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Clark watched from across the ballroom floor as the elite, rich and beautiful of Gotham and Metropolis sparkled under the Christmas lights, dancing and swaying to the band crooning Christmas hits. He glanced at his watch and tugged at the starchy shirt collar that went with his rented tuxedo. He had offered to cover the charity Christmas ball so Cat Grant could catch her flight. He had been here an hour, surely he could slip away. The slight lull in the crowd’s constant buzz and murmur drew Clark’s attention back to the dance floor. A couple now commanded the space with their fluid and dazzling moves; it was almost hypnotic, the way the pair stepped in rhythm, hips close, bodies perfectly synchronised.
…Have yourself a merry little Christmas…
Clark narrowed his gaze, taking in the exotic beauty of the tall, dark-haired woman and her broad shouldered, handsome companion with the smouldering gaze and stern jawline…
Oh.
A flush of pink tinged Clark’s cheeks; Bruce and Diana were dancing. He knew they would be attending as their civilian personas, no big deal. They moved in similar circles at times, Diana always faintly amused by the Bruce Wayne Show.
And they were fascinating to watch, just the aesthetic of them, elegant and powerful.
Clark saw Bruce smirking at him over Diana’s shoulder. “Didn’t take Superman for a wallflower,” Bruce murmured, knowing full well that Clark would hear him across the noisy ballroom.
*
Out on the wide balcony, it was much quieter, the music, voices and laughter receded. Clark looked out at the city, lights glittering in the early dusk. A rush of nostalgia, a yearning for home, washed over Clark as muffled, familiar Christmas carols mingled with the crisp night air. The music blurted loud and then was cut off again, as someone strolled out onto the balcony to join Clark. It was Bruce. He turned up the collar of his jacket against the chill and slid his hands into his pockets.
“I think you’ve redefined giving me the ‘cold shoulder’. Christ, Kansas, it must be ten below out here. Or was it my dancing? Too old school?”
Clark laughed, his breath a white plume, as he turned to face Bruce. “Hey, look! It’s snowing!”
Snowflakes landed in Clark’s hair, and on his long, dark lashes. He tilted his head up, laughing, and opened his mouth in delight, to catch snowflakes on his tongue. Bruce watched him, breathless all at once, and started slightly when Clark grabbed his hand, “Here, catch some!” He held Bruce’s palm up, till they landed; soft, fluffy and cold. Bruce cupped his hand, watching them melt and vanish.
Clark smiled, “Hey, I’ve got a Christmas joke for you: what’s the difference between a snowman and a snow woman?”
Bruce narrowed his eyes, “If this is corny…”
“Snowballs!”
Bruce groaned then scooped a handful of snow, and threw it at Clark, who laughed, “Oh so that’s the way you want it? You’re on!”
The two partygoers smoking at the far end of the balcony heard the commotion, and looked over to see two grown men in a furious snowball fight that lasted all of ten seconds.
Bruce chuckled and dusted the snow from his shoulders.
“So, plans for Christmas?” Clark asked. Bruce shook his head, a small tight smile.
“Not so much, these days. I’ve done the obligatory social rounds, so maybe a quiet night? Then again, someone’s got to keep an eye on Gotham; crime never sleeps, even on Christmas Eve.”
“Bruce. I, ah,” Clark wet his lips and tried again. “Your friendship. It means everything to me. It’s been the most important of my life.”
Bruce felt the familiar ache in his chest, “And, you’ll have it, always,” he managed, a little hoarse, and reached to clasp Clark’s hand and grip his shoulder.
They were quiet a moment, Clark searching Bruce’s face, as the silence stretched into awkwardness.
“Guess, I should head home. To the farm. Mom’s probably getting antsy and baking enough for ten people, instead of,” he looked down, “just the two of us.”
Bruce nodded, squeezed Clark’s shoulder, then stepped back. “Merry Christmas, Clark. Give Martha my best.” He turned and went back inside.
