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Touching down on the lake house dock, Clark adjusts his flimsy messenger bag before it's able to slip off his shoulder. Pieces have frayed at the edges and dwindled the bag in its functionality—no doubt from the amount of times he's tossed it off in a hurry with more accidental force than necessary.
Flying into Gotham normally means growing damp from the spitting rain, but given the season, he's shaking off gobs of snow. It seeps into his clothes, and while he's not affected by the elements, he still senses the wet chill and the uncomfortable drawbacks that come along.
He could have waited until the weather clears instead of coming straight from work, but if Clark puts this off any longer, his nerves will fester and prove triumphant.
Any lingering trepidation regarding Bruce or behaving like himself in Bruce's presence have since long faded with their evolving, working partnership. But Clark is here on a much more personal level that he's—they’ve tiptoed around on a tight rope for months.
Nothing catastrophic can happen by inviting Bruce over to the farm for Christmas next Thursday. He's almost sure of it.
He brushes more snow droplets while he waits at the front door, preferring to enter this way rather than descending into the lake's splitting maw. For one, he won't have to take more of Bruce's time away from whatever he's occupied with, and then secretly, Clark thrills in the trust—the normalcy of entering Bruce's home as his friend.
He likes it here in the outskirts, too. It's all rather beautiful; the gray fog glooming atop the white blanketed trees and the whistling leaves in the wind. A little, private reprieve from the cities and noise that accompanies.
“Sir,” Alfred greets in an amiable tone, gesturing for him to come in. He never seems surprised nor displeased at Clark’s somewhat frequent drop-ins, so he’s starting to feel less guilt over doing it unannounced. “Would you like a towel?”
“Ah, no—” Clark shakes his head and takes care to wipe his shoes off in order to not drag mud throughout the house. With the glass walls and impeccable cleanliness, he’s always incredibly aware of the amount of space he takes up while here. “That’s okay, thank you.”
Alfred seems as if he’s going to fetch one anyway before he nods and grabs his coat off the wrack. “Well, then I was just about to take my leave. Have a good evening sir, and do try to get him to come up for air soon.”
Clark smiles and says his goodbyes, then pads over to the cave entrance below. A few weeks ago, Bruce programmed his thumb print into the access panel, and it’s still a novelty each chance he gets to use it.
“No use for security with you when you’re capable of breaking in,” Bruce had explained. “You’re here often enough as it is.”
Logical reasons aside, Clark teemed with warmth when Bruce took hold of his wrist to scan his hands. It most likely soothes a part of Bruce to have his own record of Clark’s prints anyway. Clark trusts him with his contingencies and allows Bruce what he needs to feel settled in them.
In addition to the invitation, he plans on discussing some files a contact gathered for him regarding a joint case they’re working on: rumors of some sort of genetic weapon at Stagg Industries, so it’ll be a nice segue-way if he musters the strength to ask.
Fearing Bruce having a necessarily negative reaction isn’t the most accurate, more him showing no reaction at all. It isn’t a mystery how hard of a man Bruce is to read if someone attempts to glance beneath the surface of what he presents.
Holidays can be a sensitive topic for anyone, but even if it is, Bruce isn’t likely to wear the evidence of it. He’ll politely decline the offer, and they’ll move on to other matters.
Which is fine—that’d be fine, except Clark wants Bruce to be here, and he wants to see the same reflected back at him. Ever since he and Ma discussed the day, he’s imagined Bruce sitting in one of the wood-chipped chairs he needs to repaint, wading through crisp fields of snow together that’ll soak their pants and redden their cheeks. Ma makes the best rhubarb pie, and he wants to know if Bruce harbors a sweet tooth or if he’d eat a piece just to see her smile.
These aren’t new thoughts; he’s always curious, always wanting more of Bruce—his opinions, his time, the force of his unwavering attention. Do the tips of his ears pink in the evening outside wind? How would the tree lights reflect off the hazel in his eyes?
Walking down the last step into the cave, Clark gets more than expected.
“Hey, I brought over those files I told you about…” Clark halts in the center of one of the metal platforms, his attention locked towards the far side of the main room.
With what appears to be a fifty pound weight hanging from his waist, Bruce is performing pull-ups.
Saliva swells thick under his tongue, his gaze enraptured on the way Bruce’s shorts rest low and loose on his frame. He’s breathing a bit heavier with each pull, and his heart rate is the slightest elevated. Clark wouldn’t be surprised if his reps are in the hundreds.
He stares at a bead of sweat as it drips down Bruce’s temple to glisten across his flushed pectorals.
Through observation and recent questions, he’s come to understand the immense training and the mental and physical discipline Bruce has endured in order to function to his night-time standards. Clark’s own physique is more a result of circumstance, but Bruce has spent over twenty years forging and crafting his body into an unstoppable machine.
