Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

They were fighting again.

“—mpossible, stubborn, insufferable—“

“Are you quite done? Hypocrisy is not a good look on you, Superman.”

Abruptly, Clark stood from the meeting table, chair scraping as it clattered onto the floor. To his left, Bruce could see Wally flinch; Diana pressed two fingers to her temple.

“I do not want to hear that from you, of all people,” Clark’s voice was strung taut, raised, as it was with almost nobody else in the room but Bruce, “because what the hell were you thinking, you stupid, obstinate, selfish, destructive, reckless—“

“I do not quite see the issue here—“

“—and that is the problem!” Clark exploded. Frustration lined the edges of his handsome features. It was both unnatural and fascinating to see that expression when Clark was suited up; and, despite himself, it never failed to give Bruce a stab of satisfaction, the peeling away of that untouchable mask inextricably tied to the red-and-blue. The absence of Clark’s — Superman’s — otherwise unwavering placid smile, warm and genuine but not always easy.

Still, Bruce was getting impatient.

“Look, I admit it was rash, considering the unpredictability of magic. But it is precisely because of the unpredictability of magic that I attempted to shield the blow.“

“And what is that supposed to mean?” Clark demanded. “All that ended up doing was the magic splitting into two and hitting the both of us.”

“I admit the outcome was sub-optimal, but at that moment I made the tactical decision to step in. The information we received was that you were his target. Therefore it made the most sense that, in the case his magic was targeted to you directly, I were to—“

“To what? To get yourself hit instead? In case you forgot, B, I’m invulnerable—“

“Yes,” Bruce said sharply. “Invulnerable, not infallible. Now sit back down.”

For a suspended moment, they stared at each other. Smeared ash and dirt faded into the black of Bruce’s cowl, invisible remnants of their battle, and Bruce could feel the ache in his muscles, the sweat down his back. Meanwhile Clark had barely a hair out of place even as tension lined the flatness of his mouth.

Seizing her chance, Diana swiftly cut in, much to the visible relief of the rest of the League members in the room.

“I’ll have to agree that both of you are idiots, but we can worry about that later.” She snapped her fingers, standing up alongside Clark. “If the debrief can be wrapped up, Batman and Superman, the two of you can get checked out by Zatanna and we can all go home.”

“Trust me, I’d like nothing more than to go home right now,” muttered Arthur, even as some of the tension dissipated from the room. Bruce kept his heart rate steady — the pulse against his ribcage unchanged, ba-dum, ba-dum — before he took a deep breath, finally breaking eye contact with Clark.

“Fine. This case has been wrapped up. Dismissed.”

Wally was out of there in a flash. The rest hurriedly followed suit, although J’onn cast him an unreadable look before leaving, one Bruce didn’t particularly care to look further into.

Wordlessly, Bruce and Clark waited for the room to clear. When Shayera stepped out, leaving just the two of them, in creeped a breath’s moment of suspension — Bruce seated, Clark pacing the room — where Bruce was suddenly overcome, so deeply that it choked him, with an exhaustion that had him exhaling. Damn it. He never questioned his work, not anymore. He couldn’t afford to. But his day had been a shit one: Jason wasn’t returning his calls, Dick broke his ribs, Tim was being moody again, Damian was Damian, Wayne Enterprises was plagued by internal conflict, a kid had been terrified to tears upon seeing him during patrol, and so on, and so forth.

Seeing Superman get hit by magic, and getting himself hit by magic, was the cherry on top of his fucking day. When Clark had been in danger because Bruce failed to see reinforcements coming, he’d been so angry at himself — and at Clark for not being more careful — that he’d instinctively moved forward to absorb the blow. All that did was unnecessarily get the both of them affected, so, good job, Batman. 

The rest of the League understood. They didn’t so much as scold him for the failure, even when they should have. They had every right to. Clark was different; the second they’d walked into the meeting room he’d begun ranting. He never pulled punches when calling out Bruce’s bullshit, even if he was equally as guilty of doing reckless and unnecessary things in battle.

It wasn’t the first time they’d taken hits for each other in battle, nor would it be the last, but every time Bruce would flex his fingers and curl them into fists, hard enough to draw blood, blinded with rage at everything and everyone and Clark fucking Kent but most of all himself.

His breath out was near-silent, but one that didn’t go unnoticed. (Clark noticed; Clark always noticed.) Sighing, Clark slipped onto the chair next to Bruce. His hand fluttered onto Bruce’s shoulder, a gentle brush — feather-light, fleeting, but there.

“Are you okay?”

Bruce scoffed, meeting the piercing sapphire blue of Superman’s eyes. “What an inane question to ask.”

