyes wide and lips pursed. It was the universal expression of someone finding out juicy gossip and trying (and failing) not to react visibly.
Clark’s eyes widened in mild horror. “Oh, no. No! This isn’t— I’m not having an affair.”
“Oh, of course not, sir,” she said and all but winked. “Don’t worry. We are discreet here.”
Now Clark just looked embarrassed. “No, really. We, um. My ex-wife and I…we’re actually divorced.”
“Ah.” The woman’s face immediately creased with sympathy. “That is sad to hear. She was also very nice, I remember. But I see you have found a handsome new love, yes?” She beamed at Bruce. “Congratulations to both of you! Make sure this one doesn’t get away, hm?”
“We’re not…” Clark began, but the manager was already whisking away, leaving the dessert on the table between them. They stared at it, sitting there innocuously in all its chocolatey glory, like it was a live grenade.
Clark blinked at it then looked up at him. Winced. “Well, uh. Do you want to—”
“I’m not hungry,” Bruce growled.
Clark sighed and pulled the plate towards him. “Right. Sure. Of course. I’ll…go talk to the front desk again.”
After all that, it was perhaps unsurprising that Bruce was feeling anything but relaxed by the time they made it to the sauna.
Clark was perfectly and incongruously dry in the humid air of the room, relaxing with his head tipped back as someone might on a park bench during a pleasantly warm autumn day. “This is nice. It’s nice, right? Relaxing.”
Bruce grunted, tried to focus on the bead of sweat running down his temple rather than the gentle curl of nausea in his stomach. The room itself was in line with what he’d expected: a small wooden cabin a short walk from the main building, everything pale strips of wood except for the heater covered with stones beside a pail of water. Clark had left Bruce in charge of that, as the only one of them liable to overheat.
But of course, his discomfort was more down to overthinking than overheating.
The mawkishly appointed honeymoon suite, sharing dessert by candlelight – none of that was what Clark wanted from him. Bruce was here as a friend, or perhaps a hook-up. And it’s not as if Bruce wanted any of that anyway. Trite gestures of Hallmark-esque romance weren’t his thing at all, or even Lois’ – that was all Clark. He just wanted—
He just wanted Clark to want that with him, maybe. He just wanted Clark to want him, more than he’d wanted almost anything. Whatever that looked like.
Clark shifted beside him. “You’re quiet,” he noted.
“I’m relaxing.”
“Sure, you seem real relaxed,” Clark muttered and let out a sigh. “Hey, Bruce…I’m sorry. Maybe this trip was a bad idea. If it means anything, I really thought you’d have fun.”
“I am,” he lied. It felt like a white lie, at least. Under normal circumstances, he was sure he’d be having a good time. It was hardly Clark’s fault that he was obsessing over impossible fantasies instead of enjoying their time together.
Clark did not look convinced. “Is this about the room? I swear it was all a…a misunderstanding.”
Bruce could feel his shoulders starting to tense and forcibly relaxed them. “I know.”
“Okay,” Clark said on another sigh. “Look, we only have one night here, and I don’t want you to waste it being miserable. Is there anything I can do to make this better for you?”
He closed his eyes. He didn’t want to overthink things. He didn’t want to torture himself by daydreaming about things he couldn’t have. He wanted to appreciate what he did have, which was Clark beside him, still – somehow, miraculously.
For however long he could keep him.
“I can think of one thing,” he found himself saying lowly, eyes flickering to Clark’s, and then he kissed him, sweat-damp palms cradling the curve of his shoulders. This was definitely better than thinking. Lust was a pleasant distraction, a dimmer switch on the current maelstrom of his mind. Or it would be, as soon as Clark started kissing him back.
He paused. Clark wasn’t kissing him back.
He pulled back. Clark was looking at him with wide eyes and a new but noticeable air of discomfort. He—
“You don’t want to,” Bruce said blankly.
Clark shifted uncomfortably against him. “Well, it’s not that I don’t want to. But…”
He released Clark immediately, shifting so that there was space between them again. He couldn’t help but notice the way Clark relaxed minutely the moment their bare skin was no longer in contact.
There was bile in his throat.
Clark was talking, words coming fast and a touch nervous. “I thought this could be…not that. Just a boys’ trip, like we talked about before. Like old times, you know?”
“I see,” Bruce said. He couldn’t tell what expression Clark was wearing, because he was staring fixedly at the wall in front of him. It was all too obvious what had happened. While he’d been avoiding Clark, he’d already moved on or lost interest. Maybe that was why Bruce had seen less of him. Maybe not. Either way, the unavoidable truth was this: he’d lost his chance without even realizing it. And now, even the fantasy of them being more was gone.
Back to ‘just friends’ then – that is, if their friendship even survived this, when Bruce was still…
“I get how this looks, with the whole couples package misunderstanding,” Clark was saying somewhere beyond the buzzing in Bruce’s ears.
“Do you,” he said. He’d always known this would end sooner or later. He’d really underestimated how much it would hurt.
“Yeah.” The wooden bench creaked quietly as Clark shifted his weight. “Really, I wasn’t trying to ambush you with some kind of…romantic getaway. This is 100% not that.”
He felt his jaw tense. “I know.”
“Hand to god,” Clark said. “This is just a completely platonic trip between friends.”
“I know,” he said again, voice strained. God, why was Clark still talking?
“Zero romance on the schedule here, for either of us,” Clark continued. “Just pals. Who aren’t in love with each other. At all.”
Bruce’s eyebrow twitched. What was even happening? Had he received a microdose of fear toxin with his salad appetizer? Or had Clark discovered some heretofore undiscovered telepathic ability, activated by steam and lakeside vistas, and decided to use it to torture him?
“Believe me, Clark, your point has been made,” he muttered darkly.
“Okay. Right, that’s…good,” Clark said with a little sigh. “I think it’s better this way, for both of us, just to go back to how things were. Right?”
The edge of hope in his voice was a knife in Bruce’s chest.
Why did this feel like a break-up? It was nothing, the end of a casual relationship, a return to normality. It wasn’t a break-up. Hell, they hadn’t even been dating.