It’s beyond impressive. Clark has felt and endured the depths of Bruce’s strength, the precise calculations of his mind, and the longer he watches, a low heat pools in his groin.
Clearing his throat, he forces himself to avert his attention, incredibly too late. “Sorry,” Clark mutters. “I can come back—”
Bruce releases a soft grunt that does nothing to quell Clark’s twisting stomach. He must reach an acceptable number as he lowers himself to the ground and undoes the weight belt. It drops to the ground with a quiet thud before Bruce begins walking in his direction.
Nearly missing the motion of a towel thrown at his face is the most obvious signal of Clark’s distraction.
“You’re dripping all over my floor,” Bruce says. Clark nods with a sheepish smile, pointlessly wishing his blush isn’t as visible as it feels on his throat. He shakes the towel through his hair and follows the silent command to follow Bruce over to his desk. “I have time to go over them now.”
“Okay,” Clark says, grateful for the excuse to flip through his bag so he’ll stop staring at the stark contours of Bruce’s abdomen muscles. Bruce sits down in his chair and takes the files from Clark’s outstretched hand.
Standing once again makes him aware of his size—even though Bruce is bigger than him—but he doesn’t want to give the impression of looming. With his tailbone against the desk, Clark relaxes into a slouch, hoping it isn’t too obvious how awkward he’s behaving.
He’d like to blame it on the nerves—more often than not he prides himself on his ability to be natural around Bruce. Here however, ambushed by the sight of him nearly bare and in motion, Clark senses the heat radiating off Bruce’s skin, calling to his cells like the sun rising in the mornings. He smells the remnants of Bruce’s rich cologne on his wrists, the exertion of his body lifting that weight up over and over. Maybe Bruce planned to use the towel he gave to Clark for himself, and the thought of their scents mingling together, gliding across his neck—
Guilt weighs on his rib cage the longer his thoughts wander, and he tries to focus on the task at hand. Watching Bruce at work, figuring out puzzles, combing through spreadsheets and picking up on deductions is one of Clark’s favorite ways to be in his presence. He’s a master tactician with a keen eye for detail, using any knowledge possible to protect his city and the innocent within. It’s surely possible one quick glance at these reports might clue him into something Clark didn’t find in his multiple read overs.
He didn’t always understand Bruce this way. The Bat who branded those he found deserving and deemed Clark’s demise is all he knew. All has revealed with time—the development of his understanding and then in result his feelings for Bruce.
When they get the chance to work together like this, it makes him like they’re truly a part of a team, some joint cause for good, even outside of their uniforms. If someone didn’t know better, they’d assume him and Bruce have had a working relationship for years with the way they’ve become in-sync and ping off one another until the answer is laid out at their feet.
There isn’t room for his feelings towards Bruce in that. Bruce doesn’t consider many to be his friend, hell—Clark wasn’t sure if Bruce even liked him there for a while once he returned. It’s entirely plausible for Bruce to regret what happened without wanting their relationship to deepen beyond where the League requires it.
Bruce creates distance between the people around him so effortlessly it could go unnoticed. Clark can’t fathom crushing the tentative trust he’s been given, evident in him simply standing here.
But he makes space for Clark, space and time whenever he needs. Clark can’t ignore that.
So, perhaps his attraction is obvious. Bruce seems to notice everything about him: facts about his physiology, changes in his behaviors, information to store in the off chance it’s relevant or needed. Knowing Bruce, he probably believes Clark’s feelings are a proximity result or a fleeting acknowledgement of his aesthetics.
But it’s more for Clark—he wants to remain privy to the sights beneath the surface, he wants to be special to Bruce, to be praised by him and lay his palm on the nape of his neck while Bruce sits, run his fingers up through the sweat-soaked, graying strands and feel if Bruce’s hair is as soft as it—
“Clark,” Bruce says with enough force that signals it isn’t the first time. “Are you alright?”
Clark blinks and shifts his stance, letting out a low, embarrassed chuckle. “Yeah, sorry, I—it’s just been a long day, you know?” Glancing down, his breath hitches at the sight of Bruce’s keen gaze looking up at him. It’d be so easy, natural, to place his fingers under Bruce’s chin, caress his jaw and tilt him just that more in his direction. “Find anything useful?” Clark asks before his body acts on its own.
Bruce watches him for another long moment then must let the matter drop, tapping the files with his fingers. The sound calls to Clark as if Bruce just snapped his fingers at him like a dog.
“Written confirmation of a few suspicions. I’ll need to go in person if I want to know with certainty. We’ll scope out the exterior surroundings tonight.”
Bruce stands from his chair, and Clark becomes so distracted with their chests almost brushing in passing he nearly misses what Bruce said. “We?” Clark repeats. “You want me to come along?”
