Work Text:
It was an accident. Accidents happen all the time, and what transpired was not an exception. Except — except, Bruce can't stop thinking about it, replaying it in his head, and imagining what else could have happened if they ignored the emergency that called for Superman's help, cutting their moment training short.
Not that they would. Ignore the emergency, that is. Because that's — that's ridiculous and extremely selfish and — good god, he's absolutely losing his mind if he's considering something immoral. That's not him at all.
It just so happened that it was him and Clark involved in the accident, but still. It was just that. An accident.
Because, really, there are accidents that are rather hard to forget, right? Especially if it happened with someone else in the vicinity. It's normal. They both lost their balance, fell on the mat, and their lips collided for a split second, 52 milliseconds to be precise, but it's not like it's relevant to the kiss case because it's exactly that. Irrelevant. Not a big deal. Like every other small accident that happens. It was a completely out of control incident that sometimes occurs between people, even friends, who spar in a cave modified for nightly vigilantism during their free time. See? Normal.
Bruce hums, utterly sure he has convinced himself, when he subconsciously thumbs his still tingling lips, then grunts when he realizes it.
Kissing involves mouths moving, in action, and not simply colliding or — or bumping, like an accident, which can happen to many people such as himself and Clark.
Mouths bumping does not equate to kissing.
He is more or less chanting it in his mind as he retires, leaving the scene of the crime accident.
Mouths bumping does not equate to kissing.
He heads straight to the kitchen to look for something to eat and occupy his brain aside from the stupid kiss case.
Mouths bumping does not equate to kissing.
Inside the refrigerator, he finds his protein shake, but there is also a plate of Alfred's delicious risotto left for him, the smell already has him licking his lips, which then reminds him of the accident.
Mouths bumping does not equate to kissing.
“What's that?”
It takes half of every training Bruce had not to throw the plate at the unannounced visitor. Even then, it isn't enough to stop himself from turning around, blurting, “Mouths bumping does not equate to kissing!”
Lord God, Darkseid better omega beam him this instant.
He gulps, unblinking. He takes in Clark's appearance, sees him standing tall behind the kitchen counter with his awful plaid shirt, stupid glasses, and even stupider smile, showing his perfect teeth. He's looking at Bruce with a mixture of confusion and amusement dancing in his stupidly beautiful blue eyes.
“It doesn't?” Clark asks in a weird tone, as if he were making fun of Bruce, who is still standing in front of the refrigerator, repeatedly swallowing like he ate something awful and wants to wash away the bad taste.
“No?” Bruce croaks. His stupid ass should have gone for the protein shake. The imposing figure of his friend oddly makes him thirsty.
“No?” Clark repeats, still wearing his stupid glasses and stupider smile.
“No.”
“Good.”
Bruce's brows furrow. Huh? “Good?”
Clark laughs, eyes half-shut and the corners of his lips stretch upwards, and Bruce finds himself wanting to capture that very moment.
When did Clark's laugh begin to sound delightful in his ears?
When did he even start thinking about Clark's laugh?
Bruce feels like he's about to have a nervous breakdown in the middle of his kitchen with Clark Kent and his stupid glasses and stupider smile. Stupid.
“Yeah,” Clark softly says. “It would really suck if it did.”
“What– what does that even mean?” Bruce's heart starts racing, and without any armor to conceal himself, Clark can hear him, his hesitation, his heartbeat... everything, loud and clear. And that's bad. It's bad and it's making him really angry.
Clark doesn't have the right to know him. Except, Clark does know him. Because he let him.
Bruce feels like throwing a tantrum, but he hears this little Alfred's voice in his mind telling him he's not a child anymore, Master Bruce. Or are you still one? Let me know if I have to prepare the child reins, so he keeps his anger at bay.
The inner Alfred voice can be scary sometimes.
“I don't have time for this.” He bristles and turns around to hold the refrigerator's door open with one hand while the other is still holding the plate. He's not hungry anymore.
“Then when are you free?”
When am I what now?
Bruce's heart skips a beat at the unexpected question — at the unexpected reaction from Clark. He thought Clark would get mad at him, probably leave after some screaming match with him. His hand tightens around the handle of the refrigerator door. With his back still facing Clark, he admits, “I don't get it.”
It takes Clark a while to respond. Bruce badly wants to turn around just to see him, but his mind short-circuits when he feels the familiar overheating body of a Kryptonian right behind him.
“Bruce,” Clark starts, voice so low and quiet, Bruce has to slightly turn his head to hear him. “I can't stop thinking about our ki–” Clark clears his throat. “Our case... Of not kissing.”
