Archive of Our Own ^beta

The early summer evening sets the city of Metropolis aglow, making its skyscrapers gleam golden with the light of the setting sun. It’s a beautiful evening, and the fair summer weather is made all the more enjoyable for Bruce because it happens to be his night off.

When he’d boarded the ferry in Gotham, the sky had been mostly overcast, but Metropolis seems to be one of those places where the sun is never obscured. Save for a thin cover of cirrus clouds on the horizon that have blurred the sky where the blue melts into yellow, reaching with long, wispy fingers away from the setting sun, the sky is mostly clear; the sunset must be spectacular, though the skyline has mostly obscured it from view, leaving it visible only between buildings and on higher ground; on the eastern side of the city, all that Bruce can see is a crimson-orange scene painted across hundreds of windows.

The sunset is a welcome friend for Bruce. Nighttime is his domain, but on evenings when the air blowing in from the water keeps the city streets warm long after nightfall and the streets of Metropolis bustle with activity as restaurant patios open and the weather becomes fair, he likes to drive downtown in a nondescript vehicle and take advantage of the anonymity. Tonight, however, he’s anything but inconspicuous in his VGT, which stands out even in downtown Metropolis—especially in the bottleneck of downtown traffic, which has been reduced to a crawl thanks to seasonal construction.

Bruce’s phone buzzes in his pocket, and almost simultaneously his dashboard HUD glows orange with a Bluetooth alert, announcing an Incoming Call in bold white letters.

Bruce glances at the clock on the HUD—it’s nearly eight-thirty now, according to the display—and grimaces.

“Answer,” he tells the car. “Diana. I take it you got my message earlier.”

“I got your message,” she says airily. “And since you’re not at home in Gotham, I take it you’re on your way to something important?”

“Business calls,” Bruce confirms, tapping a finger soundlessly on the steering wheel. The sun doesn’t seem to have dipped much further on the horizon, judging by the reflections on the nearby skyscrapers but he can see the long, white parallel lines of an airplane’s contrail slowly drifting into view.

Bruce would rather be stuck in traffic in Gotham. It’s been over a minute since he’s moved, according to the clock, and while construction zones can be just as frustrating, it’s at least a comfort to know the city streets around him.

“Of course,” Diana says. “Important business, I assume. Alfred would not give up your location, but he said that you’d taken your most expensive car.”

Careful to keep his tone noncommittal, Bruce says: “I’m meeting up with Clark.” He knows better than to lie outright to Diana and she’ll likely find out about this one way or another.

“Right now?”

“This evening. Or in the morning, at this rate. Starting to regret taking the scenic route through construction.”

As if on cue, the car ahead begins to inch forward, tail-lights glowing bright in the shadow of the surrounding buildings. Bruce manages to advance a dozen car lengths before the construction worker directing traffic turns the sign, allowing the other lane of traffic to roll slowly through the construction zone. He’s close enough to LexCorp Tower that the light reflecting from the windows tints the Alubeam exterior of Bruce’s car a soft pink, and it’s the only time he might ever call a LexCorp building beautiful and mean it.

“Ah,” Diana says knowingly. “Usually you’re so punctual. Is this a meeting for business or pleasure?”

Is this an interrogation? Bruce wants to ask, but he respects Diana too much to do so.

“Yes,” he says instead, intentionally nonspecific. “He’s at work right now, but he should be free by the time I get there.”

Had so many of the Daily Planet staff not been present for Clark’s funeral in Smallville, it might have been easier to argue that he had been wrongfully proclaimed dead. Unfortunately, the body of Clark Kent had been seen by too many of his friends, and it had been impossible to get Clark his job back. Bruce had still managed to pull a few strings, and now Clark Joseph, Freelance News Writer For Metropolis News 8, spends long hours tracking social media and various international news outlets to contribute to report scripts, and writes articles online for the local news channel. He can still hunt stories and share the truth, and he seems to be content with his work.

“Does he know you’re coming?”

“I didn’t tell him.” Bruce says. He glances at the passenger seat next to him, which is currently occupied by a fragrant bouquet of hand-picked flowers. “I’ve heard I’m harder to avoid if I show up unannounced.”

The twin contrails have drifted overhead and are beginning to disperse. Clark may not leave work until nearly nine, depending on how busy he is, but that will give Bruce plenty of time to get comfortable outside of Clark’s apartment before Clark shows up.

He can hear Diana exhale over the speakers as the traffic begins to move once more. “I don’t think you need to worry about Clark trying to avoid you,” she says softly, “but I hope your meeting goes well.”

Her well-wishes seem to hang in the silent interior of the car, dangling before Bruce like a physical presence. He knows that Diana is perceptive enough to understand Bruce’s reasons for wanting to make a surprise visit, and he’s certain that she would never offer her blessing if it wasn’t genuine… or if it wasn’t obvious that he needed it.

“Thank you,” Bruce says quietly. “I’m sure it will be fine. But what can I do for you? You must’ve called for a reason.”

“It’s nothing that can’t wait,” Diana assures him. “I’ll talk to you later, Bruce.”

The display flashes orange again, signaling the call’s end.

The sound of footsteps was nearly drowned out by the waterfall that ran naturally through the cave, but Bruce was familiar enough with the sound of people trying to sneak up on him that he picked up on it immediately. It was Clark, lingering after what had proven to be an unnecessary team regrouping after a minor event involving a mishap with an unidentified metahuman in Florida. Everyone else was long gone, and Bruce was elbow-deep in the batmobile when Clark said, “Listen, I—I really appreciate what you’re doing for me, Bruce, but I can’t accept this.”

Bruce could see Clark out of the corner of his eye, and he could see the small object in his hand, too: a piece of black tech approximately the size of a brand-new cellphone.

“Of course you can,” Bruce said. He continued his work inside the engine for several seconds, and when he was satisfied he straightened up at last and turned to Clark. “You need a way to keep in contact with us now that we’re working as a team. You’ll need a number for people to call if you expect to stay with MN8, too.”

Clark looked as if he wanted to protest, his mouth flattened in a thin line of disapproval.

“You can’t keep spending money on me like this,” he said finally.

Bruce wiped his hands on his pants and crossed his arms over his chest, leaning against the side of the tank. It wasn’t as if he was spending money frivolously; Clark had returned from the dead to find that he had nothing, and it was the least Bruce could do to slide him a lease with his name already on it, a credit card with no limits, and a new identity that would allow him to do things that a dead man could not. This was a relatively minor gift, and Bruce’s resources would more than allow for Clark to take advantage of his bank account for the foreseeable future.

“You know it’s no trouble for me to do these things, and you need them. If it makes you feel better, that phone didn’t even cost anything. It’s WayneTech, same OS as mine. I built it myself.”

He dug in his pocket and fished out his own phone, holding it up for emphasis. The brief flicker of emotion that crossed Clark’s face was unreadable, but Bruce suspected it might have been somewhere in the range of resignation. “See? It’s on my own satellites. No phone company can track your information, the military can’t tap your calls… it’s as safe as you can get.”