But. But that didn’t matter, did it? Because hadn’t it felt like it, sometimes? Almost like lovers, even as he’d tried in vain to maintain a safe distance, their time together easy and comfortable and sweet and like everything he’d never let himself imagine Clark would want with him. Somewhere along the line, he’d started reading something deeper than fondness into the way Clark looked at him, and he’d let that play into the fantasy without realizing it. And now, without the comfort of that delusion, Bruce felt like a piece of himself was being torn away.
How was he supposed to just go back now, knowing what that had felt like?
“Bruce?” Clark prompted, voice uneasy. “We’re…still friends. Right?”
Bruce felt numb. The silence stretched between them uncomfortably.
“Okay,” Clark said. His voice was uncharacteristically small. When Bruce finally mustered the will to turn his frozen head to look at him, his face was pale, eyes dull and distraught. “Okay. I’ll just… I’ll go. I’ll go.”
The knife twisted. Despite the heat of the room, despite the sweat dripping from his brow, Bruce felt his blood run cold. Clark wasn’t meant to look like that. Not ever.
“What?” he croaked.
Clark was already standing, shoulders hunched. He wasn’t looking at him. “It’s…it’s fine, Bruce. I think I’ve had enough of the sauna anyway.”
“Clark,” he began. But before he could say anything more, Clark was gone.
Fuck, that wasn’t what— He hadn’t meant to imply—
Bruce didn’t realize how hard he’d been gripping the bench until he felt the soft wood denting beneath his fingers. He quickly let go with a shaky breath. Stood. Faced the stone wall of the sauna instead. Punched it as hard as he dared without breaking his hand, let the harsh sting of his knuckles and the ache of his bones echo through him.
He stood there for a long time while he tried to remember how to breathe without his chest hurting.
Notes:
I would like to apologise to the furry community for taking their name in vain. I would also like to apologise to the people of Finland for probably misrepresenting their culture in some way, even though I tried not to. You are loved and Käärijä was robbed.
Chapter 7: The Conclusion (pt. 2)
Summary:
The promise made by the title of this fic is at last fulfilled. (It's about fucking time.)
Notes:
(See the end of the chapter for notes.)
Chapter Text
Bruce felt the barest twinge of relief when he checked and found that Clark was, at least, still in the country. His comm location pinged from his hotel room, and he knew Clark wouldn’t willingly compromise his ability to be contacted by the League in case of an emergency.
So he was still here. Maybe Bruce could still salvage this. He had to at least try.
The door to Clark’s room was unlocked when he tried the handle. Sure enough, there was Clark, sitting on his ridiculous bed, back against the headboard with his legs pulled loosely up to his chest. The rose petals had been gathered into a neat pile on the nightstand. Several of the chocolates had been eaten.
He looked almost surprised when Bruce entered. “Oh. Hey, B. I…honestly thought you’d have left by now.”
Never without you, some part of Bruce wanted to say but the words stuck in his throat and his mouth remained stubbornly still. He hadn’t figured out what to tell Clark yet, having hoped to come up with something clever and profound in the ten or so minutes since Clark had left the sauna. Perhaps predictably, he had failed. In lieu of speech, he closed the door behind himself and immediately felt himself flounder. Should he keep his distance? Move closer? In the end, he took the path of inaction and stayed rooted awkwardly to the floor just in front of the doorway.
Clark sighed glumly. “What do you want from me, Bruce? You’ve spent a whole month avoiding me, and then you agree to come on this trip… I thought that meant we were still okay. But I can tell you’re not comfortable around me. And then you do that and I…I just…really don’t know what to think anymore.” He ran a tired hand through his hair. “Is it really because I…because I overstepped? I know it’s not what you wanted, but I really thought our friendship was stronger than that. I didn’t think that…that this could be enough to end it, for you.”
Bruce said nothing.
“I can give you space, and more time, if that’s what you need. What we need. As long as…” His fingers curled into his own thighs – hard, maybe even hard enough to bruise, however fleetingly. Superman wasn’t invulnerable to himself after all. “As long as it’s not already too late. If this is some kind of…of ultimatum or a test something, then that’s not necessary. You know what choice I’d make. Don’t you?” He gave a bitter laugh. “Although, if it is some kind of test, then it’s…real shitty of you, B. Really.”
Bruce worked his jaw, unable to take his eyes off of Clark’s miserable, frustrated form. This. This is why this had been a bad idea. He’d told himself, for years, that there was too much at stake to risk trying anything. For both of their sakes.
“B,” Clark said softly, almost a whisper. “Please. Just say something.”
He’d never wanted to hurt him like this.
“It’s my fault,” he said numbly.
Clark’s head snapped up, expression shifting to alarm at whatever he saw on Bruce’s face. “What? B, what do you—"
“It’s my fault,” he repeated, the words dragged out from somewhere deep inside him almost without permission. They scraped raw against his throat, painful in a way he knew was mostly in his head. The knowledge didn’t make it any easier to speak. “You’re right. I was pulling away. But it’s not because of anything you did.” He couldn’t help but add, sardonic, “At least, not anything you did wrong.”
Now Clark was watching him, intent and wary. Slowly, he turned his body to face Bruce, feet slipping off the mattress and onto the floor. “Then…why?”
He still felt frozen in place. Even if he’d wanted to close the awkward distance between them, he wasn’t sure he could will his feet to move. “I… I knew this was doomed from the start. All of this – since that first night, in the cave. I should have understood then that shifting the boundaries of our relationship would only cause harm. But I did it anyway, out of…weakness. I shouldn’t have put either of us in that position.”
Clark was shaking his head slowly, bewildered, eyes still fixed on him. “B, that’s not… That’s not all on you. How could it be? You didn’t force me into anything, I made my own decisions—”
“That’s not the point,” he said harshly before he caught himself. He took a slow, deep breath. He had to keep his cool or the words would come out wrong. He knew that, damn it. “The point is that relationships involving casual sex don’t survive when one party is emotionally overinvested. You weren’t to know, that I…”
Another breath. He forced his jaw to unclench and continued.
