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Harley Quinn is sitting on Clark’s couch. She’s only half-decked out in her signature red and black costume, a jacket, a sock, a glove, and two combat boots thrown about his living room, the woman herself more sprawled than sitting on the cushions. Clark thinks there’s blood on some of the clothes, and he’s only mostly certain that it’s not Harley’s. She doesn’t look too good though.
All in all, not the worst thing he’s come home to after a long day of the Daily Planet and various catastrophes around the world.
“Sorry about the intrusion,” Harley drawls with a wave of her hand when Clark closes his front door behind him. Now that he’s mostly over the initial shock, Clark can see that Harley looks more like five minutes from passing out, her eyes shut and face mostly slack. “Bats said this was a good place to lie low for a little bit.”
Clark’s eyebrows try to touch his hairline. “Batman sent you to lay low in my apartment?”
Harley shrugs a shoulder. “Not in so many words. He’s dropped your name as one of the few reporters he trusts, so I figured ya oughta be familiar with this sort of thing.”
“Villains breaking into my apartment and passing out on my couch?”
She cracks open an eye and points at him. “Hey, I was awake when you walked in the door. Mostly asleep, but awake enough that I didn’t try to jump ya with one’a yer lamps.” She shuts her eyes again and Clark takes the opportunity to x-ray Harley and figure out whether or not she’s going to bleed out on his couch. (Wouldn’t want to have to explain that to anyone, let alone the League.)
Harley’s got a couple of bruised ribs, a neat black eye developing, and more cuts, scrapes, and bruises than Clark thinks he’s ever seen on one person outside of torture or a warzone. Whoever beat Harley up almost got the upper hand, Clark muses when he sees a particularly deep gash on Harley’s side, wrapped as best as one person can bandage themselves.
He crosses to the couch, looking down at Harley as her breaths even out. “You want me to look at that?” He gestures to her side, though it’s probably pretty obvious what he’s referring to. In all honesty, it seems unlikely that Harley would be willing to let a complete stranger help her dress, or rather redress, her wounds, even if she’s trying to fall asleep in his living room.
“Only if you promise to make me dinner,” Harley replies. It’d probably sound snappier and more like a witty comeback if Harley didn’t sound like an extremely tired toddler. She picks her arms up, holding her hands out to Clark.
Clark very quietly wonders when Harley Quinn breaking into his apartment started to seem like a normal day to him and picks her up bridal style, doing his best not to jostle her too much. “Aw, ain’t you a true gentleman,” Harley coos, eyes half-open, smiling sleepily up at him. “Gentleman reporter, Clark Kent, at’cha service.”
“I don’t make a habit of this, Dr. Quinn.” Clark carries her to his bathroom, where he keeps a fully stocked first aid kit for emergencies. What kinds of emergencies he doesn’t know, but he figures with as often as Lois gets herself kidnapped or injured, it’s better to be safe than sorry.
Harley hums happily, and Clark frowns at her, his eyebrows furrowed in confusion. “Nobody eva’ remembers the doctor. It’s always Miss this and crazy that and stop trying to kill me.” She drops her head back with a loopy smile. “I mighta also taken some great pain meds that Scarecrow got me the last time I saw him. It’s good stuff, keepin’ me from bein’ as sore as I oughta be.”
Clark sits Harley down on his toilet lid, making sure that she doesn’t go full limp-noodle and drop off of it as he sets her down. Only when he’s certain she won’t crack her head on the tub does he go about pulling the first aid kit. “The doctor’s the most important part,” he says, and he’s pretty certain that “good stuff” in relation to pain meds means that Harley’s pretty out of it. Clark should really call Bruce and 1) tell him that Harley’s here and 2) ask how Harley got his name from Bruce in the first place.
“Didn’t go through all those years of med school and residency just to be called miss,” Harley says, slumping further down through her sentence.
Clark turns back to her, first aid kit open on the counter. “Okay, shirt off.”