Clark looked down at the phone in his hand and exhaled through his nose, his shoulders sagging. It seemed as if he had no counter to Bruce’s argument (though it was more common sense than an argument) and it made Bruce feel better knowing that he would soon be able to contact Clark privately if he needed to, and that Clark’s privacy would be protected because of his equipment.

“Okay,” Clark said at last. “But I can’t let you do anything more for me. I don’t know if you think this is some sort of—atonement, or…”

He seemed to struggle for better wording, his frown deepening as he slid the phone into his pocket and approached the batmobile, leaning against it next to Bruce. “I can’t thank you enough for what you’ve done. Thank you isn’t good enough, and I can’t… I couldn’t possibly repay you for any of this.”

Bruce would never make Clark repay him for any of it, nor would he expect him to. These weren’t favours, they were gifts. Clark was—though Bruce hesitated to say it, since they’d only properly introduced themselves a few weeks ago—a good friend, and Bruce was glad to help a friend in need. The fact that Clark warmed quickly to Bruce with each service provided was irrelevant. Even if Clark were still wary of him, he would have deserved these gifts all the same.

“Maybe there is a way you can repay me,” Bruce said thoughtfully. He met Clark’s gaze and gave him a small, private smile. “Make use of the phone. You can do whatever you want with the credit card, even give it back if it makes you feel better, but the phone is yours. If it helps you at work and helps you keep in contact with us, that’s payment enough for me.”

Clark held his gaze for a long moment, and Bruce couldn’t help but notice that he’d tucked his glasses into his shirt pocket. His eyes were fantastically blue without them, warm even under the cool fluorescent lighting of the cave, and they crinkled at the corners when Clark finally seemed to break down and smile at him.

“Thank you, Bruce,” he said softly. “I’ll try to put it to good use. I’ll do my best to keep in contact with everyone else, too.”

Bruce’s smile widened, and he uncrossed his arms to put a hand on Clark’s shoulder and squeeze it gently. It felt like the right thing to do, more appropriate than Bruce’s usual business handshake, and it satisfied the sudden desire he had to make contact with Clark.

Clark grinned, and suddenly his entire demeanor seemed to change, just like that. He felt more mischievous, less bashful, and Bruce assumed that this Clark was the one that he would be seeing more of if Clark made good on his promise to keep in contact. “But just so you know, I’m not letting you buy me anything I don’t need.”

“Even if it’s the thought that counts?”

Clark laughed quietly, nudging his shoulder against Bruce’s. “Especially then.”

Bruce nodded. “I’ll make a note of that. ‘Don’t buy Clark more gifts’.

“What were you going to buy me gifts for?”

Bruce cleared his throat, utterly unprepared to answer. He didn’t know the date of Clark’s birthday, or if he celebrated traditional gift-giving holidays. Clark wasn’t supposed to know that Bruce thought of his contributions as gifts; it might give him the impression that Bruce wanted to buy Clark’s favour, which was not at all the case.

“Uh,” he said, “for—that’s what friends do, right?”

Clark’s laugh was bright and unguarded, like he wasn’t expecting that to come out of Bruce’s mouth, then he pulled the phone out of his pocket and looked it over for a moment before offering it to Bruce.

“Maybe I should have your number, just in case,” he said. “Do you mind?”

It was already in the phone—Bruce had programmed it in before giving it to Clark in the first place, ensuring that he would be available at the touch of a button—but at Clark’s request he took the phone and pretended to enter it again anyway.

He added his office number for good measure.

“There you go,” he said, watching as Clark tucked the phone into his pocket with a self-satisfied smile. “Call me any time.”

Bruce’s phone buzzes with a second alert, and once again the HUD begins to glow orange.

Incoming Call: Clark Kent.

Traffic is once again at a standstill, so Bruce can afford to stare blankly at Clark’s name on the translucent screen and imagine all of the ways that a single phone call might derail his plans. Could Clark possibly have overheard his conversation with Diana? It’s not out of the ordinary for Clark to call him unprompted to ask for advice or request something of him, so Bruce can usually find some satisfaction in knowing that Clark is making good on his promise to put his phone to good use. This time, however, he hesitates, blinking at the HUD until he happens to notice the traffic moving through it.

“Answer.” He wets his lips and steps on the gas to roar through the closest intersection before the yellow light can turn red, then says, “Hi there.”

Clark’s apartment is only half a dozen streets away, a straight drive and a turn from where Bruce is now, but traffic is heavier here even without an active construction zone. How Clark manages to live downtown in all of this noise, Bruce will never know; he himself thrives in silence and solitude, and if his hearing were as sensitive as Clark’s, he would never be able to flourish in such a busy environment.

“Hi, Bruce. Are you busy?”

“Not at all,” Bruce says breezily. He turns down a side street, steeling his thoughts away from how wonderful it feels to have Clark’s voice on a surround sound system. “How can I help you?”

“I was wondering if you could send me your report on that USPS fentanyl scandal the GCPD was working on last week,” Clark says.

Somehow, it’s better than what Bruce was expecting, but he isn’t willing to get his hopes up just yet. “Yeah, I can do that. What do you need it for?”

“They’ve been wanting to come up with a segment on the nation’s opioid crisis for Saturday and I wanted to float a piece about something a bit closer to home,” Clark explains. “Everyone’s already covered the scandal from head to toe, but I thought I might be able to use your intel to draft a piece on drug use and smuggling within port cities like Gotham and Metropolis and other major ports along the east coast, and see what else I can dig up on this side of the harbour.”

The opioid crisis isn’t the sort of topic that Clark would have ever written about at the Daily Planet, and it’s hardly a typical problem for Superman to tackle—but then again, what is a typical Superman problem? Fentanyl use can be as deadly as homicide or a natural disaster in some parts of North America, and it’s as good a topic to cover even if Clark is only looking to gather statistics and bring awareness to the cause. Preventing death through education may be boring by superhero standards, but it might be a hell of a lot more effective in the long run. “That’s a good idea, Clark. And here I thought you weren’t officially a reporter anymore.”

Bruce can’t disguise the notes of pride in his voice. He wonders if Clark can hear it through the phone, if he knows that Bruce is smiling at a windshield because he’s found yet another way to make his voice heard and keep people safe.

Clark laughs drily. “I’m not, technically, but they enjoyed my article for last night’s segment on gun reform laws so much that they thought I should try my hand at another major issue, so… I thought this would be a good place to start. People see Metropolis as this shining, idyllic city, but there are some real problems here that we need to address. Even if I just publish these articles online, at least I can keep pushing to get them reviewed and maybe make a headline or two on the news, right?”

Bruce hadn’t caught the news last night, and he hasn’t yet had the chance to check the MN8 website for new articles from Clark, though he tries to keep himself updated on what Clark’s working on, even when the topics are silly local articles designed to get a laugh on television. But gun reform laws, the opioid crisis, drug addiction… he’s been relentless since his return, and since he’s allowed more creative freedom as a freelance writer, his writing has never been better.

“You’re tackling all the problems that Superman can’t fix by punching bad guys,” Bruce points out.

“You know Metropolis is still my home—”

“I know. It’s a good idea, Clark. It feels like you’re fighting multiple wars on every front, that’s all. I’d wager you’ve already done more to help Metropolis in the past six months than some of those senior reporters have done in the past six years.”