“But I knew. I knew that adding sex to our existing dynamic was a significant risk. I knew going in that some kind of…emotional fallout was inevitable for me. I just chose to ignore it. I lied to myself.”
Something shifted on the bed – Clark leaning forward, perhaps. He couldn’t be sure, couldn’t bring himself to make eye contact anymore, to parse Clark’s reaction. There was the sound of a shaky breath. “Bruce. What are you trying to say?”
Part of him wanted to laugh at the absurdity of it all. All these years keeping it inside, denying it even to himself, even as Clark became a more and more irreplaceable part of his life. Practically a decade. Of course this is how it finally came out, with the fragile strands of their friendship taut and fraying between them, a bond he’d willfully allowed to deteriorate. With him poised to deliver the final blow. He should have known this was how it would turn out.
“I’m in love with you,” he said simply, mechanically, and the honesty of it was as much a relief as it was a misery. “I have been since before all this started. I told myself I could keep my feelings under control, even as we became intimate. But I was wrong, and I…I couldn’t deal with it. This is my fault.”
A long, penetrating silence pervaded. Eventually Clark spoke again, faintly, his voice seeming to echo in the stillness of the moment. “You’re… You’re in love with me?”
“Yes.”
“But. But after that first night, you made it clear that you didn’t want…” He paused for a long, tense moment. “Wait. You thought…”
Bruce lowered his gaze further. “That night I gave into impulse, let emotion get the better of me. I shouldn’t have let things go as far as they did. And I…overcompensated, trying to cover for that. I’m not proud of it.”
Clark let out a long, slow breath. “That’s… Wow. Okay. Wow.”
There was the sound of the bedsprings shifting again and then, terrifyingly, the soft pad of approaching footsteps. He repressed an instinctual flinch.
Clark came to a stop right in front of him. Bruce’s feet were still stupidly rooted to the floor.
“You’re in love with me,” he repeated, this time with an odd note in his voice. Bewilderment? Disgust? Bruce couldn’t place it.
He gritted his teeth; spat out, “Yes, Clark. For god’s sake, stop making me repeat myself—”
But the rest of the sentence was muffled because he was being kissed, Clark’s hands cradling his jaw to lift his chin and pull him close. Startled, he made a noise of panic, even as he automatically, desperately responded, slotting their lips together, and—
He brought his hands up to Clark’s chest to push him back – pure reflex, since he couldn’t have shifted him by force if he’d tried. Clark pulled away immediately, wide-eyed and breathless. “Oh gosh, I’m so sorry, I should’ve— It’s just— You’re in love with me.”
Bruce wrenched away from him with a snarl, shoulders slamming against the closed door. “Yes, I think we’ve established that by now. What the hell was that? Some ridiculous attempt at pity?”
Clark’s face fell. “What? No, of course not! Why would you even think that?”
“What else would it be?”
“I— What?” He looked caught between confusion and offense. “How’d you figure that?”
“I…” He swallowed thickly, feeling a little lost. Because there was no other alternative. Because Clark couldn’t possibly love him back. Because… “You know me, Clark. Better than almost anyone. Sex is one thing. Friendship is another. But any more than that would be— You know what it would mean to—”
Clark was staring at him, mouth slowly twisting into a perplexed frown as he trailed off. The reasoning seemed so obvious in his own head, but now he couldn’t find the words to articulate it.
“I’ve…never contemplated that you might feel the same way,” he heard himself saying, halting and inadequate. “You shouldn’t, it— I mean, just look at what we’re doing right now, Clark. Even as friends, all I’ve managed to do is ruin what we already had and…and hurt you. And as often as I complain about your lack of forethought, you’re no fool. You know better than that. You…deserve better.”
Clark was still just staring at him when he ran out of steam; kept staring, as that deafening silence settled between them once more. Seconds passed.
Then, firmly, pointedly:
“Oh my god. Shut up, Bruce.”
Bruce flinched back in surprise. “What? I—”
“No. I said shut up and I meant it.”
“Clark—”
“You’re a real idiot sometimes,” Clark snapped. Bruce sputtered. “No, really! You think you haven’t done anything good for me? That you’ve done nothing but hurt me? In the past few months alone, you’ve helped me understand my sexuality, talked me through my divorce, gone out of your way to find me a new apartment – hell, you saved my life! What part of that sounds like hurting me?”
Bruce felt suddenly wrong-footed. The way Clark was talking, it almost sounded like… “Clark, I don’t—”
“None of it,” Clark pressed. “And that’s just the past few months. I won’t say you’ve never hurt me, but you only have the power to because…because I care so much, too much, about what you think about me. Because you’re one of the most incredible people I’ve ever met. And yet you’re gonna stand here and act like you don’t ‘deserve’ me, when I’ve been…” Clark drew an uneven breath then and smiled, open and soft and heartrendingly beautiful. “When I’ve been torturing myself for months, thinking the same about you?”
Bruce’s chest was so tight he couldn’t even draw breath.
“I mean, this whole time,” Clark continued breathlessly, “I thought you’d figured out how I felt about you, and that you hated it, enough to avoid me over it. And I couldn’t even really blame you, since you made— since I thought you made it clear that you didn’t want anything more than…you know. Stress relief.
“But now you’re telling me…you’re saying that, through all of that, you loved me?” Clark said with a touch of wonder, and god but his smile was blinding. “Bruce, that’s the best news I’ve heard all year.”
Bruce swallowed thickly. He was sure his expression and the thundering in his chest were betraying the groundswell of emotion building inside him now, even if he wasn’t sure what that emotion was. Hopeful, maybe. A little lost, almost definitely. “Clark, are you… You can’t be saying…”
Clark’s expression was caught somewhere between frustrated and fond. “You haven’t figured it out yet, Mister World’s Greatest Detective? Of course I love you. I’m in love with you. You idiot.”
Bruce choked out a bewildered laugh, throat still tight. “The last part seems unnecessary. And is objectively untrue.”