Predictably, Clark ignored this. He hesitated briefly, before biting his lip in an uncertain gesture that was, once again, something Superman wouldn’t be caught dead doing — and evidently it wasn’t Superman Bruce was speaking to, wasn’t the superhero or even his teammate, wasn’t Clark Kent the bumbling country reporter, but instead Clark. Kal-El.

“You know I hate when you take hits for me.”

You know I worry about you, is what Clark didn’t say, and just as well because both of them knew Bruce despised hearing that.

“I know,” Bruce said evenly. “I hate when you do the same.”

“Yes, but you’re—“ Human, Bruce finished for him, Clark looking agonised for a split second, fragile, weak, “—just so darn reckless. And stubborn. So stubborn.”

“I guess that makes the two of us,” Bruce muttered, reluctant warmth unfurling in his chest like a flower in bloom as Clark, looking very much like it was against his will, huffed out an exasperated laugh.

“You’ve always got to have the last word, don’t you?” Clark said. “Just don’t pull that whole stunt again.” They both knew Bruce couldn’t promise that. They both knew Clark couldn’t promise anything either. “I hate magic,” he added, almost like an afterthought, “since you’re right, it’s always so unpredictable. But there’ve been no effects, right?”

“Not that I can identify. As of now, at least,” Bruce said, just as much confirmation as warning while he did a quick diagnostic check on himself. “Considering the target of the spell was you, though, I should be asking you that question.”

“Nope, nothing as far as I can tell either.”

Bruce felt a scowl stain his face at that, brow furrowed deeply in what he would call consideration, and what Alfred would call paranoia. Shuffling through the files in his mind to categorise their experiences and reports of magic — the worst-case scenario, the best-case scenario — he was so lost in his thoughts that he didn’t realise Clark was laughing silently until he looked up.

“What?” he snapped, irritably. This was no laughing matter.

“I can hear you overthinking from here.”

“Who knows what the spell—“

“It’s okay, B,” Clark interrupted. It was always ‘B’ in uniform; ‘Kal’ instead of ‘Clark'. “We’ll get through it, whatever it is. We always do.”

Bruce paused. “Careful, now — that’s a bold statement. Cocky, almost.”

Clark raised an eyebrow, mischief and something else swimming in his eyes: “Only because we’ll be together.”

Bruce collected himself and turned to meet Clark’s gaze. A cutting response hung on the edge of his tongue, harsh and caustic and defensive, hand-in-hand with a completely opposite reply, playful and amused. Bruce himself didn’t know which would win, and was rather curious to see which would come out, when Clark held up one hand, the other going to his ear.

Immediately, Bruce shut up. He was used to the movement, something Clark always did when he was trying to listen to something in particular. 

“Ah,” he said, after a minute or so. “Doggone it.”

The casual Kansas drawl was a sharp contrast to Superman’s deliberately neutral-sounding English. Even as Bruce considered him warily, he suppressed a brief burst of mirth at the slang. “What?”

“Zatanna just went off-world.”

“When?”

“Ten seconds ago.”

Bruce clicked his tongue. “We’ll get someone else to check us out. I don’t think they’ll be as good as Zatanna, but it’s the best we can do.”

Clark nodded, all business again, as he stood, cape swishing behind him, as if the wind was lifting him afloat. He was vibrant even under fluorescent lights, a different, more natural shade of bright. Just like that, he was Superman again — dazzling like the sun. A shining symbol, untouchable. Warm and helpful, but distant. “Shall we?”

In lieu of a reply, Batman walked out of the meeting room, the room lights shutting automatically. The own end of his dark cape fluttered, chasing the echoes of shadows.

Clark reached home around three in the morning. Bruce’s contact warned them that the effects of the spell were still lingering, but had been diminished as it was split across the two of them. What exactly the spell did was— it was still a mystery, which Bruce was obviously not happy to hear — he’d been tense and silent afterwards, despite Clark’s best attempts to reassure him. He probably blamed himself for everything, that incorrigible bastard. 

When Clark had told him before parting, once again, that it would be alright; that they’d been through worse, and come out whole, and he was confident that as long as they were together, whatever problems surfaced from the spell would be solved — Bruce had given him a look. It was withering and razor-sharp even under his cowl, as sharp as the words that made an incision straight across Clark’s throat:

“Spoken like someone who’s used to being all-powerful.”

Which was foul. It was more than foul; it was true, and both of them knew that.

Many off-world monsters and super-powered villains and heroes alike could fight him, hurt him. Diana could give him a run for his money, if she really wanted to. Almost all the League members could.

