Chapter Text
I – The Mask, the Measure
He wondered if Clark would say yes.
Their relationship over the years had none of the ordinary earmarks of a great romance. Bruce never made any grand gestures; promises were avoided like the plague. They would often go weeks without seeing one another, months with Justice League business as their only interaction. They never dated, never went out in public as a couple. He maintained his playboy persona, and there was never any issue of jealousy or recrimination.
Yet…
Yet.
Clark Kent was the incomparable measure for every other relationship in his life.
As Bruce sat in front of the fireplace, sipping brandy, he realized he wanted more. More permanency, more time together.
But would Clark want the same?
"Thinking of Mister Kent, sir?"
Bruce returned his focus to the room around him and found Alfred, in robe and slippers, and with a leather-bound book underneath one arm, watching him from the door.
"Did you pick up mind-reading somewhere, my friend?"
"Not at all." Alfred lowered his voice dramatically. "You may not realize this, sir, but our intrepid reporter seems to have the most remarkable affect on your person. It is quite obvious when he is uppermost in your mind."
Bruce scowled. "That's not true—"
Alfred made a tut-tut sound that, for as long as Bruce could remember, served to express his disapproval. "Whatever you say, sir. Clearly, I must have mistaken that anxious frown for worry that your high regard might be unrequited."
"High regard?"
An eyebrow went up. "I thought it best not to scare you with the more colloquial four-letter phrasing."
Bruce ignored that volley and, instead, stuck to safer ground. "I'm not worried…" He set his glass on the side table, rested his chin on a fist, elbow to knee. His voice was muffled into his hand. "Not exactly."
"Well then, since we are not worried, I shall make sure to adjust the menu to accommodate Mister Kent's more…American…palate, and I think the corner sun room will make a lovely office—"
"Wait!" Bruce sat up straight, his stomach dropping to his knees. "I was just thinking about it. And he might say no."
"Really, sir."
Bruce slumped backwards into the cushions, muttering, "I wish I had your confidence."
Alfred began his retreat into the hallway. "I have the utmost confidence you will obtain anything you set your mind upon—and our Mister Kent is no exception. Though I doubt your proposal will meet with any of the sort of disapprobation you seem to expect. I have it on good authority that our Mister Kent is quite fond of you. Have a good night, sir."
Bruce blinked.
Proposal?
He was just going to ask Clark to move into the manor. Who said anything about a proposal?
And since when had Clark become our Mister Kent?
And, quite fond? Bruce expelled air through his nose. Clark had better be a damn sight more than just quite fond of him after all this time, after everything they had been through together—
He wasn't about to propose to someone who was quite fond of him.
Bruce reached for his cell phone. Flipped it open and hit the first speed dial. The noise in the background was clear evidence that Clark wasn't sitting at home, worrying about their relationship or lack thereof. The inequities of their relative positions made Bruce somewhat more snappish than he intended.
"I need to see you."
"Something wrong?" Clark's voice was pitched to carry over the background noise.
"Does something need to be wrong?"
A pause. "No."
"Where are you?"
"Out with friends."
"Come over now."
"I can't." Another pause. "I'm on a date." And a slight hesitation. "With Lois. Can this wait until tomorrow?"
It was on the tip of Bruce's tongue to snarl, No, it can't wait until tomorrow, but he refused to make a fool of himself.
"Fine." He closed the cell phone, ending the conversation.
The glass was back in his hand. Bruce got up and made his way to the liquor cabinet. Another one and he might as well forget about patrol. He poured the drink but wandered to the bay window without drinking, studying the moon and stars instead.
"What are you doing here?" he said, without turning.
"You called me."
"You blew me off."
"I didn't blow you off. I was on a date." Clark came up behind him and took the glass out of his hand, set it down on the table.
Bruce turned, studied Clark in his casual evening attire and the way his clothing advertised his obvious attempt to impress Lois. "Then why are you here?"
Clark shrugged. "Curiosity. It's not often you call me for anything not related to business." Clark's tone became cautious. "At least, not lately."
"And Lois?"
"Lois is easily distracted," Clark's tone became self-deprecating, "and Clark Kent is hardly the one to keep her attention for long, especially when there's a story brewing somewhere. I accidentally pointed her in the direction of a lead." Clark's mouth turned up into a lopsided smile. "Ditching me in three minutes flat was entirely her idea."
Bruce moved to lean against the wall. "For such a smart woman, she's surprisingly dumb where you're concerned."
"Oh, I don't know." Clark moved to the sofa, trailed fingers along the edge of the leather. "It's sort of fun trying to get her to notice bumbling Clark Kent, while she's swooning over Superman."
"Doesn't that bother you?"
Clark looked over at him quizzically. "Do you mean do I hold it against her? Not really. She's an extraordinary woman, one of a kind, and bumbling, mild-mannered Clark Kent is a hard sell."
"Not to me."
"Yeah, but you have the advantage of knowledge."