“You’re the smartest idiot I know, but you’re still an idiot,” Clark sniped back. He bit his lip, suddenly self-conscious. “Sorry, that was… I just got so angry hearing you talk about yourself like that. And—”
“Clark,” he interrupted and gripped his face, thumbs on his cheekbones, fingers threading through soft hair. Clark’s eyes were wide and startled. “Shut up.”
And then Clark was kissing him, or maybe he’d kissed Clark, or maybe they both just fell into each other at the same time. Bruce held him close with shaking fingers, heartbeat to heartbeat and god, Clark was right there with him, heart thumping in his chest just as hard as his own, fingers digging into his back. Kissing him like he needed him more than air. Considering Clark’s physiology, that might actually be true right now – and wasn’t that a hell of a thought?
When they finally broke apart, foreheads tipped together, Bruce was almost dizzy. Clark’s heated gaze was skittering across his face, settling on his lips when Bruce swept his tongue across them, chasing the taste of Clark’s mouth while he caught his breath.
“So,” Clark said, voice barely above a low murmur. “I know I said I didn’t have an ulterior motive in bringing you here, but…”
“Yes,” he breathed. God, please. “Anything. Anything you want.”
Clark closed his eyes briefly and let out a long breath. When he opened them again, they were even darker than before, that unearthly blue barely a thin sliver around wide, black pupils. “Jesus, Bruce. Warn a guy, will you?”
“Anything,” Bruce repeated, slow and deep, practically a growl. “I would have thought that was obvious by now.”
Clark barked out a laugh. “B, you’re many things, but ‘obvious’ has never been one of them,” he said. “But I know what you’re trying to say. What you mean is, it’s because…you love me?”
He grunted, embarrassed. Embarrassed at feeling embarrassed. “I thought I told you to stop making me repeat myself.”
“Maybe I want to hear you say it again,” Clark said, teasing. Bruce must have reacted in some way to that, because he let out a soft laugh, barely more than a huff of air, felt more than heard. “It’s okay. I won’t make you. It’s enough just to know. But…anything?”
“Clark—”
He laughed again, that same soft sound – god, he looked so happy. How could it be that Bruce was the one to put that expression on his face? “I know, I know. You don’t like repeating yourself. Then, if anything is really on the table, will you…will you let me take care of you?” Clark’s palms were cradling his face, thumbs pressed into the hollows of his cheeks. “I want to show you how I feel about you. To do for you what you do for me. Please, B?”
Bruce’s heartbeat was skittering wildly in his chest now. He felt the sudden and ridiculous urge to pinch himself. Christ, none of this felt real.
“Yes,” he said. “Yes, and you really don’t need to beg, fuck, Clark—”
Bruce was cut off by another eager kiss, Clark’s tongue urgent against his. He steered them towards the bed, lowered Bruce onto it and propped his head up on the pillows with a delicacy that would have felt a little ridiculous had Bruce not been shockingly into everything that was happening here. Then Clark was crawling over him, taking his time unbuttoning Bruce’s shirt, fingers brushing almost reverently along the revealed skin. Every touch was inflammatory, brought Bruce a little further from rationality.
He shifted impatiently to help Clark push his shirt off his shoulders. “I know I said ‘anything’, but could we do ‘anything’ a little faster?”
“Shhh, let me have this,” Clark murmured, still unhurried as he unfastened his slacks. He continued to remove the rest of Bruce’s clothes with similar care until finally, he was fully bare. Clark knelt between his spread thighs, gazing down at his scarred, bruised body with something impossibly close to awe.
“Look at you,” Clark breathed, beaming. “Beautiful.”
Bruce felt unaccountably awkward being the object of such unabashed affection, especially considering that not ten minutes he’d thought his friendship with Clark might be over for good. It was enough to give anyone whiplash. “That’s nice. Now are you going to look, or are you going to do something?”
Clark’s smile turned impish and he proceeded to strip off his own clothes – and honestly, Bruce could find nothing in this new development to complain about. His own fingers twitched, aching to touch. And he could, he realized. Clark would welcome it, Clark was… Clark was his, maybe, unbelievable though it seemed. Bruce had no reason to hide from himself anymore.
He reached up to grip Clark’s shoulder – fuck, his skin was so soft it was almost unreal – and tugged him down with a growled, “C’mere.”
Clark laughed, breathless, and obeyed. “Even after all that, you’re still so bossy.”
“You don’t seem to mind.” His fingers trailed down to stroke the shape of Clark’s erection, his touch featherlight and teasing. “Unless I’ve misread you this whole time.”
Clark shivered. “A-ah, I mean, you’re not wrong…” He nipped gently, affectionately, at his earlobe. Nuzzled into his neck, to all appearances breathing him in. “In my defense, your voice is… Did you know you slip into the Batman register in bed?”
Bruce was listening with half a brain, the other half focused on using his fingertips to catalogue as much of Clark’s body as he could reach. “Do I.”
Clark scraped his teeth along his collarbone. “Mm-hm. It’s really added a certain spice to League debriefings.”
“That sounds…mm.” Clark was working his way down his chest now, mouth on his skin, fingers skating teasingly along the muscles of ribs. Further now, across his stomach, towards… Oh, fuck. “Are you going to…?”
Clark paused with his hands on Bruce’s hips. His lips quirked into a rueful smile that would look sweetly innocent if it weren’t hovering a few tantalizing inches from the head of Bruce’s cock. “Yes? I, uh, can’t promise I’ll be any good. But I want to.” His eyes flickered down to said cock, pink tongue peeking out to wet his lips. “I really want to.”
Jesus Christ, Bruce thought to himself weakly. How was he supposed to survive this?
“Then by all means,” he managed, the hoarse rattle of his voice nowhere near the suave baritone he’d been aiming for.
The ruefulness brightened to delight all the same. “Oh! Good,” he said pleasantly. And then Bruce was choking down a gasp because Clark was lapping at the head of his cock.
For all that Clark was relatively new to the pleasures of this particular flesh, at least in this more giving capacity, he didn’t seem to hesitate at all. He was careful, so careful, and deliberate in his exploration, but not uncertain. His tongue mapped him out with a cartographer’s precision, no doubt tuned to Bruce’s reactions, every subtle twitch and heavy sigh.