Still, having a few weaknesses like Kryptonite and magic was hardly anything compared to what Bruce and those on Earth faced. Clark didn’t experience the same aches and pains the people he protected did; he was alien, and he was different, and he had the power to snap someone’s head off in a millisecond. To tear down a world that took decades to build, to rule over everything.

Walking among humans, it was no wonder he was seen as— as a God. Clark was terrifying. Clark was terrified of himself. Of what he could do; what others thought he could do.

So of course people feared and revered Superman in equal measure. Of course that made him forget that it was so, so easy for the others to get hurt. Of course Bruce would see it that way; that Clark was being flippant with his life. But Clark was just— he knew Bruce was strong, that he could hold his own—

But—

No, no. Clark knew Bruce better than that. Bruce had grimaced afterwards, near-imperceptible, and left before Clark could reply. He knew Bruce, and Bruce knew him. Bruce knew what to say to cut, how to dig right into wounds and push people away. It wouldn’t work on Clark, though; it never had, and it wouldn’t now either. Bruce was anxious, he was angry, and he had lashed out the only way he knew how, aiming to throw up walls high enough to create miles of distance.

With a deep breath, Clark extricated himself from the whirlpool of his thoughts. He would give Bruce the space he needed for now. On autopilot, he bustled around the toilet to brush his teeth and wash up, the normalcy of it calming.

At half past three, he stowed away his suit in his usual hiding place before pausing in front of the drawer where Lois used to put her perfume. There were still traces of Lois in his apartment, ghosts of a relationship past, but it no longer stung like before. Clark would always love her, but he was learning to let go, and learning that love came in many, many forms. Tomorrow, he would wake up and consult Bruce again, make sure that Bruce knew he wasn’t going anywhere, and then perhaps try to remotely contact Zatanna if she still wasn’t back.

Satisfied with this, Clark settled into sheets in a bed too big for one and drifted quickly into sleep.

Clark Kent woke up refreshed. Raised on a farm, he was an early riser through and through — drawing his curtains open in one swift motion, golden sunlight leaked through his window, syrupy and warm. He basked in its caress on his face, marvelling in the way he seemed to draw energy from it.

Time for work. Perry didn’t like to be kept waiting, and he had an article to work on.

Clark went about his routine, humming idly to himself as he poured out orange juice, before he paused. His movements were stilted today. There seemed to be something sticky clinging to his mind, relentlessly niggling.

It was— did he usually take this long to get ready?

Shaking it off, he continued bustling about, but its fingertips scrabbled stubbornly at the edges of his consciousness. When he put on a flannel shirt, he paused, because the red in the plaid didn’t look quite right on its own; when he picked up his phone, he could only remember that he had forgotten something important.

Frowning, Clark scrolled through his texts. There were a few unfamiliar contacts: Diana, Arthur, Wally, the list went on and on. The only Diana he knew was… surely it couldn’t be Diana Prince? Clark was friends with her, but they weren’t close enough to exchange contacts.

Scrolling through a few cryptic conversations, he concluded that he must’ve been hacked and made a mental note to get it checked out later on.

When he reached the office, Lois greeted him at his cubicle, locks of hair curled around her shoulders as she waved something in his face. It was a newspaper not from the Planet, dated this morning — the headline read, Batman and Superman get hit by mysterious green spell.

“You okay?” she asked randomly.

Puzzlement fizzled alongside amusement in the twist of his lips, and Clark gently nudged her off his table, opening his laptop as he did so. When Lois repeated the question, louder this time, Clark figured she must not have been joking. “Of course. Why wouldn’t I be? Is something up with you?”

Like he was fish on a stick, she shot him a look sharp enough to skewer. That look, it reminded Clark of— of someone. Who? It was on the tip of his tongue — a hazy memory, a shadowy figure, intelligent eyes and a strong physique — who? Suddenly, it was critical that Clark talked to him. But when Lois tossed the paper onto his table, it landed with a cracking slap, and the feeling slipped out of his hands like water through fingers.

That was alright. It was probably just a classmate from long ago.

“By the way, my phone’s been hacked,” Clark told her, idly flipping through the paper she brought with her. “If I can’t fix it, I might need to get a new one, if I can afford it.”

“Hacked?” Lois’ eyes widened fractionally; a disproportionate amount of alarm was laced in her voice. “I know you wouldn’t be so careless as to have anything— incriminating in there, but if someone had access to your phone—“

“It’s no big deal,” he reassured hastily, taken aback by her vehemence. “My phone’s contents are as normal as normal gets. Are you quite alright? You’re acting strange.”