“I assumed that was a given.” Bruce looks over his shoulder with a teasing smirk. “That is, unless you’re too tired from reporting on Metropolis tax reforms.”
Clark straightens fully and finds himself smiling. “God, you read that? Even I didn’t give it a second look.”
“Yes,” Bruce says simply, then steals the breath from Clark’s lungs by dropping his shorts, leaving him fully in the nude. “Now, are you coming tonight or not?”
In more ways than one, Clark thinks. Bruce must be aware Clark is staring at the globes of his ass while he walks, but he doesn’t do a damn thing about it.
“Of course I am,” Clark mutters.
“Great. We’ll go once I’m finished.”
By that he means taking a shower as he steps behind the glass panel near the exercise equipment. Clark listens to the harsh spray turning on and feels so awkward in a way he hasn’t since he was a teenager. There would be no point in leaving only to come back in a couple minutes, so he patiently waits and glances around aimlessly.
He’s thrilled to get more of Bruce’s time tonight, but he reminds himself it’s not all he’s after. Striding over in his direction, Clark leans on a nearby pole and fiddles with his bag strap. “I came here to ask you something else too,” he says.
“I’m listening.”
Clark wets his lips and picks at a fraying piece of leather. He’s been given no indication he’s not allowed to look, so he indulges and freely takes in the sight of the steaming water cascading down Bruce’s muscles to mix with his soap.
“Do you want to come to Ma’s for Christmas next week? Alfred too, of course. Nothing crazy, just dinner and presents. I’m sure Ma will want to watch A Christmas Story, but you don’t have to stay for that if you don’t want to.” Bruce remains quiet, his hand paused on a bar of soap, and it’s long enough to force Clark’s mouth to keep running. “Unless you have to patrol, which I understand—”
“It’s normally a slow night,” Bruce interrupts.
Hope blossoms internally like they’ve skipped the season into spring. He watches Bruce push his sodden hair from his forehead as he turns off the shower. Steam pools out once Bruce opens the door, wrapping a towel around his waist and slipping on a pair of sandals.
He quirks his lip at Clark, and it’s his answer before Bruce speaks. “We’ll be there.”
His hope bubbles into joy like a popped champagne bottle echoing out of his mouth in a laugh. “Okay,” Clark says, his cheeks stretching with the width of his excitement. “Okay, that’s, yeah, I’ll call Ma and let her know.”
Bruce stares at him for a long moment, almost questioningly, until he turns and heads deeper into the cave. “I’ll be ready in a minute and thirty seconds.”
Later that evening, Clark hovers while Bruce perches on a gargoyle near their lookout point. Normally, Bruce detests chatter while they’re working, but for some reason, he lets Clark prattle on about absolutely nothing. He considers it a win, even without the information they came for, when he’s able to make Bruce huff the barest laugh into his modulator.
*
He’s off from any in-person work the days leading up to Christmas besides answering a few sporadic emails, so Clark spends the time helping around the house. Only two emergencies draw him away, and while it’s never certain, he hopes it’ll be a couple hours of silence when the holiday comes.
Even though it’s bittersweet without Pa, it’s still soothing to be back home this time of the year. It’s Ma’s favorite time too, so Clark helps where he’s instructed to get everything ready. Bringing the ornaments down from the attic and stringing up the outdoor lights gives him a sense of normalcy he finds himself chasing these days. They went to a tree farm as well with Ma choosing her favorite pine that now sits decorated and twinkling in the living room.
For most of Christmas Eve they make chocolates, various coated candies and treats that Ma will take into town in boxes for her friends. She’s long given up scolding Clark for stealing them off the platter before supper time.
He’s predictably nervous about the evening which is partially responsible for all the candies he’s taking. Since last week, he hasn’t stopped thinking about Bruce—nothing new there—but now with the knowledge of how he looks nude in his shower and walking around Clark like it’s the most normal thing they do together.
What would have happened if Clark eased open the door, stepped inside the steaming spray and placed his hand on Bruce’s chest, urging him back against the wall? He imagines the calculating look in Bruce’s eye, how he’d watch Clark in return to see what he’d do, what he’s capable of.
Either Clark is being a bit obtuse to what’s going on between them, or he’s wishfully seeing something that isn’t there.
He’s broken out of his thoughts when he notices a distinct car about a mile out near the drive. “They’re almost here,” Clark says, toweling off his hands after washing up in the sink.
“Good, I’m just about to pull the roast out of the oven.”
The whole house smells like the evidence of it, a hearty, rich aroma carrying the scents of carrots and potatoes. It’s the type of meal that’ll surely make him drowsy, but as a car door shuts outside, sleep is the last thing on his mind.