When he finally wrapped his lips around the head, Bruce couldn’t help but let out a groan. Clark’s eyelids fluttered closed in every apparent sign of pleasure.
Bruce brought his hand down to Clark’s hair, gently brushing the soft curls away from his forehead. “Enjoying yourself?”
Clark responded with a soft hum, sucked a little harder; slid his lips down further along Bruce’s length when Bruce made another soft noise of enjoyment. He relaxed into the sensation, let the pleasure build. Gradually, Clark’s movements became surer, the pressure of his tongue firmer. Clark was testing his limits, he realized, gradually raising the intensity to find where the ceiling was. Because Superman had no limits. For a mouth that could bite through steel with ease, the heaviest touch Bruce could bear was, to him, infinitely gentler than feather light.
Bruce wasn’t sure why that thought was so powerful but it really was, the growing heat turning molten in mere seconds. Maybe it was the implied care, that Clark would have so earnestly methodical an approach to something so mundane as giving Bruce a blowjob. Maybe it was the thought of Clark’s vast strength, tempered but still below the surface, the unconquerable power of the hands pressing his hips ever so gently into the mattress. Or maybe it was just Clark. Clark with his brow furrowed in concentration, perfect, full lips stretched around his cock, the soft, wet, hot cavern of his mouth.
Maybe it was all three. Maybe Bruce never stood a chance in the first place. That was a definite possibility.
“Clark, wait,” he managed on a gasp, tugging gently at Clark’s hair.
Clark stilled immediately, pulling off with a wet pop that sent another lance of heat to Bruce’s cock. His pink lips were slick and shiny and slightly swollen, pursed in an expression of concern. “Are you okay? I didn’t hurt you, did I?”
Bruce tipped his head back and covered his eyes with his free hand. Looking at Clark right now was definitively not helping matters. “The opposite, actually. If you keep that up, I won’t last much longer.”
He felt Clark’s weight shift on the bed and then his hand was being gently tugged away from his face. Clark was braced over him, the twist to his smile just to the left of smug. “I mean, that’s kind of what I was going for? I don’t really see the issue here.”
“I do,” he said. He hooked a hand around the back of Clark’s neck and tugged him closer for a kiss. Clark came willingly, pressing in deeper with a happy hum as he all but melted against him. He was hard too, Bruce could feel it, hot and leaking onto Bruce’s belly. From sucking him off. Jesus.
He pulled back with sudden urgency; breathed out, “I don’t want to come yet. I want you to fuck me first.”
Clark actually jerked at that, a whole-body thing, grinding his hard cock against Bruce’s hip. “G-god, Bruce, are you… Really? You want that?”
“I do.”
Clark still seemed to hesitate. “You’re sure?”
He growled again, impatience tightening his grip on Clark’s hair. “Oh, for the love of— Yes, Clark. I have rarely been surer about anything in my life. I took a very thorough shower when we got here so I’d be ready for you, just in case. I have been thinking about having your cock inside me for months. I’m. Sure.”
Clark groaned softly, hips jerking again. “Sweet lord, are you trying to kill me?” he said weakly. “I… Okay. Okay. God. Do you… Lube?”
He loosened his grip in Clark’s hair, let the hand trail down across his jaw. “You didn’t bring any?”
“No! I told you, I wasn’t planning on…” He trailed off, face falling. “Please tell me you brought some.”
“Of course I did. It’s in my room.” He let his head fall back against the pillows, focused on trying to cool the simmering anticipation building within him down to something more manageable. “It’ll be fastest if you get it.”
Clark was already clambering off him. “Okay, just…wait there.” He wrestled on his abandoned underwear, grabbed a robe from a hook on the wall and pulled it on as he made his way to the door. “Be right back!”
And he was gone, door gently clicking open and closed faster than Bruce could see. He tipped his head back to stare at the ceiling and catch his breath for one, two seconds, then said, “Middle left zip pocket.”
Barely a second later, Clark reappeared beside the bed, holding up a bottle of lube in one hand and grinning triumphantly. “Mission success!”
Bruce watched, eyebrow quirked, as Clark untied the robe and slipped it off. “You didn’t have to put that on. It’s not like anyone could see you at superspeed.”
He shrugged. “Sure, but I’d still feel like a streaker.”
Bruce watched as Clark stepped out of his underwear again. “And those?”
“Hygiene,” Clark said, finally naked again. He put his hands on his hips with a slightly exasperated tilt of his head. “Is this really what you wanna talk about right now?
“Fair point,” Bruce said, letting his eyes drift down along Clark’s bare form. He was still hard despite the intermission, his flushed cock straining towards his stomach. Unselfconscious in his nudity, like he didn’t realize how irresistible he was just standing there. As if he wasn’t, now and always, the most beautiful man Bruce had ever seen.
Bruce felt that familiar impatience tugging at his chest. He settled back against the pillows and let his knees fall open in obvious invitation. “Back to it?”
He didn’t miss Clark’s eyes tracking the movement. “Yeah. Please,” he said, quiet but heated. He needed no further prompting to settle between Bruce’s legs, rubbing a soothing thumb on the crease of his hip. Only then did he look at all uncertain. “Hey, so, I’m pretty sure I know what I’m doing, but will you tell me if I do something wrong? I want to make this good for you. I don’t want to hurt you.”
“You could never hurt me,” Bruce said automatically. “But I’ll tell you if you do.”
Clark smiled then, that radiant, dazzling smile of his. Bruce felt his heartbeat quicken, felt his expression soften in a way that was unfamiliar and probably far too revealing, but he couldn’t bring himself to care just then. He watched with mounting anticipation as Clark uncapped the bottle of lube, squirted some onto his palm, and coated his fingers. When Clark finally slipped one slick finger inside him, he practically sighed with relief. “Mm. That’s good. I can take more.”
“Hold on, not yet,” Clark murmured, sliding in and out in a gentle movement. “You feel…really tight.”
“Been a while,” he mumbled. He breathed in and out slowly, focused on relaxing. After only a few seconds, the finger inside him slid back and forth with barely any resistance. “See? I can take more.”