“Me? I’m the one acting strange? Even your accent…”

Clark was offended. “Hey, what about my accent?”

Lois regarded him, before seemingly shaking her head and dismissing a thought. “Never mind. God knows what’s going on in the life of mysterious Clark Kent.”

That brought forth a round of bright, clear laughter from him. Jimmy glanced over from his cubicle at the sound and offered a grin that Clark unabashedly returned. Mysterious. Now that was a good one. Clark was an open book. He had nothing going on in his life except work, work, talking to Ma, and more work. He didn’t even have any friends, unless you counted his coworker Jimmy, his ex-girlfriend Lois, or his mother and his son and his cousin.

And okay, maybe he shouldn’t be laughing at that thought. He sobered quickly, a stone in his gut and blood squeezing his ribcage a little too tight, but the smile didn’t slip off his face as Lois very cautiously bid him farewell to chase a lead on a recent case.

“Call me if you want to talk,” she made him promise before leaving. Clark waved her away with thanks, pulling up his own half-finished article. He’d been writing an expose on a recent Metropolis factory fire that sprung as a result of negligence, and just needed to finish a final round of editing before sending it in to Perry.

“Kent! Get your ass in here right now!”

Speak of the devil. Clark just managed to get a glimpse of Jimmy clasping his hands together and mouthing, ‘Sorry!’ before he was whisked away into Perry’s office. With a sense of foreboding, he closed the door behind him.

“You wanted to see me, sir?”

Perry sat and didn’t bother looking up from his desk. “Just confirming that you’re taking Olsen’s place at the fundraiser tonight, as he so kindly informed me earlier.”

“The— what?”

“The fundraiser at our oh-so-dear sister city Gotham,” he said impatiently. “One of Bruce Wayne’s many pet projects?”

Clark did his best not to scrunch his nose, instead bowing his head slightly and tucking his chin in. “I understand, but I mostly do investigative work and work with Superman. I’m not quite sure if I’m suited…“

“Just shut up and go,” Perry grumbled. “Suited or not suited, it doesn’t matter. You’d probably be able to make someone taking a big shit sound like news. What’s the problem? Is a fundraiser not meaningful enough for you?”

It took Clark a second to process the rare, albeit strange, compliment. “It is! It is, and thank you, but—“

“Then that’s that. Now get out of my office.”

Dazed, he left and immediately cornered Jimmy, who held up his hands in surrender.

“I’m sorry, man, it was a super last minute thing but my father fell sick and—“

“It’s alright,” Clark said, and while he wasn’t exactly happy about it, it wasn’t a lie. “You have a way with words,” his Pa used to say. He loved doing good by exposing truths through journalism, and while this wasn’t his usual beat, this too was a form of raising awareness.

Clark just wasn’t exactly sure about this particular fundraiser; Bruce Wayne, after all, was notorious. He was a sleazebag, or so they said. Slept with men and women alike, left and right. Vapid, frivolous, and air-headed, never serious, shallower than a puddle of water. Gossip rags had a field day every time Bruce Wayne hosted something — the press loved Bruce Wayne like Metropolis loved Superman.

Rumours were rumours, though. Clark would make his own judgements, and call it intuition, but— the idea didn’t fit quite right in his head, an incongruence at the core of it all that made his head spin because— Wayne was— more. More. Somehow.

Either way, Clark wasn’t exactly looking forward to having to mingle with the type of people that usually attended these events. They tended to speak in a way that made his skin itch and gossiped behind each others backs in a nasty way; plus, the quotes they gave were, at most, politically correct, and at worst, completely useless.

His senses always tended to be overloaded, too, with all the titters and chatter, the glitz and glamour and smell of champagne.

“I thought you would appreciate it, though,” Jimmy said, cutting through his musings.

“Hm?”

“Considering you always head to Gotham for press events when you can? Especially when Bruce Wayne’s involved…”

Clark stared at him for a beat, so baffled by what Jimmy was saying that he was willing to overlook the coy tone. When did he ever—? No, wait. Come to think of it, he did vaguely remember attending quite a few similar events in the past. He couldn’t quite remember much, though — he only recalled the resultant quotes he’d gotten here and there.

Strangely, those memories were coloured with a haze that burst with amusement and joy when he poked at it. It was— they had been fun, some way or the other. Exciting.

“Just a coincidence,” Clark dismissed. It hurt his head to think about it too much. “The fundraiser’s tonight? I’ll have to do some quick research before I go. I’ll start after I finish the other article.”

“Sure.” Jimmy hit his back gratefully. “I owe you one! Thanks, man.”