Once he steps out onto the porch, he spots a simple black Sedan in the driveway. He made sure to shovel and salt the path this morning, not wanting to be responsible for taking The Batman out of commission because Clark made him fall on a patch of ice.
It’s truly unfair how good Bruce looks in his long overcoat with the collar up to abate the wind. He manages to stop staring when Ma comes out and hugs Bruce and Alfred like old friends she hasn’t seen in a while. He’s learned there’s truth to that, but he’s never felt comfortable asking too many questions about the time he was away. Bruce deserves his privacy, and that includes whatever understanding he’s come to with Clark’s mother.
“Mrs. Wayne’s recipe,” Alfred says, holding out a glass container of what appears to be cookies.
“White chocolate cranberry,” Bruce supplies. Clark takes their shrugged off coats and hangs them up on the wall. There’s a bag of presents he grabs from Bruce as well—something he didn’t expect—but he still in good nature places them around the tree with the others.
Ma takes the container with a warm smile. “Oh how lovely, they’re Clark’s favorite too.”
Clark’s face heats for no reason, yet it worsens at the pleased glint in Bruce’s eye at the revelation. There wouldn’t be a way for him to know that, just a happy coincidence, but he’s looking forward to having them together.
It makes him curious if Bruce has or had any family traditions too. Did he bake alongside his mother? He’s turned his former home into their place of operations, but what did the Manor look like before its destruction during the holidays?
Clark is sure it was beautiful—decorated to the nines with twinkling chandeliers, a grand tree filled with presents and garland along the spiraling stairs. Bruce as a boy running down them in the mornings to greet his parents.
It’s the first time he’s been home with Bruce since they got the house back from the bank, but even without the glitz or glamor he might have once known, Bruce still fits into this small town style too. Bruce is choosing to be here, and that in itself is a gift.
Maybe—perhaps one day, distant or impending, Bruce might fit with him too.
Soon, dinner is finished with Ma shooing off Alfred’s multiple offers to help. Alfred and Ma sit on the ends of the table, and Bruce sits across from him with a soft spoken thank you. Low Christmas music filters in from the kitchen, familial and spiriting comfort as they dig into the meal and pass around bowls.
The roast tastes delicious, slicing through easily like butter, the potatoes soft and seasoned in a way Ma knows best. While they eat and their forks scrape, Ma asks Bruce about a new satellite he’s acquiring. By the way they speak to one another, it sounds as if it’s a recently spoken topic, like Bruce might have told her about it on the phone some time.
Clark attempts to not be so obvious, but he can’t help watching Bruce explain the launching process, the flex of his wrist as he slices into his food and the downturn point of his fork. There’s an elegance to him for such a larger, capable man—anything Bruce does carries an air of sophistication, yet he’s not like the Bruce Clark has seen out at galas or charity functions.
In the rare moments Clark witnesses what he believes is Bruce’s authentic self, he’s actually more of a quiet, reserved man, deliberate with his words and evenly spoken.
Each time he thanks Ma for having them, Clark finds himself smiling down into a bite of potatoes. A part of him wishes they would have sat next to each other, only to feel the heat of their legs close by and the off chance they’d brush together.
Once dinner dwindles down, Clark goes for one of the cranberry cookies first, and he isn’t exaggerating when he tells Alfred it’s the best he’s ever had.
When he finishes a second, Ma taps his hand. “Clark, take Bruce up with you to get the photo albums while Alfred and I clean up and get the pie out.”
Clark barely stifles a groan. “Ma, they don’t want to see—” He stops once Bruce pushes back his chair. Watching him head for the steps, Clark sighs and accepts his fate. “Alright, fine.”
It feels strange to lead Bruce down the hall into his old bedroom with all of his childhood on display. Each wall is adored with his teenage posters and state fair trophies on the shelves. He watches Bruce a moment, hands in his pockets while he glances around the room. Clark forces himself to go over to his closet when an odd sensation of wanting his approval settles over him.
It’s a good time to reminisce; Clark just isn’t ready for Bruce to see what will be his obvious isolation in the photos. Maybe one or two of them feature other kids—it’s not like he had many friends growing up. He was too worried about accidentally hurting someone, and it’s an alienation he’s felt for most of life. He always had his parents, but it was a lonelier existence until he met Lois and now the other members of the League—people like him.
Perhaps Bruce can relate. Clark wonders if he went to a private school or some sort of academy, maybe Alfred home-schooled him. It’s hard to imagine Bruce Wayne feeling what it’s like to look around at his peers and know he’ll never blend in alongside.
Bruce probably doesn’t care about this sort of thing, but Clark wants to know all the same.
Once he finds the box filled with the photo albums, Clark leaves his closet to see Bruce near one of his bookshelves. He sets the box down on a stand near the door and moves to stand next to Bruce.