Clark huffed. “Fine.” The finger disappeared, and suddenly there were two of them, gently prodding at his entrance. He stayed relaxed, accepting them with a soft, satisfied hum. “Better?”
“Much,” he breathed, shifting his hips so the fingers reached a little further inside him. The slight stretch was more than pleasant. Clark’s fingers were thick, as thick as his own but perhaps longer – he could never get his own so deep. Or maybe it was just the angle. “Now, crook your fingers slightly.”
Clark seemed to understand immediately what he was getting at. “Like this?” he asked, obediently doing as Bruce asked, dragging his blunt fingertips against Bruce’s inner walls, until—
There. A sudden jolt of pleasurable electricity up his spine. He bit back a moan, hips rolling down to meet that beautiful, maddening pressure.
“Found it?” Clark asked.
“Mmm,” he groaned, languidly arching into the sensation. “That’s good.”
“That’s…good,” Clark echoed hoarsely. He found that spot again and pressed gently. Bruce choked out something profane, cock leaking against his stomach.
“You need to stretch me too,” he reminded him, even as he couldn’t help but grind against those insistent fingers. Fuck, he’d wanted this for so long.
“I will,” Clark said. He breathed in deeply as his fingers slipped away from Bruce’s prostate, focusing instead on scissoring him open. “Wow. God, Bruce, you’re…you’re gorgeous like this.”
Bruce only grunted in reply, too focused on the scrape of the fingers inside him. Clark alternated between carefully stretching him open and stroking him right where he needed it. He let himself sink into the sensation, no longer bothering to stifle his soft groans.
By the time Clark had three fingers buried comfortably inside him, he was already shuddering with every thrust, his own fingers twined in the bed sheets. Clark was peppering him with kisses wherever his mouth could reach – his chest, thighs, the head of his cock, and god, Bruce was slick and open and well on the way to desperate already, he couldn’t take much more of this. “Fuck, Clark, just— I’m ready, get in me already or I swear to god I’ll—”
At least Clark didn’t seem to be faring much better, judging by the glassiness of his eyes, fixed on where they were joined. “Okay, I will,” he rasped, swallowing heavily. He pulled out his fingers to slick up his own cock and lined himself up. “I’ll go slow, alright? Promise you’ll tell me if it’s too much.”
“I promise,” Bruce said, and thankfully that was enough, Clark’s blunt cockhead was nudging at him, then slipping inside him, stretching him open. Sliding deeper, slow but steady, hot and gorgeously thick. Clark groaned, low and resonant, a drawn-out sound of agonized bliss until finally, finally, he was seated fully inside him.
Bruce’s eyes fluttered open (when had he closed them?) to find Clark watching him with a startlingly tender gaze. Clark’s forehead was tipped against his – an echo of their earlier kiss, but oh god, it was almost unbearably intimate when he could finally feel Clark inside him now, the stretch and the heat of him.
“I’m in,” Clark whispered. “God, you feel so good, B. Can I move yet? Please, tell me I can, I’m not sure I can…” he trailed off on a groan. He was trembling ever so slightly – with the effort to stay still, Bruce realized.
Bruce wasn’t feeling much more patient himself. He wrapped his arms around Clark’s broad back. “Yes. Yes, yeah, do it—”
Clark didn’t need to be told twice. With a smooth roll of his hips, he slipped out to the head and thrust back in with a deep, satisfied groan, firm but gentle and so careful, always careful.
“Fuck,” Bruce choked out on an exhale as a blistering wave of pleasure went through him. The second thrust was just as beautifully intense, and the third, and the fourth, and then Bruce lost count, legs wrapping around Clark’s waist to pull him closer, deeper. “Fuck, Clark, keep going.”
“Yeah?” Clark was flushed and breathless above him, gaze fixed on his. “This what you wanted?”
Yes. God, yes. In fact, it was far better than anything he could’ve dreamed up, because it was real, and Clark loved him back. Nowhere in any of his guilty fantasies had he dared to imagine that, the very thought too improbable to conceive of. But not anymore. Clark had said he wanted to show him how he felt, perhaps knowing that Bruce would find this easier to trust than mere words, the evidence placed before him to decipher for himself. It was difficult to read anything else into the way Clark looked at him now, the way he touched him. And that filled Bruce with a vicious, blinding joy he hadn’t felt in years.
Out loud, he said, “You want an award?”
It didn’t come out as sharply dry as he’d intended, on account of the cock wreaking sweet havoc on his insides, but Clark grinned anyway. “Only if you feel it’s earned.”
“Then earn it.” He tightened the grip of his thighs, growled into Clark’s ear: “Fuck me like you mean it, Kent.”
Clark made a soft noise at that, half laugh half groan, hips stuttering slightly. “That a challenge?” He shifted his weight on the bed, moved one hand down to support Bruce’s hip. “I accept.”
And then he was doing as Bruce asked, fucking him harder and deeper with sharp rolls of his hips, and any clever responses Bruce might have come up with dissolved into, “Fuck yes,” and, “Just like that,” and “Clark, Clark, Clark”. And he kept going, never tiring, until Bruce’s world narrowed to just Clark, beautiful Clark, all wordless groans and flushed cheeks and hazy, heavy-lidded eyes, watching Bruce through dark eyelashes as if he were something incredible. It was so good that it was almost unbearable.
“Bruce, m’not gonna last much longer,” Clark managed between gasps. “You—?”
“Yes,” he confirmed breathlessly, reaching down to wrap a hand around his own neglected cock. He groaned at the sensation, moved his fist in quick, sharp strokes in time with Clark’s thrusts. “Yes, I’m close. Fuck, Clark, you feel so good. Do it. Let go. Come inside me. I want to feel you.”