Harley’s already got it half over her head before Clark realizes that she might not be wearing a bra and has only a couple of seconds to prepare himself for the possible sight of a half-naked Harley Quinn sitting on his toilet. Luckily, Harley’s wearing a matching red and black bra under her diamond-patterned shirt, some spots of blood having bled through the shirt to stain the bra.
Clark lets out a quiet sigh before he goes and unwraps Harley’s original dressing, too loose and falling down Harley’s waist. It’s not bleeding, which saves Clark the trouble of having to cauterize it, so he instead liberally applies Neosporin and pulls out a giant gauze pad and medical tape.
“You’ve got a well-stocked kit,” Harley observes, starting at the kit with half-lidded eyes. “Makes a gal wonder why you’ve gotta be so prepared.”
Clark shoots her a half-smile. “Well, when you’re friends with someone as trouble-prone as Lois Lane, it seems like a good idea to be as prepared as possible.”
Harley hums. “Wonder if I should get Pamela to get one like that.” Clark raises an eyebrow at her. “Pamela Isley. Poison Ivy. Doctor,” Harley adds when Clark just keeps staring at her. “She’s usually the one to patch me up when I can’t do it myself.”
“Sounds like she’s already got her own kit.” He turns his attention to placing the gauze pad in the right spot and then, once it’s there, figuring out how to rip the medical tape to the right length while holding the gauze up.
Harley snickers at him while he struggles with it. “Y’know, my hands still work, Clarkie,” she says, wiggling her fingers while Clark realizes that that’s the first time she’s called him by name. She reaches down to hold the gauze to give Clark full use of both of his hands to rip off the pieces of medical tape.
Clark clears his throat once he’s got the first piece on, trying to get his head on straight. “So, Dr. Quinn,” he begins, since apparently, Harley likes being addressed by her title, “how exactly did this happen?”
“You reporters,” Harley says right back, smiling at him, not wide enough to be insane but big enough to be genuine. “Always thinking, always seachin’ fer answers.” She shrugs. “I got inta a fight, didn’t end well. Think I look bad, you should see the other guy.” Clark raises his eyebrows at her before he realizes exactly what it is that he’s doing. “Ah, calm down, big guy, he was still breathing when I walked away.”
The breath Clark lets out is more instinctive than anything else. He’s perfectly aware of Harley’s bloody history, no matter how badly Bruce might want him to stay out of Gotham and her affairs. “Yeah, well, given how close you were to passing out on my couch – which is not the most comfortable place in the world,” Clark adds with a quick grin, “I don’t think you’d feel too good about yourself if you had killed him.”
Harley laughs sharply, a quick thing that she stops as fast as she lets it out. “You obviously haven’t killed anyone just to feel somethin’ then,” she says but she sobers up fast enough. “Nah, he didn’t deserve it. Really, I think he jus’ went afta me causa Mista J, which sucks, ya know? We haven’t been togetha fer ages, I’m out here, makin’ my name, and I’m still getting’ guys comin’ afta me fer things he’s done?” She blows out a breath while Clark finishes pressing the tape down along the edges of the gauze, securing it to Harley’s side. “Seems like a shitty bargain.”
“Sounds like one to me,” Clark says, sitting back on his heels. “Alright, all taped up.”
Harley twists and hisses, trying to look down at her redressed wound. “Fer someone whose kit hasn’t been used in a while, that’s some pretty neat tapin’ you’ve got goin’ on there,” she says, resorting to running her hands along the edges.
Clark smiles, trying not to laugh. “Thank you, Doctor, I’m glad it’s medically approved.”
She barks out a sharp laugh. “Yer sweet.” Harley looks back up at him like she’s studying him. It only lasts a second before her doped-up smile is back. “So, dinner? Got any good take-out around here?”
Turns out, even villains like good Chinese take-out. Clark puts in the call to his regular place down the street, and the woman behind the counter who’s been taking his order since he discovered the restaurant makes a noise when Clark adds Harley’s order (General Tso’s and spicier-than-usual Pad Thai) to the list. It doesn’t become a full question, but Clark’s got a feeling that he’s gonna have to field some the next time he orders for himself.