He’s holding a children’s book Clark made in sixth grade in his palms. “It was for a school project,” Clark explains.
He’d always found interest in words and his mind’s ability to craft them, but that assignment was the first time he felt capable of doing good with what he could say. Looking back now, it was just a silly story he put together, but he was proud enough to keep it all this time.
Bruce stares at the cover, the green marker stating ‘How to Reuse with Rena Rabbit’ by Clark Kent. He opens to the first page and begins reading the paragraphs and the terrible pictures. Clark watches his downturn face, the slope of his nose and softness to his jaw. He’s aware of how alone and sequestered they are, but all he feels is content watching Bruce read.
Bruce quirks his lip, still staring at the flipping pages. “So you’ve always had a knack for journalism.”
Clark huffs a laugh. He hasn’t forgotten the reveal that Bruce has read his work at the Planet, but he was too surprised to ask him for his thoughts regarding the article. He’s never seen someone cultivate a narrative, especially about themselves, quite like Bruce has done.
“If you consider a badly drawn rabbit family teaching their bunnies how to recycle journalism,” Clark says.
Bruce hums. “I do.”
He hasn’t learned how to respond in the face of Bruce’s earnestness, so for a long minute that feels like an hour, Clark stands at his side and continues to silently watch him read. Intuition tells him Bruce has something on his mind, that he has since he arrived here earlier for dinner.
It wasn’t lost on Clark that Bruce watched him throughout the meal in return, curious and perplexed in the way he gets when Clark smiles at him, like Clark is a complex puzzle even a mind like Bruce’s hasn’t unraveled.
Clark doesn’t mean to be mysterious, but perhaps that’d be easier for Bruce than accepting Clark wears his heart on his sleeve.
At least he’s calmer now while Bruce takes in these little glimpses or insights into his younger years. Bruce is a masterful detective, and Clark has come to understand that if he wanted to find out who Superman was when they fought, he would have. If anyone could make the connection to Clark Kent, it’d be Bruce, so it must have been a choice for Bruce to remain ignorant to the man dawning the suit and cape.
Clark can’t find himself hurt by it now, not with Bruce’s fingers gliding over the brown marker drawn rabbits.
“My son liked to create stories,” Bruce says, casually flipping to the next page. An anvil drops in Clark’s stomach. “Every holiday or birthday, all he asked for were books.”
Clark takes a moment to allow the weight of the revelation to settle in. Bruce isn’t someone to say anything without intention, and he wouldn’t dare bring up this topic of his own volition in a casual manner. It’s not an exchange of knowledge, not making them even for Bruce seeing this part of him.
Bruce must have only said it for no other reason than he wants Clark to know.
It’s a delicate privilege that has Clark’s breath come heavy. Reading these pages might remind Bruce of a possible time where children’s drawings littered his fridge and crayons scattered across his table. Now, another glass reminder sits ominous and looming in each direction, at every step Bruce takes below his home.
Glancing down at the mother rabbit showing one of the babies how to sort the recyclables, Clark steps an inch closer. “What was your favorite thing to do with him during the holidays?” he asks quietly.
Bruce’s eyes flutter shut. Clark isn’t sure if the statement was an invitation for a deeper conversation, but Bruce hasn’t backed away from him nor shut down the question like Clark might have expected.
When his eyes reopen, Bruce sighs heavily, the air carrying an evermore grief.
“Every year they light a tree in downtown Gotham.” Bruce closes the children’s book and eases it back on the shelf. He can’t seem to look at Clark, instead staring at the rows of titles. “A massive one, bright and center that for a couple hours brings the city together. He’d beg to go. My eldest taught him to ice skate and they’d end up doing it for hours.”
Clark blinks. “Your eldest?”
Bruce nods and slips his hands into his pockets. “I had two. My eldest lives in Blüdhaven.”
Two children—Clark had no idea. He doesn’t ask why Bruce isn’t spending the holiday with him, it’s none of Clark’s business. He’s more than grateful to have learned as much as he has in this intimate space, and he won’t give into greed when it comes to Bruce’s history. But there’s no stopping his mind conjuring up an image of Bruce, bundled up in earmuffs and gloves and leaning on the edge of the rink with the other parents, watching his sons glide.
His heart clenches painfully for Bruce. Time continues on with or without us, and a part of Bruce will forever be stuck in the days gone.
He’s able to relate a fraction. He feels it each year Ma still puts Pa’s stocking up on the fireplace mantle.
“I bet they loved Alfred’s hot chocolate,” Clark murmurs. Somewhere in there he’s found himself staring down at their feet, but when Clark looks up, he’s not expecting to see such a gentle, almost fond expression on Bruce’s face.