“God,” Clark choked out. His thrusts turned erratic, his groans desperate. He came with Bruce’s name on his lips, flooding him with heat, face twisted into an expression of gorgeous ecstasy. Bruce shuddered beneath him and increased the pace of his hand, so close he could almost taste it, but yet, not quite enough—
Clark knocked away his hand and replaced it with his own, that soft palm deliciously tight and firm as it moved along his slick cock. Bruce moaned at that, but the sound was half-swallowed when Clark captured his lips with an eager kiss, wet and messy and perfect. And then Clark murmured, “Love you, Bruce,” against his lips and Bruce was coming apart with a desperate groan into Clark’s still-eager mouth. Gone in a blaze of white-hot pleasure, blunt nails scraping across Clark’s broad, invulnerable back, clenching down rhythmically on the slowly softening cock still inside him. Clark worked him through it, kept his fist moving tight and slick around him until Bruce slumped back into the bed with a final shudder.
While he was still coming back down to Earth, Clark pulled out and collapsed on the bed beside him. “Wow.”
Bruce hummed in agreement, feeling warm and tingly and hazily content. He turned his head to look at Clark only to find him already doing the same thing, grinning dopily at him. Despite the heaviness of his limbs, it felt like the simplest thing in the world to cup Clark’s jaw and lean in for a kiss, this time slow and unhurried, savoring the taste and the feel of him.
He pulled back and felt his lips stretch into a smile. “I love you too, Clark.”
It wasn’t smooth or casual, the way Clark could say these things, easy truth in every syllable. Bruce was embarrassed at the catch in his throat, the hesitancy to his words he couldn’t quite suppress.
All the same, Clark sucked in a sharp breath, eyes widening. “B, I…I told you, I already know. You don’t have to say it for me to know.”
“I know that. But I don’t want to leave things unsaid anymore. I…I want to say it,” he said. And he did. He wanted to be better at saying these things. Clark deserved to hear it, deserved someone who would tell him that every day if he wanted it. He deserved honesty.
Bruce wasn’t sure he was that person, not yet. But Clark had chosen him.
And for Clark, he’d sure as hell try.
Clark seemed to understand what Bruce still hadn’t managed to say out loud, kissing him hard with a muffled noise of desperation. Bruce hummed against him, rubbed firm circles into Clark’s back until the kiss became something languid and sweet, the way Bruce had never let himself before. They stayed that way for several long minutes until they broke apart, limbs still entangled.
“Thank you,” Clark said, beaming. “I’m glad you’re trying, really. I mean, considering how long it took us to get to this point, I think a little bit more honesty between us wouldn’t go amiss. From both of us.”
“But mostly me?” Bruce asked dryly.
“But mostly you,” Clark agreed, smile turning crooked. “I mean, I did try.”
Bruce blinked. “You did? You mean, the rose petals and everything – that was on purpose?”
Clark grimaced. “No, no. That really wasn’t me, I swear! Hand on heart.”
“Then, when did you…” His mind flicked back rapidly through the past year with this new, added context, and… Oh. Clark’s nervous request to talk after the first time they…
Bruce’s throat went tight. “You mean you… since then?”
“Well, not exactly,” Clark said with a sheepish smile. “Not like this. I mean, we hadn’t even signed the divorce papers, I was still figuring things out. But I knew that I wanted more. I was gonna suggest we maybe, you know. Give it a shot. Take it slow.”
That was a far cry from the polite rejection Bruce had been expecting. In that case, his own studied dismissiveness must have come across as especially callous. He cleared his throat. “I admit that I…read that differently. At the time.”
Clark smiled. “Heh, yeah, I figured as much during your little spiel back there. What about you?”
He frowned. “What about me?”
“You know. You said that you …” He broke off with a soft chuckle. “Wow, it still feels kinda surreal to say. You said you loved me since before all this started. So before that first time, then. When was it for you?”
Bruce tried to summon a scowl, but he could tell there was no heat in it. “You’re being nosy.”
Clark leaned in to kiss the furrow between his brows – a sweet, silly gesture that nonetheless made Bruce feel short of breath. “Isn’t that allowed?” he said, teasing. “It seems only fair after I told you my thing.”
Damn it, Bruce had just pledged to himself to be more honest. Fine.
He let out a breath. “Long long,” he admitted reluctantly. “Years, Clark.”
All the mischief fled Clark’s expression then, his eyebrows shooting up to his hairline. “Years? I didn’t think… I never noticed.”
“That was by design.”
“Because I was with Lois?”
Well, in for a dime, he supposed. “In part, yes. But this began before that. I’d say…just over a decade ago, in fact.”
Clark’s mouth slackened with shock. “But that’s…that’s almost as long as we’ve known each other! And you… Talia, and Selina…”
“I’ve loved others, in between,” he said. “But I’ve always returned to you.”
“Oh,” Clark said softly. He blinked hard. “Oh, Bruce. That was a hell of a line.”
“It’s not a line. Just the truth.”
“Then it’s a hell of a truth,” Clark said, and his expression was one of such deep, encompassing joy that Bruce had to kiss him again. Clark made a happy noise against him and held him close, smiling against his mouth.
Unfortunately, Bruce’s own choices regarding the final destination of various bodily fluids put a natural limit on how long he could wait for a shower. Reluctantly, he pulled away. “I should go wash up soon,” he murmured.
For some reason, Clark stiffened. “Oh. Uh, just to warn you, I haven’t, um. Decluttered the bathroom yet.”
It took Bruce a moment to realize what he meant. He snorted out a half-laugh. “Oh god. How many candles are we talking?”
Seeing Bruce’s reaction, Clark relaxed, smiling. “Hm. Probably about fifty? Maybe a couple of bath bombs. Some massage oil.”
“Of course,” Bruce said, amused. He rubbed teasing circles into Clark’s spine. “You know, since it’s already set up, we could always…”
Clark blinked at him, his expression surprised but pleased. “Really?”
“Mm-hm. I never said I had to wash up alone.” He trailed a hand down Clark’s back, fingers dancing along the dip of his spine. Clark shivered. “We could put on some music, soap each other up… Hell, maybe we should bring some of those rose petals. Make an event of it.”
Clark scowled in mock offense. “Hey! You’re making fun of me!”
Bruce grinned. “Maybe a little. But also…” He untangled his limbs from Clark’s and slid to his feet, before gently tugging Clark up with him. “I definitely wasn’t kidding about wanting company. Interested?”
Clark followed more than willingly, something tender and hungry in his gaze. “Oh. Well. If you insist.”