After Harley’s demolished the entirety of her General Tso’s and half of Clark’s three orders of dumplings (Clark honestly hasn’t seen anyone other than himself put that much food away in a long time), she lays herself down onto the couch and passes out, twisted in a way that Clark can’t imagine is good for her back or for her wound, but he leaves her to it. It’s as good a time as any to step into his bedroom, close the door behind him, and steel himself to call Bruce.
Calling Bruce is never easy for Clark. Actually, talking to Bruce, in general, is never easy for Clark since Bruce always makes it more difficult than it needs to be.
The fact that Clark’s about ninety percent certain he’s in love with the asshole doesn’t help either. Still, it’s unprofessional and irrelevant, since Harley’s a superhero/vigilante issue. The line’s a little blurred since Harley came to Clark and not Superman, but Clark’s determined to stay professionally upset about this despite being more than a little angry about this breach of privacy.
Clark takes a few deep breaths while the phone is ringing, refraining from letting his anger out on Bruce when he’s not actually all that angry, just a little bit and a lotta bit concerned. The line connects, and Clark does his best not to sigh in relief. “Bruce Wayne,” Bruce answers, sounding bored and distracted.
“Would you mind telling me why Harley Quinn is passed out on my sofa?” Clark asks, forgoing the manners his mother raised him with in favor of the fact that a villain from Gotham has his home address.
Bruce inhales sharply but otherwise sounds normal. “You’ve had a rough night then?” he asks back, amusement threading his voice now instead of the concern or anger Clark might’ve expected.
Of course, I got Brucie, Clark mourns quietly. Of all the times for Bruce to be acting as his billionaire self, the moment that Clark wants answers is not ideal. “You could say that,” Clark replies, rubbing at his eyes behind his glasses. “She was injured in a fight and figured that my apartment in Metropolis was a good place to lay low.”
Bruce hums. “Be sure to give her my best when you can,” he says, and it’s genuine amusement now at the fact that Clark’s had to deal not only with Harley Quinn but with an injured Harley Quinn.
“Why yes, she will be fine, thank you for asking,” Clark says dryly. He rolls his eyes and thinks that Bruce knows it. “I was wondering how she got my home address in the first place, but for now I think I’ll settle for someone coming over to pick her up since I can’t currently deliver her.”
“Troubles with the suit?” Bruce asks like Clark’s got clothes at the tailor instead of a double life as a superhero.
“I just think it’d be better if she didn’t knock out at Clark Kent’s apartment and wake up after having been brought home by Superman. She might start to get ideas,” Clark says, x-raying through the door to make sure that Harley’s still asleep and not eavesdropping.
Bruce hums again. “I’ll see what I can do.” He pauses for a moment like he’s waiting for Clark to say something, but Clark doesn’t think that Bruce’s done speaking. “Yes, I’ll be over as soon as I can, alright? Yes, I’ll see you then.”
Clark rolls his eyes again. “I’ll see you when you get here. Bye, B.” Bruce ends the call then, and Clark just sighs.
It wasn’t like he was expecting Bruce to fly to Metropolis this very instant to come and get Harley but Clark would’ve at least liked some answers about Bruce apparently dropping his name in Gotham’s underworld.
He gives himself one second just to sag against his dresser and take a few breaths before heading back out to the living room. Between the time Clark x-rayed the door and pulled himself together, Harley’s apparently woken up, found the tv remote, and turned on some late-night program that, upon closer inspection, appears to be Judge Judy.
“Callin’ fer my ride?” she asks when Clark steps back into the room, watching him out of the corner of her eye.
“Trying to,” he answers, stopping at the edge of the couch. “Turns out Batman’s busier than I’d hoped he be. He said he’d get here when he could but with no actual answer as to when that’d be.”