“Well, it helps to have valuable intel readily available,” Clark says, sounding markedly less offended as Bruce takes another right. He can see a second construction site a few streets ahead, and he wants to avoid sitting in another line at all costs. “You could be out here writing these stories, too. We’d make a good team, wouldn’t we?”

Bruce hums in agreement, trying desperately to commit that sentiment to memory. “Yeah, I think we would. And speaking of, it must be getting close to quitting time for you.”

“Yeah. I’m running a few minutes late,” Clark says. Bruce can hear some rustling in the background, the sharp noise of paper hitting a solid surface. “You don’t mind sending that file before I leave, right?”

“No, not at all. I’m on the road so I’ll get Alfred to send it along right away. Does that work?”

“Perfectly. Thanks, Bruce, I really appreciate it.”

Clark sounds genuinely grateful. It’s obvious that he’s excited about his work, and his determination and gratitude are something that Bruce would bottle up and carry around for the rest of his life if he could. So few of the positive influences in Bruce’s life have been as inspirational as Clark, and so few have had the opportunity to get a second chance at life; but Bruce is not a religious man, and so he prefers to think of Clark like some garden perennial blooming beautifully in the sun, unwilling to stay buried in the soil for too long.

“Sorry for keeping you. I just have one more question, and I’ll let you get back to what you were doing.”

That’s enough to snap Bruce from his reverie. He’s only a couple of blocks away from Clark’s apartment now, parallel with not only the construction he’d been trying to avoid, but the conversational topic he’d also wished to stay away from.

Bruce inhales slowly, calming himself with the sweet scent of the bouquet lying on the seat next to him. “Sure,” he says. Just don’t ask me if I’m free tonight.

“Are you free tonight?”

Damn.

He could tell Clark that he’s busy. Seeing as he’s currently occupied with the important mission of surprising Clark outside his apartment, it wouldn’t even be a lie. He’s been waiting for this opportunity for weeks, and psyching himself up for it for even longer than that. He even has a bouquet of flowers, for Christ’s sake. He’s dedicated to this task, and yet if by some chance Clark is asking because he wants to see Bruce during his time off, misleading him that way might end with Clark halfway across the world and Bruce alone in Metropolis.

He hasn’t planned for that possibility simply because he doesn’t want to wish it into existence.

“You mean right now?”

“Just tonight,” Clark says. “I thought maybe after work, I could… I dunno, hop the harbour and say hello?”

The thought of Clark wanting to visit hadn’t crossed Bruce’s mind, and it makes his heart pound nervously in his chest. To keep Clark from flying to Gotham, Bruce would have to either admit that he’s already in Metropolis, or risk letting Clark say maybe another night and freeing him up to do something else.

Perhaps this is the worst-case scenario that Bruce should have planned for.

Thinking quickly, Bruce rolls down the window. The warm evening air rolls into his air-conditioned interior, bringing with it the smell of exhaust and dust and the sound of the construction and traffic around him. “I’m actually stuck in traffic right now, and I have a few errands to run. I’ll be free soon, but you might get to my house before I do.”

He closes his eyes briefly as a jackhammer sounds off in the background, ruining the generic sounds of evening traffic. There are no areas being renovated in Gotham that would require a jackhammer, but Clark isn’t from Gotham and might not be aware of that… and yet there’s also a very real possibility that Clark might recognize this particular site by sound alone, and might have already deduced Bruce’s location.

Clark listens for a moment. “So... is that a ‘no’? A ‘maybe’?”

“No, it’s—I’ll get back to you on it,” Bruce says quickly. He’s normally quick to find an excuse, but this requires a delicate touch. How is he supposed to tell Clark not to leave Metropolis without arousing suspicion? “But just in case, maybe you can...”

“Keep an ear out?”

Clark’s street is only an intersection away now. The sound of the jackhammer has grown fainter, but Bruce can still hear it buzzing in his ear like a particularly irritating insect.

“Maybe once Alfred sends you that file, you should go home like usual, and… maybe I’ll be free later.”

He hates to be deliberately cryptic, so he makes an effort to inject as much blatant insinuation as he possibly can to make up for it.

There’s a pause while Bruce rolls up his window, sealing out the sounds of the jackhammer and the warm city air. “Well… that works for me,” Clark says, sounding only mildly confused. “Thanks again, Bruce. I’ll talk to you later.”

The HUD flashes Call Disconnected and goes back to blue just in time for Bruce to turn onto Clark’s street.

By the time the door closed behind Bruce, he was already shrugging out of his jacket, tossing it aside with a carelessness that Alfred, had he been present, would suggest was notably uncharacteristic of Bruce.

He loosened his tie with a jerk and let it join his jacket on top of the kitchen table. Uncharacteristic, maybe. But in truth, it felt good to unbutton his vest with a mild viciousness. He didn’t even bother rounding the corner to undress in the privacy of his bedroom. This time of night, there was nobody around to see him.

That was the problem, of course. Clark was supposed to be here to see him. Maybe not see him shed his clothing so irritably, but the plan they’d made to meet in Gotham half an hour ago had fallen through when Clark caught wind of a disaster occurring on the other side of the world.

Bruce’s vest fell on the floor in a crumpled heap.

He wouldn’t normally be so disappointed—and that’s what he was, after all, no matter how angry he seemed—but he and Clark had finally managed to align their schedules long enough to meet up for a brief handful of minutes. About thirteen, by Bruce's estimate. Thirteen minutes of trying to work up the courage to brush his fingers over the back of Clark’s hand, to admire his knuckles and his tendons and the bones of his wrist; thirteen minutes of flirting with the idea of trying to kiss Clark, of wondering whether Clark would reciprocate. They'd had thirteen minutes alone, and Bruce was no closer to determining whether Clark was actually flirting with him, or if he just made that much eye contact with everyone he talked to.

Clark had simply cocked his head and narrowed his eyes and said, “I’m so sorry, I have to—” and he'd been gone.

But Bruce was used to it. Two weeks earlier, Bruce himself had been forced to cancel their plans to meet at the last minute when an arms deal inside an abandoned warehouse by the docks had gone south and turned into an unexpected bloodbath. The weekend before that, it was a false report of a parademon sighting. The entire League had been involved in that one. Bruce liked to imagine that they might have kissed that night, too.

He rounded the corner to the living room and stopped long enough to turn on the television. He already knew what he’d find on CNN: days of heavy rainfall and a partial collapse of the Sugar Loaf mountain during the rainy season had led to devastating floods and mudslides in Sierra Leone only days before, leaving thousands of residents living below sea level homeless and killing those who simply hadn’t seen the mudslides coming. Though the news had reached them too late for Clark to save many, Superman’s efforts had been tireless and heroic for days, and Bruce simply couldn’t fault him for spending so much time in Freetown when there were so many lives at stake and so many people in need of help.

That was what Superman did. He helped people, spent hours and hours pulling victims from partially-submerged houses, redirecting the flow of the areas where the flooding was the worst, ensuring that the bodies he couldn’t save were recovered so that they could be identified and laid to rest.