It’s gone in a flash as Bruce steps away to gaze out the window above Clark’s old bed.
“What is it?” Clark asks.
Minutes pass with the question lingering in the air. Clark traces the black turtleneck Bruce is wearing with his eyes, how the fabric curves below his jaw and sits on his waist. Even in silence, he senses all that Bruce hasn’t said yet, the built up confession weighing heavily on his tongue. When Bruce finally speaks, it sounds like he’s wanted to say it for months.
“I couldn’t turn back time for my son. I failed him in every possible aspect a parent could.” Bruce turns his head to look at him, his face carefully crafted to be blank and opposite his words. “But I could do that for you. For you, Clark, I was able to right my wrong. Yet each time I stand here in your mother’s home, it’s impossible to not see the reminders of all the pain I’ve caused.”
Clark’s overwhelmed with how foolish, how naive he feels. No matter how well dinner could or couldn’t go, of course this would be a painful time for Bruce, and of course Bruce wouldn’t show him that. He wants to apologize, to tell Bruce it’s okay, that they can forget this happened, but he can’t wrap his head around why Bruce is doing it now.
“Why are you telling me this?” Clark asks in a quiet tone.
“Because for the first time in my life, I’ve learned a goodbye can also mean a second chance…and I don’t know what to do with it.”
With you, is what Clark hears.
Guilt clogs Bruce’s every breath, cloaks him in shadowed obligations. He suffers to the deepest depths for the love and care of his city, his people. He won’t allow himself closure for the death of his family, but he never expected to be presented with the opportunity for it from someone he’s lost.
For him to admit he’s at a loss, he’s extending the question out to Clark somehow, like he’s pleading for Clark to show him how to figure out what’s next.
With the words he’s chosen, Bruce must believe it’s possible to atone, to earn forgiveness where he never could elsewhere.
Clark would give him that. He would give Bruce everything he asked, if there was anything to forgive in the first place.
If Bruce sees him as a second chance, then Clark has to be one to take it. And if Bruce—if Bruce were ever capable of loving him, Clark doesn’t ever want him to feel punished for it. He doesn’t want Bruce to feel like he’s destined to not feel love in and from the living.
“Bruce,” Clark murmurs. He steps in close and places a tentative hand on Bruce’s shoulder. The evening window light casts his somber face in a snowy, pale glow. “I don’t—I don’t blame you for what happened. I was just as complicit and blind to the trap we fell into.”
Bruce shakes his head. “It was my responsibility to see every angle, to remain objective to any possibility instead of accepting a baseless certainty. I saw what I wanted to see in you and did nothing to stop myself from the course I set on.”
“You saw a monster that day,” Clark argues in a soft, reminiscent voice. “No one could blame you for wanting to—”
“I could,” Bruce says sharply. He turns to face Clark in full, and Clark’s palm slides down to his collarbone. He can’t bring himself to drop it in the face of Bruce’s inward fury. “You’re not a monster, Clark. I was the one who spewed nonsense to you about fear, about bravery, what it takes to be a man. I had become the very thing I vowed to destroy.”
“Bruce—”
“With my boot on your throat, I—I was him.”
Without a thought, Clark pulls him into a tight, squeezing hug. It’s the closest they’ve ever been to one another, but it’s what he’s wanted to do since the moment Bruce brought up his son. It hurts to hear Bruce talk about himself like this, but Clark knows he won't be swayed easily from it at the same time. He can only listen and hope it's enough.
For a brief second that plummets Clark’s heart, Bruce stiffens like steel, but he instantly relaxes, returning the embrace with a sigh of surrender. His warm hands move up Clark’s lower spine to rest on his shoulder blades.
Clark turns his face to speak against his skin. “You’re not,” he whispers. “What you’ve done, what we did to each other, none of it matters anymore. If you need to hear me forgive you to move on, I do. I forgive it all. You’re the greatest man I’ve ever met, Bruce.”
Any fight drains out of Bruce’s form, but he scoffs into Clark’s shoulder. “That’s absurd,” he mumbles.
Clark pulls away to see him. It’s a conversation that’s needed to be brought into the open for months, and it’s given him the confidence to make up his mind. He glances down in what he hopes to be a clear warning, moving slowly, cautiously with intention. Understanding dawns in Bruce’s slightly widened eyes, yet for the way Clark can’t read anything else on his face, Bruce stays in his arms. His actions always speak his truth, and in that, he can’t hide from Clark at all.
Bruce wants him, regardless of whether he finds himself deserving.
“So is this,” Clark murmurs, lifting his hand to cup Bruce’s jaw. He caresses his thumb against the prickled stubble and listens to the erratic thump of Bruce’s heart. Leaning the barest bit upwards, Clark brushes their lips together. “But it’s how I feel.”