Harley hums. “Sounds like Bats, alright.” She folds up her legs, making room for Clark to sit down. “You eva actually watched any of these shows?”
Clark can’t tell whether Harley’s upset about having to spend the night in Metropolis or not, so he shrugs and sits down on the couch, settling in and putting his feet up on the coffee table (with silent apologies to his mother). “I can’t say I have,” Clark says, Harley stretching her legs back out over his lap. He blinks after a moment before deciding fuck it and pulling down the blanket on the back of the couch.
“Strap in,” Harley says, her voice quiet in that way of people who’re falling back asleep but trying not to be. Clark smiles at that, throwing the blanket more over Harley than over himself.
(She snores, loudly, five minutes later, and Clark’s not proud of the way that he jumps at the sound.)
“He’s in love, ya know,” Harley says tiredly, watching the tv with her eyes barely open.
“Who is?” Clark asks absently, this not being the first conversation Harley’s started ‘cause of her pain meds.
“Bats, of course,” Harley answers, the duh tone obvious in her voice.
Clark doesn’t quite freeze, because that would imply he’d been doing something other than sitting on his couch watching late night tv with Harley Quinn’s legs over his lap, but he stills even further if it’s possible. Ideally, Harley would be talking about the Judge Judy episodes that’ve been playing for the past two hours but no, Harley just had to go and talk about someone that they actually know.
He clears his throat. “How do you know?”
Harley giggles, readjusting herself on the cushions. “How could I not know? The man’s a walkin’ neon sign, well, to thems that know how to read ‘em anyway.” Clark turns to frown at Harley, his eyebrows pulled together, and she just rolls her eyes. “Trained psychiatrist, remember? Kinda hard to ignore when someone ya’ve known that long starts changin’ up their behavior. Showin’ off certain signs, if you catch my drift.”
Clark tries not to shift under her legs, lest that be too much of a sign for her that he’s a little uncomfortable. “Do you…do you know if he’s happy?” he asks, because if Harley Quinn is the one telling Clark that Batman’s in love with someone when Batman hadn’t bothered to tell one of his best friends, then it stands to reason that Harley Quinn would know if Batman was happy and in love with whoever this person is.
“In general? Bats is neva happy,” Harley smiles. She softens after a moment, watching whatever emotions it is that flicker across Clark’s face in the light from the tv. “That he’s in love? No,” she tells him. “But tha’s because he doesn’t think he’s loved back.”
He clears his throat again, turning to look down at his hands, resting on Harley’s legs. “Why’re you telling me this?”
Harley sighs, shrugging her shoulders too big, the movement shifting both of them. “Thought you’d wanna know somethin’ like this. Could be a big story in it er somethin’. ‘Batman In Love’ or somethin’ like that.”
“I don’t write fluff pieces,” Clark tells her, and she laughs. “Besides, wouldn’t writing something like that be a breach of Batman’s trust? You’re the one who said I’m one of the few reporters Batman trusts.”
She hums. “Guess you’re right.” Harley studies him again and Clark wonders exactly what it is she thinks she’s getting from him. “Alright, so, opinions on this loser character,” she says, turning the topic back to the Judge Judy episodes.
The tension bleeds out from Clark’s shoulders, and he doesn’t think for a second that Harley doesn’t notice it.
“Well, isn’t this a cozy sight,” Nightwing says as the front door to Clark’s apartment swings open the following morning.
Clark purses his lips together in the kitchen doorway. “Good morning to you too, Nightwing.”
Nightwing waves at him, Dick’s smile genuine under the mask. “Good morning, Clark. Any chance I could steal four or so cups of coffee from you?”
“Four?” Clark asks, which becomes redundant when Nightwing steps inside.
“Yo,” Red Hood says, following Nightwing in.
“Morning, Clark,” Red Robin greets him, hot on Red Hood’s trail.
Last but not least is Robin, who deigns to greet Clark with a nod and “Kent.”
Clark drops his head to his chest. “Nightwing, where’s Batman?”
