Chapter Text
When they finally get back to the satellite, him and J’onn and Green Lantern because they’re the ones that are space certified, they’re all sore and covered in meteor dust.
GL claps him on the shoulder and disappears somewhere, as does J’onn. Or maybe Clark’s the one that ducks out first, bleary eyed and ready for rest.
He yawns as he heads to his room because he’s too tired and dirty to fly back to his apartment.
On the tiny ledge by his small, flat, standard-issue bed, there’s the light of a blinking text message on his phone.
Jimmy, telling him with a :P that he’d made it to the year-end list. Attached was the picture: Clark lecturing Bruce Wayne on a yacht that was worth more than his entire apartment building, number 7 out of 10 for their Most Liked on Instagram.
If that had been the end of it, if nothing that had happened afterward had happened, Clark might have laughed, the mortification dimmed after seven months.
As it is, he almost smiles.
He’s still thinking of it as he steps into his claustrophobic shower, which unfailingly reminds him of a metal coffin, sluicing off the grime with a wince.
Over two hundred days later and they were okay, him and Bruce. It would be so easy to continue on, keep on with the way things were now.
But things aren’t the way that they were before, and he as much as he likes the new balance, there’s things that still need to be said.
He’s known that longer than he cares to admit, but maybe it took a meteor barreling at his face to get him to budge. And plenty of team bonding and healing and bitching in hypotheticals to Lois, who can probably see right through him.
Toweling his hair dry, Clark picks up his comm.
Bruce is at the door seconds later, the slant of his mouth worried, taking in Clark’s soft sweatpants and baggy sleep shirt, cataloguing them like threats.
Clark hits the button for the door to close, waiting for his breathing to steady. The best way to deal with Bruce is patience, he’s found.
When he’s done looking for LexCorp destroyer bots in the corners, Clark says what he’s wanted to say for months: “Take your mask off”.
Bruce doesn’t hesitate.
The face underneath is handsome, but that’s not what he likes about it. He likes how steady; how steadfast it is. The face of a man who fights because he can’t imagine doing anything else.
It’s the face that must have been leaning into his in the ReadiTent.
It’s the face that measured him up in the dark of the art gallery.
It’s the face of a man he could love, and he’s halfway to doing that, anyway.
Because they know both sides of each other now, hero and human, and all the ways they combined.
He’s Clark’s best friend.
Maybe they were heading towards this all along.
“I was honest that night too, you know” he says, because they haven’t talked about that, at least, since they decided to forgive each other.
Bruce’s face twists, eager and hesitant, the way he almost never gets to see it. Clark traces his cheekbones with his fingers, careful like he’s made of glass.
This face was there the entire time they’ve known each other, but it’s the first time he’s ever touched it like this.
There’s so much still left to do, so much time gone.
Bruce’s hand closes on his, eyes searching.
“It’s still true, Bruce” and his eyes narrow, worried. He always worries.
“I’d always rather talk to you. But that doesn’t mean the night isn’t on the list” Clark says, stepping closer, and Bruce’s lips twitch.
“Just one?” he says, half joking. There’s a tremble in his voice only Clark could hear.
“It’s a start” Clark says and finally, finally, kisses him again.
He tastes like sweat and metal, the trapped air of the cowl.
It’s a lot better than last time. It’s real.