Bruce makes a low, choked noise in his throat, and there’s no hesitation in him now. Just as fast as he stripped bare for Clark’s eyes to witness, he surges into another kiss, his lips soft and so impossibly smooth. Clark holds him close and tilts his head to the side, breathing in the warmth to his skin, the pines and the sweet candles downstairs. Bruce tastes like the culmination of time lost and time ahead, like the roast they shared and answers to so many of his wonders.
His hair is just as soft under Clark’s palm as he imagined.
He’d never thought of Bruce as fragile, but it’s how the mere inch between their faces feels once they part in quiet, quickened breaths.
Still, Bruce hasn’t let go of him.
“Thank you for telling me about your son,” Clark murmurs.
Bruce nods, the motion felt against his forehead. “He’d have liked you.”
Clark swallows hard and pulls him into another hug. They stand there for a while with all that was spoken lingering in the shared air.
“Can I ask you something?” Clark asks after some time. Bruce nods again. “Did you used to bake those cookies with your mom?”
Bruce hums. “Every year.”
“They’re delicious.”
Bruce loosens his arms and gives him a rare, small smile. It’s a beautiful expression Clark wishes to be the reason behind again. “I’ll show you the recipe one day.” He turns away and picks up the box of albums. “Come on, lest we leave your mother’s waiting.”
Clark beams at his retreating back. A weight seems to be lifted from them both, slowly coming closer and closer to mutual understanding like they’ve done since the tumultuous day they met.
“Bruce—wait.” Bruce pauses in the doorway. “The other day, down in the cave before we went to Stagg. The shower?”
Bruce smirks and taps the door. “Take the hint next time, Kent.”
Clark flushes and laughs to himself, standing there with a budding elation as Bruce descends down the stairs. He feels like he could shoot up right through the ceiling and do laps around the continents for hours.
There’s still more they need to discuss, to figure out what this means for them and for everything else they share, but for now, all Clark needs is Bruce to keep saying words like next time and one day.
*
After a predictable embarrassing time around the table with photos of him in his youth, Ma allows Alfred to make his hot cocoa while they settle in the living room. He’s stolen glances at Bruce the entire time, mesmerized by the wine flush crept up his throat and the warmth from the fireplace on his cheeks.
He’s so handsome here on the couch with the bright lit tree to his side, and the continued sight of him as the evening stretches on makes Clark want to taste the chocolate from his tongue. It feels returned in every heated glance Bruce shoots him over top his wine glass.
Dusty jumps up on Bruce’s lap, and Clark hurries to call her off before she’s able to get dog hair all over Bruce’s thousand dollar slacks.
“It’s alright,” Bruce says. He places his palm on her back and pets down her fur, watching her thumping tail against the cushions.
Since their kiss, he doesn’t seem withdrawn or closed off in the ways he’s mastered. More contemplative, raw from his confessions, but he must trust Clark to hold them close with care. It’s an honor to know him, to understand Bruce deeper, and he’s glad it happened tonight.
Clark isn’t sure what will transpire once they return to their respective cities, but here, all he can do is smile when Bruce places a present on his lap.
“You didn’t have to get me anything,” Clark says, unraveling the gold bow and easing open the black wrapping paper.
Bruce crosses his leg over the other and nods down at the package. “Open it.”
There’s a pleasant warmth in his chest while he obeys, having not expected to be thought of for this part of the holiday. He’s gone back and forth over his own present to Bruce for days, but he’s not exactly an easy person to shop for like Ma or Lois.
He tosses the paper into the bag Ma is holding and eases the box open. Peeling back the tissue, Clark’s breath hitches in his throat.
“Bruce,” he whispers. Inside sits a dark, cherry-brown leather messenger bag. Clark drags his fingers across the front and down to the buckles near the bottom. While he’s sure by the sight of it Bruce spent a hefty sum, it’s not flashy or over the top either. It’s Clark’s style to perfection, but that’s not what he’s focused on.
Bruce took notice.
He saw Clark’s falling apart bag and decided to give him a new one. He can’t think of any better way to be cared for than the thought alone behind the bag.
“Thank you,” Clark says, taking the bag fully out. “It’s beautiful.”
“It’ll stay that way longer if you stop throwing it,” Bruce murmurs dryly.
Clark chuckles and hopes it only sounds wet to his own ears.
The rest of the gifting exchange goes smoothly; a tea set from him and Ma for Alfred, Ma giving Bruce a new watch he immediately puts on. He learns Ma mentioned offhand a couple months ago that she was curious about an espresso maker instead of putting the pot on the old fashioned way, which is exactly what Bruce gets her.