Considering that his sudden trip hadn’t been anything bat related, he hadn’t been expecting a welcoming committee when he returned to the cave the next day. Dick was already striding over when Bruce emerged from the jet, Tim trailing behind with an indecipherable look on his face.
Bruce blinked at them in surprise. “Dick? Tim? What are you—”
“Okay, Bruce,” Dick said fervently. “I know I said I wasn’t getting involved again but I’ve changed my mind. I can’t just stand by and watch you guys keep screwing this up when it’s all really so damn simple.”
“Dick—” Bruce tried.
“No. Shut up,” Dick said, scowling viciously. “No more Mr. Nice Guy, or even Mr. Yeah-Sure-I-Guess-He’s-Okay Guy. I’m done. You are gonna march over to Metropolis right now and you’re gonna tell him how you feel, or so help me—”
Clark poked his head out of the jet and waved at them with a little grin. “Hey, guys.”
Dick froze. He glanced between Bruce and Clark. Then he looked at his brother. “Tim?” he said weakly.
Tim just shrugged. “I dunno, man, I tried to tell you. They went on some trip together.”
“Huh,” Dick said.
Bruce could tell Clark was suppressing laughter. He’d insisted on seeing Bruce home, a ridiculous but sweet gesture that Bruce had found very hard to refuse. Now, in the face of Clark’s clear amusement, Bruce was beginning to regret his acquiescence.
Clark walked over to where Bruce was standing and gave his elbow a quick squeeze. “I’ll let you guys talk, okay? I’ll be upstairs,” he said with a wink at Bruce. A wink, as he abandoned Bruce to his fate. Bruce responded with a glare but Clark just grinned and drifted over to the stairs, leaving the three of them standing in silence.
Finally, Dick, who had watched this small interaction with almost predatory focus, abruptly slumped into a crouch and buried his head in his hands. “Oh. Thank god. Finally. I thought this was gonna be like last time you guys fought but, like, ten times worse.”
Bruce quietly grunted.
“For real, you don’t understand how annoying you guys were, just circling around each other,” Dick continued. “I honestly don’t think I could’ve taken it again if you didn’t—” As if struck by a sudden thought, his head snapped up to regard Bruce with wide-eyed suspicion. “Wait. You did tell him, right?”
“If he didn’t, I think Clark might have figured it out by now anyway,” Tim said dryly. “You weren’t exactly being subtle, Dick.”
“This is not the time for snark, Timmy,” Dick grumbled, straightening in a fluid motion. “B. Did you?”
Bruce pursed his lips, considering his words. “Clark and I have resolved our differences,” he said eventually.
“Like, resolved? Or—” here, Dick gave him an exaggerated wink “—resolved?”
Tim made a face at that. “Ew, Dick. Why are you winking? What are you even trying to say?”
“Tim, I just said this isn’t the time for snark!”
Bruce grimaced, uncomfortable. He hadn’t been prepared for an interrogation as soon as he got back. “The latter,” he admitted reluctantly.
Dick and Tim shared a look. “The latter,” Tim said. “So. Are you guys, like. Dating now or something?”
“Yes,” Bruce confirmed.
Dick’s face split into a beaming grin, ear to ear, blue eyes twinkling with glee. “Oh, I fucking knew it! I knew I was right all along! God, this feels good.”
“Way to make this all about yourself,” Tim said, but he was grinning too. “I think what Dick means to say is: we’re happy for you guys. Congrats.”
“Sure. That,” Dick said, still beaming. “But also, next time you try to tell me you know better than me, I will remember this. And I will never let you hear the end of it. Never.”
“Wonderful,” Bruce said stiffly. “Thank you both.”
Dick nudged Tim with an elbow. “Aw, look, he’s embarrassed,” he cooed. Tim snickered, which seemed like a good point to make his escape. Bruce roundly ignored them as he stalked out of the cave.
When he made it to the study, he was met by Clark, his smile broad and a little mischievous. “Welcome back,” he said cheerfully.
Bruce scowled and folded his arms. “You were listening.”
A shrug. “Just a little, since I seemed to be the topic of conversation,” he said. “I see this has been kind of a saga, huh?”
Bruce just grunted.
Clark chuckled and walked over, laid a reassuring hand on Bruce’s shoulder. “Seems like the kids were putting you through your paces. I hope you’re not having second thoughts yet.”
Clark’s tone was teasing, no detectable hint of insecurity. Bruce still felt the urge to reassure him. He gave him a kiss, a chaste peck, just because he could.
“A little bit of teasing is worth it, for this,” he said with a smile. The way Clark’s expression went soft and surprised and happy was more than worth it. And the way Clark returned the kiss, this time hard and demanding, was almost better.
Clark groaned softly when Bruce’s hands wandered up his sides, blunt nails dragging across his skin through his shirt. He pulled back with a lazy smile. “Mm, bedroom?”
“We just got back,” Bruce pointed out in a low murmur. “And we were at it all night. You’re not satisfied yet?”
“Never,” Clark said. He grabbed Bruce’s hand and tugged him towards the door with a hopeful grin. “You?”
“Not just yet,” Bruce said and gladly let himself be pulled along, heart already racing.
He had to admit, this honesty tactic seemed to be working out pretty well so far.
Notes:
5 minutes later, all of Tim's amusement leaves him in a cold rush when he realises that Bruce and Clark are gonna be absolutely sickening together. (Dick has the stomach for it so he doesn't mind.)
This chapter is pretty much pure sap and I don't even feel bad about it. These idiots deserve it after all that! And yes, the bit I added was pretty much just Dick getting to yell at Bruce for a bit, because I realised that honestly the fic felt incomplete without him getting some goddamn closure. I stand by this decision.
Also: sorry to get embarrassingly sincere for a moment, but really, thank you SO MUCH for reading all the way to the end. I've been anxious about posting my writing for years and this is definitely the most ambitious thing I've ever written, so for so many people to have enjoyed it feels indescribably rewarding. I've got more DC stuff in the works, so do stick around! (And come hang out with me on tumblr if you'd like!)
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