Videos of the flood played on loop across the television alongside a rising death toll and Bruce’s shoulders sagged. He couldn’t be angry at Clark for rescheduling. He should have been angrier at himself for not stepping in to help, but Batman was never as well-equipped to handle natural disasters as Superman. Still, it didn’t keep him from sitting with his phone by his side, prepared to answer should Clark call for assistance.

It wasn’t their first time rescheduling, and while Bruce had a feeling it wouldn’t be the last, he wouldn’t allow himself to lose hope yet. Hope was simply out saving the world, and if Clark was as genuinely interested in Bruce as Bruce was in him, hope would inevitably return to Gotham with a sheepish smile.

Bruce wanted desperately to kiss him. He knew that for certain. He imagined Clark’s clean-shaven skin would be unnaturally smooth against his, that his stubble would scratch gently against Clark’s own. He’d thought about how Clark’s cheekbones would feel beneath his lips, how Clark might tip his head to grant Bruce access to the strong line of his jaw, the soft skin of his throat. He still hadn't managed to determine exactly what Clark would smell like; scents rarely seemed to cling to him, and so he never smelled like smoke, or like saltwater, or like any recognizable cologne that Bruce could detect.

(He’d smelled like blood once. Bruce remembered it clear as day, even staring at the screen as Clark carried a pedestrian to safety; he remembered the taste of blood in his own mouth—or had that been anger, bitter on his tongue, hatred spraying out from between his teeth like acid—and yet Clark still eyed Bruce with a polite curiosity, never shuddering at the sight of the batsuit, never leaning away from him when he moved too close.)

Surely Clark would be interested in kissing him. He was playing this game too, after all, able to find as many reasons as Bruce to linger in the cave after team meetings, to send him a text about something that had happened during his day, to seek his company even when others were around. It seemed that Clark liked to flirt the same as Bruce: humbly, as languid and unassuming as blood leaking from a paper cut. It seemed fitting that he might kiss the same way, slowly and with purpose, and gentle, so gentle.

Clark was still on the television. Bruce muted the broadcast and began to unbutton his shirt. His skin was beginning to prickle, and he couldn't think about how Clark would taste while he was saving lives on the screen.

Clark’s apartment is on the ground floor of an average-sized duplex on the tree-lined East Twelfth, which a quiet, comfortable residential neighbourhood. His home is about a fifteen-minute walk from Heroes Park and a twenty-minute bicycle ride from MN8’s studio on Wardenclyffe, and being in the north end of the city, amenities and restaurants and shops are conveniently close by.

It’s a nice spot. That’s why Bruce picked it.

Bruce parks on the street outside of the house and sends a quick message through his connection to the batcave about the file Clark requested, then glances out the window. Clark doesn’t have a car to park in the small driveway, so his bicycle is usually chained to the nearest tree; since he isn’t home right now, the chain is lying loose in the grass at the base of the tree, which is surrounded by half-bloomed dandelions and grass that hasn’t yet been cut.

Bruce waits until Alfred confirms that the file has been forwarded on before shutting off his car with the push of a button. He reaches for the bouquet on the passenger seat, and as he steps out of his car and onto the curb, his phone lights up with a thank-you message from Clark, as if he could sense that Bruce has just arrived.

The air is slightly cooler here in the shade, and a light breeze rustles the leaves and carries the noise of a lawnmower from further up the street, which drowns out the drone from the jackhammer from the construction site he’d passed. It feels like summer is finally beginning to arrive, and it smells like it, too; down the sidewalk Bruce can see a tree with pink petals in full bloom, and he imagines that an environment like this must make Clark’s eco-friendly commute pleasant. He’d grown up on a farm, after all, so a street with grass and trees and weeds and sunlight must be far more comforting to him than a crowded apartment building downtown.

The aerodynamic noise of a plane overhead draws his attention, and Bruce glances up to see that there’s still a bit of sunlight glinting off the plane’s exterior. The sunset isn’t visible from this side of the street, so all that Bruce sees overhead is a clear blue sky, unaffected by the haze of smog that seems to perpetually plague Gotham in the evenings.

He pauses on the way to the house to pick a handful of the tallest dandelions at the base of the tree with Clark’s chain around it, and once he’s comfortably seated on the step he begins to insert them carefully into the bouquet one by one.

The bouquet is entirely hand-picked, wildflowers all—bur marigold and buttercups, white goldenseal and golden lupines, forget-me-nots and soft pink farewell-to-springs, early-blooming white sweetclover and wood lilies. In spring and summer the meadows and fields on the outskirts of Gotham bloom with colourful flora that make the drive to Bruce’s home a pollen-filled nightmare, but he’d braved the insects and scoured the fields earlier this afternoon for the most colourful and sweetest-smelling flowers, thankful that the grass hasn’t yet begun to dwarf the shorter stalks and low-lying weeds.

He could have visited any florist in Gotham or Metropolis, of course. Arriving at Clark’s doorstep with a handful of roses or carnations would certainly get his point across, and Clark might expect Bruce to be the sort of person to court with expensive floral arrangements, but this is a more personal gesture. Bruce has gathered bouquets of wildflowers in those fields before, but he hasn’t given flowers, wild or otherwise, to any living person in years. It’s a gesture from the heart, and—well, it’s not as if Bruce will need to make this case to Clark. Heartfelt gesture aside, he’ll either like them or he won’t, but at least he’ll know what Bruce is trying to say.

Navigating the waters of romantic interest has always been tricky for Bruce. Publicly, he’s had a long history of selective interest, but privately his dating life is all but non-existent, and Clark certainly doesn’t fit the profile for either category. He’s not human, for one, but in an age where metahuman is making its way into the public’s vocabulary, that’s hardly enough to set him apart. He’s not even the first colleague Bruce has displayed an interest in; but despite the rocky beginning to their friendship, he seems to look forward to their conversations, seeks Bruce’s advice on matters that don’t seem to require a second opinion, and actively supports Bruce’s decision-making instead of blocking him at every turn.

Bruce isn’t foolish enough to mistake friendship for romance, but he’s never had a man pay quite so much attention to him without intending to write some silly tabloid exposé. Diana wouldn’t have wished Bruce well in his attempt to court Clark if she thought it would be ill-received.

Or so he hopes.

Neither Bruce nor Clark knew it at the time, but there would be worse to come later in the year. Between the wildfires in California, mudslides in Columbia, monsoons in Bangladesh and Nepal, the earthquake in Mexico City, hurricanes Harvey, Irma, Jose, Maria, and more—it was one of the worst years for natural disasters in history, and it was all they could do to try and help.

The abundance of natural disasters made it difficult to spend time with Clark. It wasn’t that Bruce went out of his way to avoid him; Superman was busy, and Bruce’s own schedule only allowed for so much between his duties as a CEO and as an agent of justice, and nothing in their schedule ever seemed to work out quite right; but at the same time, the notion of rescheduling seemed silly to Bruce, so he simply avoided doing it. They were meeting as friends, not going on dates, and yet it seemed that they were both just a bit too shy and unsure to fully take the plunge and return the call, dancing instead around the possibility finally finding time alone. They had valid excuses, sure, but Bruce’s schedule wasn't so busy that he couldn’t find time to see Clark at all. As for Clark… well, he was just as good at taking off as he was at showing up unannounced.