Bruce remains silent, heart pounding. He wonders how loud it is for Clark because it's all he can hear just below Clark's voice.
“It was driving me crazy. I just wanted it to stop.”
Same, Bruce wants to retort, but doesn't. It's maddening how Clark is so close and can see him, but he can't, because his stupid ass decided to be immature about the — what did Clark say? The case of not kissing.
“It's–” Clark chuckles, as if he were thinking about something funny. “I treated it as a case. You would have been proud, B!”
Bruce can't help but huff at the sound of Clark's chuckles, but still, he doesn't know where the man is going with this conversation.
“And as the World's Greatest Detective, you know what to do when a case appears, right?”
He does. He studies the incident, looks for facts, changes angles if necessary. He —
“Solves it.” Bruce's voice almost breaks and he realizes how dry his mouth is. He clears his throat. “You solved it.”
Clark hums in confirmation. “I did, B. I solved our case.”
Bruce finally turns around. His shoulder bumps against Clark's chest as he does and his eyes find Clark's, which are obscured by the stupid glasses. He just has enough of it and takes it off of Clark's face.
They spend a moment gazing at each other's eyes. Bruce rarely gives himself the luxury of thinking about his friend, Clark, but right now, he is all he can think of.
“There's a bit of brown in the blue of your eyes.”
Clark looks surprised at the remark. Bruce is, too. He doesn't know why he said that. He seems to have lost the filter of his mouth.
Gathering his bearings, he tries to ignore Clark's stupid smile and clears his throat. “So what's the solution, detective? What do we need to do?”
Bruce hears Clark say something, but it doesn't register. He blames it on Clark's stupid smile. It reminds him of the sun and farm houses and corn and apple pies and Kansas. It's blinding and makes him feel like he's drowning in the pool of hope, optimism, and more apple pies every time he sees it. It's an effective distraction.
“What?”
“We should kiss,” Clark says with ease, as if he didn't just propose something absurd like, you know, they should kiss.
Bruce wants to punch his stupid, soft mouth. Preferably with his own stupid mouth, but his fist sounds good, too, if the first option is not welcomed.
“What?”
The stupid smile isn't even diminishing. Disgusting. Bruce feels like he's slowly getting an allergic reaction to it. Or like it's becoming an addiction he can't get enough of. He doesn't know.
“We– that's you, B, and I, Clark Kent– should kiss.”
“I heard you.” Bruce glares despite his inner turmoil. “And I know what 'we' means, Clark Kent.”
“Good,” Clark says, eyes twinkling under the newly installed LED light in the kitchen, which Damian, with Dick as backup, insisted they should use instead of fluorescent lights because it's more– focus! Clark is saying something.
“You haven't answered my question yet though.”
“What question?”
“When are you free?” Clark smiles, not at all annoyed at his apparent cluelessness.
Bruce contemplates for a minute or three, mulling over Bruce Wayne and Batman's schedules. “This Friday night.”
“Not going to patrol?”
“There's mandatory family breakfast every other Saturday. Can't risk getting injured the night before that or I might face Alfred's wrath.”
Clark looks at him with a mischievous glint in his eyes. “Alfred is cool. And you're the one they call Batman.”
“Cool,” Bruce mimics the word. “And they call you a journalist.”
Clark rolls his eyes. “Shut up. I'm taking you out.”
Bruce pauses, acting surprised, then asks, “Like, on a date or with your laser eyes?”
Clark shoots him an unimpressed look. “You need to tell Jason to chill out with the awful jokes. It's rubbing off on you.”
Bruce smiles and notices how they've been slowly leaning towards each other until he doesn't know where his breath ends and Clark's starts.
He lightly nudges Clark's nose with his, softly smiling, and says, “It was Tim's, actually.”
Clark looks confused.
“The awful jokes. It was Tim's.” Bruce cleared up. “Maybe I should take note of Jason's instead.”
Clark's laughter rings in his ears and his whole being buzzes just as it does every time he solves a case. It feels a lot like triumph.
“As far as accidents are concerned, I don't hate this one.”
“Because we went from friends to this… something else?”
“Yeah.” Bruce sighs in contentment, bringing Clark into a hug he rarely gives and feeling him melt into it. “It's something else.”
And maybe Bruce is just a tad happier, too. He won't tell Clark though. He wants to see how long it'll take Detective Clark Kent to crack that one.
Bruce smiles at the thought.
They bask in the comfortable silence, in the feeling of being in each other's arms, knowing they finally crossed the line they have been dancing around for so long.
“Shall we close the fridge now?”
Bruce almost decks Clark, but he asks the most important question, so Bruce lets it slide.
“Oh, yeah. Alfred will kill me.”