Nightwing just keeps grinning at him. “Right behind us. He was having some trouble with the stairs,” he says in an exaggerated whisper, pointing with his thumb over his shoulder.
It’s that moment that Harley chooses to wake up. “Dickie bird!” she cheers upon seeing Nightwing, throwing her arms up into the air with a giant smile across her face. “I didn’t think you’d be the one to come and get me!”
“Not just me,” Nightwing tells her, and Harley gasps when she processes the other vigilantes in the room.
“The whole gangs here, minus the Bats, a’course,” Harley says, reaching towards Robin. “How ya doin’, Robin? How’d that test’a yours go?”
Clark really wants to ask what test Harley’s talking about when Damian actually smiles a little at Harley. walking over to the couch to actually be within arm’s reach of her. “Very well. Thank you for helping me to study.”
“I feel like I’ve stepped into the Twilight Zone,” Clark says, more to himself than anyone else.
“Tell me about it,” Batman says from right behind Clark in what sounds more like a sigh than anything else.
Clark very determinedly does not jump in surprise. “I thought you were having trouble with the stairs?” Batman jerks his head, and Clark turns to see his kitchen window now open. “Of course, you’re too good for the front door.”
Batman exhales through his nose, which is as good as a huff as Clark’s gonna get from him right now. “I thought you might not want to have any of your neighbors notice Batman walking through your apartment building.”
Clark opens his mouth and then shuts it. “But you’re fine with them seeing Nightwing, Red Hood, Red Robin, and Robin,” he says after a pause.
Batman’s saved from having to make any other excuses by Harley shouting his name from the living room. “I thought you’d find me here!” She’s made it to her feet, and Clark hides his smile behind his mug when he sees all four Batkids hovering around her like she’s gonna fall over at any second.
“Got a tip,” Batman says, just enough of a curve to his lips for Clark to know that Bruce is probably proud of himself for what he thinks is a clever joke.
Harley blows out a breath. “Yer no fun, Bats. And here I was, tryin’ to uncover all of Clarkie’s deepest, darkest secrets.” She sends an over-exaggerated wink their way, and Jason’s hands fly out on instinct when Harley leans a little too far his way.
“Wait a second,” Clark says, a little too slow on the uptake for an investigative journalist. He points at Nightwing. “What did Harley call you?”
Dick’s face pales a little and his eyes flick to Batman behind Clark. “Dickie bird, duh,” Harley says. She cackles a moment later. “Wait, he doesn’t know?”
Batman sighs, another quick exhale, as Clark turns back to him. “He knows, Harley, he just didn’t know that you knew.” He looks at Clark and Clark stares back at Bruce. “She’s known for a while. It’s a long story,” Bruce explains, and Clark’s trying to figure out when he missed a step. Probably somewhere between Harley Quinn finding out who Batman is behind the mask and Harley Quinn finding out his home address.
“She comes over for monthly movie nights,” Tim adds in, apparently tired of waiting for his complementary coffee and walking into Clark’s kitchen to serve himself.
“We do self-care nights too,” Dick says, holding up his hands and wiggling his fingers in what Clark thinks is a signal for doing nails.
“She’s not bad to spar with,” Damian continues, his shoulders losing just a hair of their tension.
“Plus, snacks,” Jason adds like that’s the most important thing here.
Clark turns to Bruce and is about to request a private audience with The Bat when Harley gasps. When he looks back, Harley’s eyes are bouncing between him and Bruce like a game of ping pong, her hands over her mouth, and a giant smile on her face. “You coulda said something!” she tells Bruce, rushing forward, injury and Kevlar armor be damned as she smacks a hand against Bruce’s arm.
“Not now, Harley,” Bruce says, some of The Bat creeping into his voice.
She frowns at him, putting her hands on her hips. Her shoulders curl in after a moment, and she favors her right side like she’s just remembered that she was lightly stabbed the night before. All of the Batkids take a step toward her, ready to catch her if she actually falls. “Don’t Batman me, Bruce,” Harley says, and if Clark had any doubts remaining about Harley knowing, her saying Bruce’s name erases them.