"That's not the point."
Clark grinned, moved closer. "There's a point to this?"
There used to be a time when Clark's easy smile was surprising. Now, it was expected, desired. He had to find a way to make Clark understand.
"The point is you should focus your attention on someone who appreciates you."
"It's kinda hard to appreciate Clark Kent when he just tripped over his own feet and dumped a cup of coffee in your lap."
"Someone who can appreciate you."
Clark moved closer. "Are you offering?"
"What if I were?"
Both eyebrows went up. "What if—are you?"
"Answer the question."
Clark raised a hand, ran it through his hair, mussing it. "I—wait, just so we're clear—what is it you're asking me, exactly?"
"I want you here, in my life. Permanently."
"Permanently." Clark's hand fell to his cheek. "Permanently. Since when?"
"What does it matter since when? Since before. Since now. Just answer the question."
"You know that our relationship—both professional and personal—has always been important to me—"
Bruce straightened, took an aggressive step towards Clark. "If this is some sort of prelude to a polite brush off, just save it—"
Clark stilled, and Bruce knew what would come next. Clark raised a hand, half preemptory, half apologetic. "Just—I'll be—don't go anywhere." And he disappeared, in a maddening swirl of air.
"Coward," Bruce muttered. He reclaimed his glass of brandy, and moved to his prior position by the window, only this time, as he studied the stars, all he could see was the startlement in blue eyes. A quiet ceremony would work, he mused, weighing the pros and cons. Diana, the family, a few friends. Maybe in the house, or perhaps they could all go to Maui.
But what if Clark said no?
Bruce turned as he heard a rustle in the room. Alfred was there, still in his robe and slippers, but this time with a small, contented smile on his face that set Bruce's stomach swirling. Alfred settled a serving tray with coffee and cake on a side table by the sofa. Bruce scowled at the man.
"Go to bed."
"And miss this momentous occasion? There isn't enough money in the world, sir."
"I didn't—" Bruce paused. "He might not come back."
"Nonsense."
"I don't even know what I'm doing."
Alfred walked up to him, took the glass out of his hand and smoothed the collar of his shirt the way he had when he was a boy. "Your father was a dedicated man," he said, as he moved to set the glass down. "A physician, with an uncommon empathy and a heart for those most in need. His work kept him out to all hours of the night, and his dedication to his mission could have easily consumed him. He would always say that his balance lay in the knowledge that there was someone expecting him at home." Alfred moved towards the door. "Mind your tone, sir. Not everything needs to be a battle."
Then he was gone from sight, but, certainly, still lurking somewhere nearby. Bruce found himself alone in the room, with the picture of his parents over the fireplace and Alfred's words lingering in the air, and he realized, with the same crystal clarity that overtook him the moment he cracked a case, that his heart was set, his mind was made up. Only the execution was at issue; the conclusion was foregone.
When Clark reappeared forty-five minutes later, Bruce was calm, prepared. Clark walked into the room and stopped within three feet, eyeing him warily.
"Major accident on the Golden Gate Bridge."
Bruce nodded noncommittally, hands in the pockets of his slacks. He took a step forward, closing the distance between them.
"There was a bus—"
"I'm sure the papers will cover it thoroughly in the morning." He stepped closer.
"You want to—what we were discussing—"
"You still haven't answered my question." Bruce took the opportunity to reach out and touch Clark, to pull him in with a hand to the nape of the neck. Their lips met lightly, without any of the complications of teeth or tongue. Bruce rested his forehead against Clark's, closed his eyes and breathed.
"What is it you want from me, exactly, Bruce, because I can't—"
"Everything. I want everything. I want to give you everything—"
His answer came in the way Clark flowed into him, swept him up, overwhelmed him with the sudden press of bodies and lips, and the sweet way the fingertips of a hand came to rest against his cheek.
"When did you decide all this?" Clark's voice was low, his amazement evident. "You never wanted—"
Bruce quieted him again with a kiss, and hands that started to work open the buttons of his shirt. This part he knew by heart. Any moment, Clark would relocate them to the upstairs bedroom in a burst of super speed. Bruce tensed for the dislocation, but instead of movement, he heard a sound.
Bruce broke their embrace.
"Do you hear that?"
"Yes." Clark stepped away, turned towards the windows. "It's…the Fortress. One of the beacons." He turned back towards Bruce. "It's not on an audible frequency. You shouldn't be able to hear it."
Bruce's whole perspective shifted to battle mode. "Some sort of attack?"
Clark shook his head. "I don't—"
Just then, the sound peaked, causing both of them to bring hands to ears. A crystal sphere the size of a baseball appeared in the room between them, and in the moments it took for Bruce to deduce that the spinning globe was a localized source of the sound, Clark lunged in front of him to protect him from it. Light, sharp and brilliant, began to shoot from the sphere, and as the shafts touched his skin, the room dissolved around him in a startling burst of white.