There was one near-perfect night, earlier in the spring: it was late in the evening and Bruce was in Gotham on patrol. Clark was on his way back from Eastern Canada, where he had spent a few days aiding flood victims. He must have noticed Bruce somehow on his way back to Metropolis that night, or else had wanted to decided to take a detour around the city on the off chance that he might find Bruce skulking in the shadows. Whatever his reasons, he didn’t seem to have any trouble; the sky was overcast and Bruce could tell that the clouds were about to break open at any moment, and as he was searching for an appropriate vantage point where he would be shielded from the rain, Clark landed next to him on the ledge of the Gotham Cathedral and made himself comfortable.

He sat with Bruce and gazed out over the city, admiring the way the billboard signs created neon auras in the rain.

“Someone almost hit a pedestrian at a crosswalk,” he said quietly. Only the slightest crease in his brow betrayed his concern. Bruce couldn’t even tell if he was looking at something, or if he’d simply heard it from across the city. “Just now. The driver’s angry about it. I think he’s on the phone with someone. He’s complaining about right of way.”

“Everyone’s in a hurry to get somewhere,” Bruce murmured. “So who was in the wrong? The driver or the pedestrian?”

“Hard to say.” Clark squinted, then leaned back on his hands with a sigh as the cathedral bell began to toll midnight.

Bruce waited until the bell was done. “Do you ever get tired of this? Hearing and seeing everything?”

Clark lifted a shoulder, a casual shrug. “It’s not bad. It can be overwhelming sometimes, but you learn to block out the noise.” He swung a red-booted foot, gazing across the city at some unseen thing. “But if I had to choose, I wouldn’t give it up. I can see and hear the good, too. People who sing in their car, friends who can’t tell jokes because they laugh too hard, kids who get straight As on their report cards… like the bad, you just have to know where to look. Like you. I found you out here, no problem.”

Bruce raised his eyebrows behind the cowl. Maybe Clark had been listening for him. “Am I the good, or the bad?”

“Wouldn’t you like to know,” Clark said. There was a playful edge to his voice that made Bruce want to press him for the answer, or perhaps press a kiss to that smiling mouth. It would have been a perfect opportunity then, kissing him atop the cathedral as they took shelter from the rain, even if it was only to say thank you for stopping by.

Clark was sitting only inches away. It would have been easy to kiss him.

But Bruce didn’t, and then the moment passed and Clark was pushing himself effortlessly up into the air, an apologetic smile on his face.

“Well, I have a six-a.m. deadline that I should probably try to meet before I go to bed,” he said, and Bruce could feel that familiar sinking feeling in his stomach already, the knowing dread of a missed opportunity. Work was an acceptable excuse, now that Clark was working again, but it didn’t stop Bruce from wishing that Clark would selfishly ignore his deadline to spend more time in rainy Gotham at midnight. “I’m glad I caught you, though.”

“Yeah,” Bruce said, watching the rain beginning to drip from Clark’s hair. “Me too.”

A sudden thunderous boom pulls Bruce’s attention away from the cracks in the sidewalk, where he’s been staring absently at stalks of grass while he waits for Clark to arrive. His gaze snaps to the sky and he finds himself looking for a blur of red and blue in a vapour cone, but he can see nothing from here.

It had been a sonic boom, hadn’t it?

Just up the street, Bruce can see two people walking together on the sidewalk, both craning their necks for a glimpse of Superman. It doesn’t help to focus his hearing, and even stepping out toward the street doesn’t give Bruce a better view of anything in the sky; there are no other clues that would indicate that it was Clark, so he has no reason to think that it might have been—except that he’d told Clark he wouldn’t be free until later, which would give Clark plenty of time to leave work and provide aid elsewhere in the world.

He could try to call and confirm, but there’s no guarantee that Clark would even have his phone on him. It would mean giving away his plan to surprise Clark, but at least he would know whether he should wait around or take the ferry back to Gotham.

With a sharp exhale, Bruce rests the bouquet on the hood of his car and pulls out his phone, staring up at the sky as he auto-dials Clark’s number and listens to the ringback. He’s thankful that the lawnmower had stopped a while ago, and it even seems like the construction on the site nearby has been put on pause for the night. He hasn’t heard the jackhammer in a while now, which means traffic should be faster if he needs to go back to—

The distant sound of a ringtone catches Bruce’s attention before the line goes dead. Frowning faintly, he finds himself turning toward the side of the street that he hadn’t scanned to see Clark, waving at him from a few yards away with one hand on his handlebars and a messenger bag slung around his shoulder.

Bruce hangs up his phone and breathes a quiet sigh of relief.

It doesn’t take long for Clark to catch up to him, and by the time he pulls up next to the tree and climbs off his bicycle Bruce has managed to put a stake in his anxiety.

“You know, you’re the last person I expected to see here,” Clark says. Bruce leans against the side of his car and tries to keep himself in check as Clark carefully chains his bicycle to the tree and makes his way over to Bruce. “What happened to being busy?”

“I told you I was stuck in traffic,” Bruce says. Clark eyes the VGT, but something quickly catches his eye and makes his expression falter—it’s the bouquet, Bruce realizes belatedly, still lying on the car’s hood.

“What…?” Clark begins, but Bruce is already reaching for the bundle of stems. He takes a moment to fluff out the flowers that had been lying flat on the hood, then holds the bouquet out to Clark, who blinks at it in confusion before taking the bouquet carefully from Bruce’s hand.

“For you,” Bruce tells him.

“Oh,” Clark says, the surprise evident in his voice. He turns the bouquet in his hands and gazes at it, inspecting the variety of wildflowers that Bruce has gathered before he looks up again and says, “They’re gorgeous, thank you.”

It’s starting to get dark, but it looks as if his cheeks have turned faintly pink.

Bruce tries not to feel too pleased with himself.

“How was work? You got everything you needed?”

Clark is looking at the flowers again, and he blinks up at Bruce, seemingly surprised by the question. “Oh, uh, yeah. I was actually going to start writing it when I got home, I didn’t realize you’d… I thought you weren’t going to be free until later,” he says. “What brought you over? Was this a plan I didn’t know about?”

Bruce gives him a small smile. “Kind of. It’s kind of hard to surprise you.”

Clark rubs the back of his head with a quiet laugh, then nods at the car behind Bruce. “Consider me surprised, I guess. Is this supposed to be your undercover vehicle?”

“You know I’m a fan of subtlety.” Bruce straightens up and pushes himself away from the car door, then inclines his head toward it. “You haven’t been in it before, have you?”

The car doors are automatic but Bruce lifts the passenger door open anyway, standing aside to give Clark a clear view of the interior. Clark simply looks at him with raised eyebrows and shakes his head until Bruce says, “You don’t have to, but… this is an offer. If you’re interested.”

Clark gazes at the open door, flowers still clutched in his hand, then takes a step forward and slides carefully into the black leather seat.

“How do I close…?”

“There’s a pulley handle here,” Bruce says, indicating the raised interior of the door. “But if you want to wait, it’ll close itself.” He steps around the front of the car, and once he’s in his own seat the doors begin to close, shutting them inside and surrounding them with the ambient orange glow of the car’s interior lighting. He can see Clark watching out of the corner of his eye, staring as the console buttons are illuminated with the same lighting that turns the orange highlights on the leather seats neon.