Bruce frowns. “Did you just use my name as a verb?”
“Not the point,” she says. “I didn’t drag myself all the way to Metropolis afta gettin’ stabbed to meet this mysterious Clark you keep talkin’ about only fa you to chicken out!” Dick and Jason suck in a breath and let out a simultaneous “ooh,” wincing like Harley’s just delivered a fatal blow, which, in this case, Clark thinks she might’ve.
“That was a private conversation,” Bruce stresses.
“Well, I’m makin’ it un-private!” Harley steps up to Bruce, a full head shorter than him and dressed in a bloody t-shirt and her underwear, her pants having been abandoned overnight. If any random person on the street saw Harley going toe to toe with a fully-dressed Batman, they might think that Batman had the advantage here. “You told me things, as a friend, that you needed offa yer chest. Well, here’s yer chance!” She gestures broadly at Clark. “I’m takin’ my pants and the five of us are gettin’ breakfast. We’ll be gone fer, what, an hour?” Harley checks in with the Batkids, and the four of them agree in unanimous, if unsynchronized, nods. “Get yerself togetha, Bruce!”
With that, Harley turns, storms out to the living room, grabs her pants, her boots, and her jacket. Jason actually has her lone sock and glove in hand, and he grabs Damian on his way out after Harley. Tim just sighs, takes one last sip of his coffee, and leaves the mug on the counter before doing the same. Only Dick stops to give Bruce and Clark a thumbs up before heading out. He closes the front door behind him, leaving Clark and Bruce alone in Clark’s kitchen, Clark feeling like he’s just been in a tornado.
“What just happened?” Clark asks.
“Harley happened,” Bruce answers, and he takes the cowl off, ruffling his hair where it’s all stuck down onto his head. “I knew it was a bad idea to tell her,” he mutters, turning away from Clark and towards the kitchen window.
Clark’s between Bruce and the window before he decides that that’s where he wants to be. “Hold on, Bruce. What’s Harley talking about? How did she get my name out of you? How does she even know who you are?”
Bruce sighs again, apparently resigning himself to this conversation happening whether he wants it to or not, and leans against the kitchen counter. “Harley and I knew each other, before the costumes,” he explains. “We went to med school together. I dropped out and became Batman, she stayed in and became Harley Quinn.” He rolls his eyes after a moment. “She was irritatingly insistent when she figured out who I was under the mask and I determined that giving her a few positive role models couldn’t hurt to keep her out of trouble.”
Clark nods. “Okay, I get that,” he says, even if he kind of doesn’t. It does make Harley’s statement about knowing people for a long time make a little bit more sense since Clark thought she’d just been talking about fighting Batman. “But that doesn’t explain why you talked to Harley about me.”
Bruce drops his head back to stare up at Clark’s slightly water-stained ceiling, and if Clark didn’t know any better, he’d say that Bruce was blushing. Not an awful lot, but enough for Clark to be able to tell. “I may have told her about you after a particularly rough day,” Bruce says.
Not that Clark’s surprised that Bruce is answering in the vaguest possible sense, it just hurts a little more than Clark’s expecting it to. “This has something to do with the person that you’re in love with,” Clark says flatly, trying to take some of the sting out of Bruce’s obvious evasion.
It wasn’t what Clark meant to say, but it makes sense. Why else would Harley come to Metropolis only to see the poor sucker who’s gone and fallen in love with Bruce Wayne only to have the billionaire be in love with someone else?
Bruce looks at Clark so fast, beautiful in the morning light coming through the window behind Clark. “She told you?”
Clark shrugs. “Only that there was someone. Not who,” he adds, and he hadn’t realized that Bruce had tensed up until he says it and the tension is gone. It’s like a knife to the heart, if the knife were made out of Kryptonite and therefore capable of reaching Clark’s heart in the first place. “Don’t worry, I won’t get in your way,” Clark says, and that seems like a good time to bow out and spend the rest of the day hiding in bed.