It makes his own gift feel a little underwhelming, but Clark tried to put a lot of thought into it. He couldn’t think of material items Bruce might need or want, and he’s clueless to the type of clothes Bruce wears. One day he tried to take a peak at the collection of colognes, but it didn’t feel right for some reason. The only suitable gift he could come up with would be for them to do something together.
Bruce sets his wine glass down and takes the small box from his outstretched hand. “It’s not one of your ties, is it?” Bruce teases.
“I wouldn’t subject you to my wardrobe,” Clark mutters, attempting to not wring his hands.
“You’ll agree to the suit offer one day.” Bruce’s amusement wears off once he opens the box.
“They’re playing next week in Gotham,” Clark supplies, his nerves eating his voice.
Bruce takes out the two tickets: admissions to the Gotham Goliaths versus the Metropolis Meteors. Even though they’ve never spoken about it, Clark knows about Bruce’s investment and funding for the team. They’re underdogs; a representation of the city as a whole. He didn’t expect what happened in his old room when buying the tickets, but he just wanted to do something with Bruce outside of both of their works. No ushering for a quote or holding up fallen down bridges.
Just them, and whatever that has the potential to mean in all facets.
Bruce stares at the tickets for a second before he cuts a smirk up towards Clark. “I suppose I can let you into the city for one night, if only to lose.”
Clark chuckles and releases a relieved breath. “Sounds like a plan.”
“Clark always loved football growing up,” Ma says, rocking in her chair with her toes touching the carpet.
“Did you play?” Bruce asks.
Clark shakes his head. “It was too much of a risk. It took me years to get a hang of my strength fully. Pa and I would play with a ball out in the backyard, though.”
Ma hums. “I’m sure there’s still a couple lost out in the woods somewhere from you throwing them too far.”
“Master Bruce took up fencing as a boy,” Alfred says.
“Around the martial arts, judo, boxing, polo,” Bruce mumbles. He stands up from the couch and waves the tickets at Clark. “I’ll be upgrading these.”
Clark smiles at him and nods. “Whatever you want.”
He watches Bruce’s retreating form and notices Ma’s attention on the side of his face. She ticks a knowing eyebrow at him, but he merely shrugs. He’s sure whatever expressions he’s made this entire evening is an answer to what she’s questioning.
When he notices Bruce’s absence prolonging, he excuses himself while Ma puts on a movie and walks into the kitchen. He sees Bruce out on the back patio, coat on and phone up to his ear. Clark doesn’t listen in but waits until Bruce finishes to follow him out.
“Everything alright?” Clark asks, shrugging on his red flannel jacket.
Bruce has his gaze turned upwards, traveling across the expansion of stars in the Kansas night sky. He seems so…peaceful standing out here. His face lax and jaw unclenched, his eyes soft and bright in the shimmering reflection with his ears reddening in the cold.
Earlier, he thought it might have been a mistake in asking Bruce to come tonight, but he was right from the start. Bruce fits right in here, and it seems to do him good as well.
Clark can be good for him.
“Yes,” Bruce answers. “I called my son.”
Clark brushes off some snow from the banister. “I take it the conversation went well?”
“I believe so. It’s a start.”
By the light nature of his tone, Clark believes him. “I’m glad to hear it, Bruce.”
Bruce glances at him with such obvious, intentional care before he looks to the stars again. “Me too.”
Staring at his profile, Clark wants to do something stupid like fly them up closer to see the cosmic magnitude shine on Bruce’s eyes. Yet on the flipside, it’s nice to be grounded at Bruce’s side.
It’s how Bruce makes him feel: steady, stable, wading forward together in uncharted waters.
“Maybe next Christmas we can go see those lights downtown,” Clark says.
It’s a hopeful guess of where they’re heading, one that proves right when a hand gently grabs his elbow. Once he turns, he’s being kissed in light, easy presses. A few to his top lip, one to his bottom. Clark sighs into each one with red wine on his tongue and Bruce overwhelming every sense, close and here in his arms.
“I’d like that,” Bruce murmurs.
Clark kisses him again, just because he’s allowed. “Do you,” he starts, quiet and once again nervously intimate. “Do you know what to do with your second chance now?”
It won’t be easy at first. They’re both stubborn, reckless, and withdraw when a thumb digs too deeply into their shoulders. But if Bruce is willing to fight through the odds, so is he.
He doesn’t have to wait long to find out if they’re on the same page.
“I’ve got plans,” Bruce murmurs wryly. It’s such a Bruce thing to say, Clark smiles so wide and joyous in his direction. Something about it makes Bruce sober, his gaze attentive and almost shy. He rests his palm on Clark’s collarbone, turning to look back at the stars. “I’d forgotten what the sun felt like, until I met you.”
Clark’s chest constricts. All he can think to do is cup Bruce’s cheek, pull him back into his orbit and kiss him again and again.