“There’s no back window,” Clark says suddenly. “And… no side-view mirrors?” He glances at the rear-view mirror, brows furrowed in confusion until Bruce presses the ignition button. A live camera feed of the car’s surroundings flickers to life on the screen where the rear-view mirror should be, and Clark leans up to expect it. “It’s just a camera?”

“Like a backup cam, but better. No need for mirrors,” Bruce explains. “Side-view mirrors are cameras too. Look.” He nods in the direction of Clark’s door, smiling to himself as Clark squints at it, apparently noticing for the first time that there really are no mirrors on this particular car.

“Everything is so streamlined,” Clark says, a hint of awe in his voice. “Are you sure this thing isn’t going to take off?”

Bruce chuckles, leaving Clark’s question deliberately unanswered as he pulls out onto the street and makes his way toward the intersection.

“So where are we going, anyway?”

Out of the corner of his eye, Bruce can see that the translucent console and the HUD have drawn Clark’s interest. He’s leaning slightly toward Bruce, fascinated by the holographic display and the unusual steering wheel beneath it. “Well, I didn’t get that far ahead. I thought maybe we could check out the city, see the sights… I’m sure there’s something exciting that you can show me.”

“I thought the one driving was supposed to be the tour guide,” Clark replies. “Where do you want to go?”

“That’s up to you,” Bruce says amicably. “I’m happy to go wherever you want. We could do something outside, inside... did you get the chance to look at the Explorarium’s exhibition in Queensland? They’ll be setting up the exhibition in the next few weeks.”

“Hm. What’s the theme this year?”

“Minerals of the World.”

Clark scrunches up his face at that, and Bruce realizes belatedly that he probably shouldn’t have suggested a mineral exhibition in the first place. “Yeah, you’re right. What about something along the harbour, is there anything happening on the waterfront? You know the city better than me.”

Clark goes quiet for a moment, gazing pensively out the windshield as Bruce turns up the street leading toward the harbour. “I don’t think so. The Tomorrow Festival is in June and the Arts expo isn’t until August, but we don’t have any big events planned until then. Maybe we could…” He hums and stares down at the bouquet still in his hand. “What about dinner? Did you eat? We could do that.”

Bruce lets his breath out in a gusty laugh. He’d thought asking Clark out to dinner would be too cheesy and direct, but he would be happy to sit in somewhere as long as Clark approves of it. “No, not yet. You have any recommendations? And don’t feel pressured to choose anywhere fancy,” he adds quickly. “I’m good with anything.”

Clark nods thoughtfully, gazing out at the river as he ponders the possibilities. Gotham is still visible from here, glittering in the darkness across the harbour. “What about pizza? Have you ever been to Cordavino’s? The one on Brady is usually quiet.”

Bruce has heard of it. It’s a small local chain with a handful of locations scattered through Metropolis and one in Old Gotham. He’s never been. “Cordavino’s,” he says thoughtfully. “I thought you’d prefer a place like Dooley’s. Isn’t that where the ink slingers from the Planet usually go?”

He expects a quip from Clark, but to his surprise, Clark settles back in his seat with a shrug. “I don’t work for the Planet anymore, but if you want to go to the pub, we might have to answer some questions.”

Right. It’s not just the Planet that Clark has to avoid; visiting any of the local shops, diners, and bars in the area that Clark may have frequented before with his reporter buddies would put him at risk for being recognized.

“Pizza sounds great,” he tells Clark. “Just tell me which way to go.”

The interior of Cordavino’s Pizzeria is a garlic and onion-scented restaurant decorated with sepia-toned photographs and patterned red wallpaper, though somehow the decor manages to remain more tasteful than gaudy. There are a couple of people standing near the counter with their faces upturned toward a digital menu and a number of tiny wooden tables and an unoccupied corner booth lining the wall opposite the counter, and Clark leads them both to the booth before anyone can arrive to seat them.

The booth is wooden and the table’s surface is so small that their knees practically brush beneath it, and while Bruce suspects that they wouldn’t be able to fit more than a couple of pizzas on the surface, Clark doesn’t seem bothered in the least by the decor. He meets Bruce’s eye and smiles, clearly pleased to be in a familiar atmosphere, and picks up one of the menus that he’d snagged at the door.

“Do you come here a lot?” Bruce asks, glancing at one of the photographs overlooking their table. It looks like an old Italian family portrait, and he understands why they’re here—a small franchise owned by a humble, hard-working family of immigrants is the perfect spot for someone like Clark.

“Sometimes. Nobody really bothers me, the food’s good… actually, I’m kind of glad you agreed to go here,” Clark admits. “I’m probably under dressed for most of the other places downtown. Especially compared to you.” He gestures at Bruce’s blazer and button-up, his gaze lingering briefly at the base of Bruce’s throat where his collar is open.

Bruce chuckles. If he’d known Clark had an interest in formal wear, he would have gone the extra mile and put on a tie. “You think this is too fancy?”

“You brought a Mercedes to a pizza place,” Clark points out with a small smile. “Actually, it kind of screams ‘I’m an artisan pizza type’. You know, like something from the Food Network. Arugula and goat cheese, hand-spun dough, that sort of thing.”

Bruce makes a face and takes the menu from Clark’s hand, intentionally letting his fingers brush over the backs of Clark’s knuckles. “No, nothing like that. If I’m having pizza, I’m happy to eat the same feta and artichoke on flatbread as everyone else.” He flashes another grin as Clark’s amused expression turns to one of bemusement, and he nudges Clark’s knee with his own beneath the table. “What? Don’t tell me you don’t like flatbread.”

“Your jokes are terrible,” Clark chastises. “If you want a forty-dollar pizza, you can hit up another place. I’m staying here.”

“Well,” Bruce says lightly, stretching out a leg so that his calf rubs against Clark’s, “I guess I’ll just have to sit here and suffer.”

It’s a pleasant meal; the wait time is pleasantly short and the pizza is served fresh from a hot stone oven, which doesn’t seem to faze Clark in the least. He picks up a slice and eats it while it’s still steaming, and Bruce rests his chin in his hand and watches fondly until the pizza is cool enough to eat.

At the end of it, the waiter brings a single cheque and a handful of mints. Bruce is pleasantly surprised, since they’d ordered separately, but he manages to slip his wallet from his pocket before Clark can finish digging around in his own. “Hey, don’t worry. It’s on me.”

For a second it looks as if Clark is prepared to argue, but to Bruce’s surprise, he nods decisively before pulling out a ten-dollar bill and resting it on the table. “I’ll handle the tip.”

It’s a generous tip for a twenty-dollar order, but it seems as if his mind is set, and Bruce gets the impression that this isn’t the first time Clark has done this. His kindness and generosity extend far beyond his services as Superman—but Bruce has seen the good in Clark’s soul firsthand, and he’s glad that other people get to experience it as well.

They leave Cordavino’s with half the pizza boxed up, and Clark keeps it safely on his lap once they’re back in the car. He also makes sure to hold his bouquet in one hand, though the smell of the pizza quickly overwhelms that of the flowers.