He doesn’t expect Bruce to grab his wrist as he passes, not stopping Clark but stilling him. “What? Clark, what on Earth are you talking about?”
Clark shrugs again, avoiding Bruce’s eyes. They always seem to see everything anyway, so there’s a good chance they see straight through Clark. “The person you’re in love with. I won’t be an issue if you decide that it’s worth the risk, telling them how you feel.” Clark looks up and gives Bruce a tight smile. “I’ll be okay, honest.”
Bruce frowns again, his eyes meeting Clark’s steadily like he can pull different answers out through Clark’s eyes alone. “I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Bruce says after a long moment.
“Oh, come on!” Clark’s had enough. Between Harley dropping in on him last night and a good portion of Gotham’s vigilantes dropping in on this morning, Clark’s tired. He pulls his wrist out of Bruce’s hand and steps back to put some space between them. He hadn’t realized they were standing so close together. “Why else would you be talking to Harley about me, Bruce? It had to have been because you were tired of me pining after you all the time. Diana’s seen it, Oliver’s seen it – hell, the whole League’s seen it at this point!” Clark takes a deep breath and centers himself. “I can’t apologize for how I feel, but I can assure you that it won’t be an issue for you and the person you’re in love with.”
Bruce stares at Clark before huffing out a soft laugh. Clark watches as Bruce runs his hands down his face, laughing quietly. “God, Clark, you are so smart and so stupid,” Bruce says, heels of his palms pressed to his eyes. He drops them, making sure Clark’s looking at him when he continues, “It’s you, Clark. You’re the person I’m in love with, you’re the reason I had a rough day and spilled everything to Harley.”
Clark blinks, feeling like he’s missed a step again. “Me?”
“Yes, you,” Bruce says warmly with a fond crinkle to his eyes that is usually reserved for Alfred or one of his children. “I’m pretty sure Harley hatched this entire thing as a plot just to get me to confess, only I know for a fact that she didn’t mean to get beat up. Getting beat up probably just gave her the opportunity to put her plan into action.”
Clark blinks again. “You’re in love with me?” he asks because really, he could use a lot of clarification.
Bruce rolls his eyes before closing the space between the two of them, taking Clark’s half-full mug of coffee and setting it on the counter. “Something I’m beginning to regret if this is how you’re going to react,” he says, but he has that look that Clark knows means that Bruce is joking.
“Oh my God, I’m an idiot,” Clark says, letting Bruce pull him closer. “I told you that I’m in love with you and that it didn’t matter so that you could go be with the person that you’re in love with, which is…”
“You,” Bruce confirms again. “Do you need me to say it again or can we move on?”
Clark looks at Bruce, beautiful and golden in the morning light, and he kisses him. “I think we can move on,” Clark says when he pulls back, matching Bruce’s smile.
“I owe Dick so much money,” Jason groans from the living room, making Clark and Bruce jump apart.
“I told you it would all work out,” Harley says where she’s leaning against Jason. “Turn around, boys! We’re going home,” she yells over her shoulder.
“But coffee!” Tim calls from the hallway, Damian muttering what Clark thinks are curses.
“Wait, why does Jason owe me money?” Dick asks, just as Harley and Jason close the door behind them.
Bruce pulls Clark to him again. “Well, that takes care of Harley.”
Clark hums. “Do you have any plans for the rest of the day?”
“Brucie has a meeting this afternoon, but nothing outside of the usual. What do you have in mind?”
“I have Chinese leftovers and a couch if you wanna spend the day in?” Clark doesn’t really mean for it to come out as a question, but this entire situation feels surreal like Clark’ll wake up to find Dick walking through the front door again, Harley still passed out on his couch.
Bruce nods after a moment. “Find me some clothes that aren’t the suit, and you’ve got yourself a deal, Kent.”