When he looked back, Clark was gone.
Probably for the best.
*
Back at the Lake house, Bruce poured a whiskey over ice and stared into the flickering glow of the fireplace for a long while. Sighing, he headed down to the cave.
*
Clark turned off the television. His mom had been in bed for half an hour, heading up the stairs when the cheesy Christmas movie finished. It was nice, relaxing on the couch, laughing at the familiar lines, and singing along to the carols. The smell of the pine tree mingled with his mom’s gingerbread cookies and the glühwein and eggnog: the smell of Christmas at home. A childhood smell.
Still, though.
That empty feeling inside, he’d had it for a while now. His thoughts kept circling back to Bruce; on the dance floor, the way he’d moved, so graceful and seductive. Then, later, out on the balcony, the snow in Bruce’s hair, the way the lines around his eyes crinkled in amusement at Clark’s lame Christmas jokes. He stood and looked out the window into the night; stars gleamed cold above and snow blanketed the earth.
*
If Bruce heard him, he gave no sign. Clark sauntered over to the computer screens, where Bruce appeared to be concentrating on the multiple live feeds from various locales in Gotham. Finally, Bruce turned in his chair, “Aren’t you supposed to be in Kansas? What happened? Is Martha okay?”
Clark drew his shoulders up and rocked on the balls of his feet, “Well, Happy Christmas Eve to you too. Look, Mom’s cooked up a storm and it’s way too much. There’s like, this huge turkey for tomorrow, all the trimmings, pecan pie, lemon meringue pie, gingerbread… So, it would really be doing me a favour, and making my mom’s Christmas, if she had some people to feed on Christmas Day, so how about it? You and Alfred come to Kansas with me and surprise Mom. She would just love it, and it’s been hard on her, without Dad, then it was me gone, and of course now Lois is….” He gestured to the air, “not, ah, with me, so…” he faltered, wide blue eyes imploring.
Alfred stood. “What a kind and warm invitation, Master Clark, very generous indeed.” He looked pointedly at Bruce, “I feel so torn: spending Christmas in a dismal cave with a bad-tempered bat depleting the wine cellar, or basking in the warm and delicious hospitality of Martha Kent and her well mannered son? How on earth will I choose…”
Bruce rolled his eyes and began his objections, “Alfred- “
“I’d be delighted to join you at the Kent farm, Master Clark, give me a moment to pack a bag.” Alfred was already halfway up the stairs, muttering to himself, “Can’t arrive without a gift. Oh! The Wedgewood teapot – the very thing, Martha will adore it- “
Bruce was still wearing his tux from the ball, with his bowtie undone. The whiskey tumbler was empty, and Christmas tunes played softly from one of the media feeds. The weight of the air seemed to increase. Clark could almost hear the rushing undertow of some dark ocean between them, a deep swell of everything unsaid.
“Why are you here, Clark?” Bruce’s expression gave away nothing.
Clark’s heart sped up, “Well, I guess I realised I didn’t want to spend Christmas as a wallflower, either.”
And he held out his hand.
Have yourself a merry little Christmas…
Bruce looked at Clark for a long moment; his lips curved in a slight smile as he took Clark’s hand and stood. He pulled Clark a little closer, and murmured, “Do you even know how to dance, boy scout?”
Clark ducked his head, “Ah, does line dancing count?”
Bruce shook his head in mock horror, as he guided Clark’s left hand to rest on his shoulder and slid his own arm around Clark’s waist, hand pressed to Clark’s lower back.
“Like this.”
-Let your heart be light…
How his head eventually came to be resting on Bruce’s shoulder was a mystery. They swayed close, the line of their bodies pressed together, from thigh to chest. Close enough that he felt the rumble of Bruce’s gravelly voice when he said, “Mistletoe. Hmmm, you know what that means?”
Clark frowned, looking up into the dark reaches of the cave.
“I don’t see any mistletoe, oh-” as Bruce caught his mouth in a kiss, soft as snowfall.