On the way back to Clark’s home, Bruce takes a brief detour along the river to see whether there’s anything of interest on the water; there are numerous vessels in the harbour, sailboats and yachts and recreational Sea-Doos, but when he floats the idea to Clark and gets only a half-hearted shrug in response, he decides it might be better to take Clark back to his apartment for the night. He might be lucky enough to drop Clark off at the door and give him a brief kiss goodnight; the thought makes his mouth dry, and he’s suddenly thankful for the mints at the restaurant.

For the second time today, Bruce parks on the street outside Clark’s apartment. There’s a car in the driveway now that likely belongs to Clark’s upstairs neighbour, but he seems neither disappointed nor excited to see it. He seems more interested in the bouquet again, in fact; his nose is buried in it, and he’s still sitting with the pizza on his lap and his messenger bag on the floor.

“So… you need any help taking that in?”

Clark gazes at him over the bouquet and laughs brightly. “Really? You don’t need an excuse to come in and sit down. I don’t have any plans for the night, and I know you didn’t go through all that trouble to just take me out for dinner and drop me off.”

It’s a quicker invitation than Bruce was expecting, and the look Clark’s giving him suggests that he would be quite pleased to host Bruce for a while. It’s a more convincing argument than Bruce is prepared (or willing) to fight, so he presses the button for the ignition and climbs out, holding up a finger as Clark begins to open his own door. He quickly makes his way around and pulls the passenger door the rest of the way open, holding out his arm in a grand sweep.

“After you.”

“A real gentleman,” Clark murmurs.

He unlocks the front door with a set of keys that jingle quietly when he hangs them on a hook inside the entryway. Bruce waits for him to flip on a light before closing the door behind himself, then steps inside as Clark warns, “I haven’t cleaned in a while. If you see anything weird, it’s because I wasn’t prepared for a visitor.”

Bruce laughs a little and politely removes his shoes, then takes a seat at the small kitchen table where Clark has placed the pizza and flowers while he flicks on a few more lights. His apartment is by no means dirty or untidy; everything seems to have a place, but Clark hasn’t been back long enough to accumulate a significant number of possessions anyway. In fact, it looks as if he barely spends any time in here—the couch and chair taking up residence in his small living room are mismatched but in good condition, his mail is stacked neatly on the counter, and there are a few clean dishes sitting in the sink. There’s no clothing slung over furniture, no empty wrappers or dirty plates lying about.

It’s practically as tidy as Bruce’s own home. Suspiciously tidy, in fact.

Clark seems so comfortable in his life that it hadn’t occurred to Bruce that he might be paranoid about his own home. Bruce had almost expected to see the suit and cape draped over the back of the couch, but there’s nothing that he can see that might indicate who Clark is or what he does.

He watches Clark rifle through the cupboards, which appear to contain various dishes that were likely given to him by his mother, and after a moment he pulls out a tall mug and fills it with water from the tap.

“I don’t have a vase,” he says somewhat apologetically as he returns to the table. He picks up the bouquet and places the flowers in the mug, arranging them carefully so that nothing is in danger of falling out, then slides the mug carefully to the centre of the table. It may be the most endearing thing Bruce has ever seen. “Better than nothing, right?”

“I think you made it work,” Bruce says, smiling softly as Clark takes a seat across from him. The table is only slightly larger than the one at Cordavino’s, and it doesn’t look like it gets much use, either. It’s not hard to imagine Clark sitting alone with a bowl of cereal in the morning, listening to the radio or the morning news, maybe hoping for a glimpse of a headline of his own. “So this place is still working for you?”

“Yeah, it’s pretty good so far. Better than what I was hoping for,” Clark says, glancing around the room. “I don’t need much. Really, I don’t even need all of this. Most of this stuff is just creature comforts. I can sleep pretty much anywhere, and… well, it’s nice to have a shower. I probably couldn’t hold down a job without that. But I don’t really get dirty, so...” He smiles a little, entertained by some private thought.

“I imagine it feels a little different, living alone after so long.” Clark had lived with Lois for a year and a half before he went under, but Bruce hadn’t questioned it when Clark had expressed interest in living on his own after his return.

Clark shrugs, then reaches for the bouquet, tracing his fingers lightly over the petals of a forget-me-not. “It wasn’t a big adjustment. I’ve been on my own before so it doesn’t really bother me. I spend more time at work and in the sky these days, and there’s usually someone around to talk to, so… I dunno. I guess I don’t really notice being alone.”

Bruce nods slowly, watching as Clark removes his glasses, folds them carefully, and places them on the table before running his fingers through his hair. He may not get many visitors here at his apartment, but he spends more than enough time around other people, and Bruce knows Clark well enough to know that most of his free time isn’t spent watching Netflix on the couch. Even if he’s still trying to find a place in his life where he can be completely comfortable, at least he has a space like this where he can relax and be himself, and people like Bruce that he can let his guard down around.

“So tell me about this plan of yours,” Clark says after a few seconds of silence. “You came all the way to Metropolis to give me flowers and take me out to dinner… you know, I should’ve known where you were when you said you were stuck in traffic. I thought I recognized that construction they were doing.”

“I was hoping you wouldn’t notice.” Bruce gives him a brief smile and picks one of the dandelions sticking out of the bouquet, holding its stem delicately between his fingers. “I actually thought you weren’t going to be here. There was a sound, a—I thought it was one of your sonic booms, thought maybe you were going to help someone somewhere. That’s why I was trying to call you,” he explains, a bit sheepish.

Clark laughs, brow furrowing faintly in thought. “Nope, that wasn’t me. I think there’s a truck that’s been making that noise, over by that site. That’s probably what it was. Were you disappointed?”

Bruce rubs his finger over the white sap at the end of the stem, gazing absently at it as he remembers the sinking feeling in his stomach. “I was calling you to ask if you were off to save the world or not. Wasn’t sure if I’d have to take the ferry back after dark or not.”

He looks up to find that Clark is smiling warmly at him. “Well, I’m really glad you came out, even if you were keeping secrets.” Clark reaches over, plucks the dandelion from Bruce’s fingers, and gives it a brief sniff before tucking it neatly back into the bouquet. “Whatever you were doing, it definitely worked.”

The look on Clark’s face on the sidewalk had said as much. Bruce can’t help but wonder if Clark would blush again if Bruce were to present him with more flowers, or if he should try something more extravagant than a simple bouquet next time. “I thought you deserved a surprise. I probably wouldn’t have done it if I’d known you were going to try and get work done, but… I’m glad I came, too. And I’m really glad I didn’t try to drag you out on a yacht.”

“I was kind of expecting a black-tie dinner up at Joey’s,” Clark says. As Bruce laughs, he continues, “I will admit that this does rank higher than our other dates based on food alone. You could’ve surprised me with a limo and bought out an entire florist’s shop, but this wasn’t over the top. Even the flowers are understated. I like that.” He reaches out and brushes his fingers over the pink petals of a farewell-to-spring, his expression growing soft once more. “You’re good at surprising people in unconventional ways.”

Bruce blinks at him for a moment, uncomprehending.

“What do you mean, other dates?”

“You know, our… hm,” Clark says, folding his hands on the table. “I know it was kind of impromptu, but you don’t remember the picnic across from your house a few weeks ago…? You do remember that, don’t you?”

Bruce remembers Clark showing up without warning with a bag of Chinese takeout; at the time, Bruce had been outside checking external security cameras positioned around the lake, and he hadn’t bothered questioning Clark’s sudden appearance after learning last year that Clark is prone to doing those sorts of things—that is to say, literally dropping out of the sky to say hello.

Bruce is still trying to get used to it.

“Are you sure that was a picnic?”

“Sure seemed like it,” Clark says. He shifts in his seat and rests his head against his hand, watching Bruce with an expression that suggests one of them may be remembering this incorrectly. “We sat on the ground, surrounded by nature, eating food out of a bag. That’s kind of a picnic. I know it’s not traditional, but it was pretty close.”

“I thought that was just a lunch break. I was getting work done.”

“Work dates and lunch dates are still dates,” Clark points out, as though this is an indisputable point. “What about when you showed up at the Metropolis Museum of Art back in March?”

That had been partially accidental, and perhaps even less of a date than their ‘picnic’. Clark had happened to be in the building for work-related reasons, in pursuit of a headline about a particular winter display that had been taking place through February and March, but Bruce had been there for vastly different reasons—also work, but the surveillance sort, and he’d made sure to keep an eye on his mark before luring Clark away from the guided tour he was attending to meander through a number of other exhibits. Bruce remembers specifically how wonderful a surprise it had been to run into Clark there, and he distinctly recalls feeling that the MMA would have been an excellent place for a first date, too.

“Work date,” Bruce repeats, as though hearing the term for the first time. It’s been his experience that romantic dates are typically different from work dates, or often even from dinner dates, but he tends to separate his business and his personal life more than most. “But this was… this was an official date. Not a dinner date, not a work date. A real one.”

Clark nods slowly. Bruce can see the realization dawning on his face, tugging at the corners of his mouth. “Ah. So that’s why you went all-out with the flowers and the fancy car.” He grins at Bruce over the bouquet. “Who said chivalry was dead?”

That’s an interesting sentiment, coming from someone like Clark; Superman isn’t chivalrous in a classic sense, and while he can be unerringly polite and courteous when it’s required of him, Bruce has also seen Clark in moods so foul that even Bruce’s own temper wouldn’t be a match. He considers that one of the most interesting things he knows about Clark, and it’s almost a comfort to know that Clark spends as much time shielding his secrets and identity as Bruce does and still tries to be genuine to everyone he meets, even as Superman.

That’s part of what makes their relationship so unique. There are few secrets between them, now that their friendship has blossomed and grown into a space where they can both be at ease.

“Maybe so. But I’m considering this our first official date, since we managed to get through it uninterrupted,” Bruce tells him.

Clark’s smile at the term ‘first official date’ begins to wane. He rests his elbows on the table and leans forward, then seems to think better of it and gets out of his seat to move a chair closer instead. “I like the idea of a first date, but what do you mean by ‘uninterrupted’? You mean by people we know? Paparazzi?”

Both have interrupted them in the past, in fact, but Bruce’s concerns were somewhat more selfish this time. He wouldn’t prefer to call it possessiveness, this desire that he has to make it through a single outing with Clark without disturbance, but it wouldn’t be right to simply call it sheer determination.

“No, not like that. I wasn’t worried about anyone bothering us in person. It’s just… you’re Superman,” Bruce says softly. “Someone out there always needs you. Tragedies and accidents and criminals don’t care what we want to do on our nights off. I have the luxury of not being able to hear or see everything all at once, but… I imagine it’s harder for you to turn a blind eye.”

Their ‘picnic’ had come to an end when Clark had suddenly perked up, gifted all of his leftover almond soo guy to Bruce, and apologized for not staying longer before taking off into the air; in the museum, Bruce had watched Clark make his way hurriedly through the crowd and disappear in the direction of the exit without so much as a word of farewell. He never did find out why it was that Clark left, but he’d assumed it was a Superman thing to be in such a hurry.

And instead of trying to reschedule, Bruce simply let him go.

It makes perfect sense to Bruce; the world shouldn’t be deprived of Superman’s presence for any reason, and Clark shouldn’t be held back from his work simply because Bruce wants to admire him up close. There’s no reason for Bruce to force Clark to stay anywhere. Even if he had to leave tonight, Bruce wouldn’t ask him to stay, and he would return to Gotham with the lingering smell of wildflowers in his car.

Clark considers that sentiment in silence, then reaches out and rests his hand on Bruce’s.

“So this was all about being selfish.”

Selfish is a good word for it. Selfish is the perfect word for it. Bruce wants to keep Clark for himself, and he wants Clark to be selfish enough to want the same thing. It would never be fair to ask him to put Bruce ahead of someone in need, but to know that Clark enjoys his presence enough to stay just a bit longer…

Bruce doesn’t thrive on attention from anyone, but Clark’s presence makes him feel like a dry garden in a summer rain every single time.

“I just wanted one date,” he admits quietly, watching Clark’s thumb brush over his knuckles. “And I’m happy with this.”

Clark studies Bruce’s face carefully, then squeezes Bruce’s fingers with his own.

“You know, you dropped me off at home, but the date’s not over yet. We still have plenty of time.” He furrows his brow and glances around the apartment, then looks back at Bruce. “We can still do something else if you want.”

“This is really all I wanted,” Bruce admits, but Clark makes a dismissive noise.

“Come on. You went through all the trouble to come here with your fancy car and your beautiful flowers, you paid for dinner… you really are a gentleman,” Clark says, squeezing Bruce’s hand again with an expectant smile. “So there must be something else, right? Some way to cap off your perfect date? I think we both deserve that right now.”

His sincerity is enough to make Bruce’s heart ache. Of course Clark wouldn’t mind encouraging Bruce’s selfishness, and only he would do it with such warmth, such open honesty.

Bruce looks at where Clark’s fingers are curled around his own, then raises Clark’s hand to his lips.

“Oh,” Clark says softly.

“I want to be selfish,” Bruce murmurs. He kisses Clark’s knuckles a second time, holding Clark’s hand delicately in both of his own. His hand is broader than what Bruce is used to, but he likes the warmth of Clark’s skin, the near-unnatural softness of his palm. Bruce kisses that too, just because he can, and he can smell the lingering scent of the bouquet.

“Oh my god,” Clark says, and suddenly he’s leaning forward and kissing Bruce, tasting like the mints from Cordavino’s with the faintest hint of stubble on his cheeks.

Bruce makes a quiet sound of surprise and finds himself too startled to reciprocate. Clark seems to notice immediately that Bruce hasn’t moved an inch, and he draws back hesitantly, concern written across his features. “Do you… not?”

Heart pounding in his chest, Bruce wets his lips and gazes at Clark’s mouth, his slightly-parted lips.

“No,” he says, “I just... don’t normally kiss on a first date.”

Clark stares at him for a moment, then he breaks into a grin and leans in, brushing his nose against Bruce’s. “You really are old-fashioned,” he murmurs, and this time Bruce can’t keep himself from kissing Clark first this time, soft and sweet, like fresh wildflowers blooming in the sun.