So that was how Clark ended up putting on his shabby (only) suit that hung too large on his frame, hovering awkwardly in a corner. The fundraiser was held in a ballroom that stretched infinitely, a wide expanse of glittering silver, gold, crystal. His skin was prickling — the ballroom was loud, overwhelmingly so — filled with conversation, laughter, the clink of glass. 

Fifteen minutes had passed, and all the fashionably late were beginning to show up. Clark pushed up the nose of his glasses. Okay, enough dawdling. Time to do his job. Careful to move slowly, clumsy but not so clumsy he hit anything, he stumbled his way into the crowd to find someone to talk to.

Here was one of the many ways he and Lois differed; she was all confidence, aggressiveness with inlaid charm. She couldn’t afford to be anything else. On the other hand, Clark with his flannel shirts and midwestern accent was someone so irrelevant, so unthreatening, that people simply overlooked him. That, too, was useful — he didn’t need to be respected, or even recognised. He liked to fly under the radar; it was easier, in some ways. More comfortable.

He liked it. Not having to be anybody. Something crawled over the surface of his skin, the raw edges of the thought scraping against the insides of his brain. It was nice. Why?

When he spotted a woman he recognised as a relatively frequent donor to both Gotham and Metropolis charities, though, all that flew out the window.

“Ma’am,” Clark said, hurriedly walking forward, hopeful to get something more substantial, “I’m a reporter from the Daily Planet. May I have a word?”

And so the evening ticked on, the hands of the clock crawling forward, until Clark just about teetered on the edge of giving up. He was sick of hearing the same things repeated over and over, and in the end he had gleaned a grand total of three points:

One, that “Yes, I am deeply invested in rural agriculture renewal but I cannot tell you a single thing about it” was the general sentiment amongst many.

Two, that there was a lot of subtext and animosity between socialites in the room, but when they talked, it was all faux smiles and false, ringing laughter.

And three — that everyone loved detailing Bruce Wayne’s many exploits and adventures like he was some gilded bird in a cage, a prized exhibit at the zoo, spoken with a kind of condescending fondness that the Gothamites especially adopted.

Seriously. Clark heard the most outlandish tales, from Bruce Wayne breaking his ribs volcano boarding to him bedding ten people in one night, from him accidentally stumbling upon a ton of corruption and his managers frantically having to handle the aftermath to him vomiting all over someone’s shoes. At this point, the man was more myth than man — even if Clark instinctively took everything they said with a pinch of salt.

Across the room, Bruce Wayne could be seen very obviously drunk and stumbling, loudly talking gibberish and somehow still managing to charm everyone in the vicinity.

So much for doing good for a cause. Clark would have a few choice words to say to him, if he were ever given the chance.

Whatever the case, Clark was getting restless. Not only was the lack of stimulating conversation grating on his nerves, everything seemed to be strangely heightened to the point of nausea; all sensations were dialled to eleven, the loose collar of his suit abruptly choking. The lights were too blinding, the sounds too deafening — he was feeling the beginnings of a pounding headache.

Clark needed some fresh air.

Right on cue, he felt his phone buzz from his pocket. It was Ma because of course it was. He had no one else. Clark scanned the area until he spotted a set of doors opposite the entrance. He crossed the ballroom, hit accept, and stepped out onto the empty balcony.

“Hello?”

“So my son finally decides to answer my calls,” comes his Ma’s voice. “Saved enough cats from trees for today?”

Despite him not having a good time, it really was a nice night. Still, yet not unsettling; cool, yet not harsh. It was comforting to hear his Ma and her weird teasing again. “Sure,” Clark snorted into the phone. “I’m actually at a fundraiser in Gotham right now, but I’m happy to take a break. I’ll bring Conner and Kara to visit sometime. How have you been?”

“Gotham, huh?” Her voice changed; there was something slipped in, a sly mischief that was a little out of place. But this was his Ma, so Clark took it in stride. “Talked to Bruce Wayne, recently?”

“Talked to? Not quite. Talked about?” Clark rolled his eyes with as much sass as he could muster, even to an audience of zero. “Definitely.”

His mother sounded delighted at that. Just like that, they went on for a while — conversation with his mother always flowed easy, and the frigid air biting his cheeks was a welcome respite. The din from the ballroom was muted, and no one could be bothered to so much as glance over; the party, after all, was far from here.

Best of all, the view was phenomenal. Clark’s breath caught in his throat as he surveyed the city skyline. Absolutely beautiful. The sun had set long ago; the sky was a cloudless jet black, save for a star or two, scintillating with a brilliant white light just beside each other. Binary stars, perhaps. Sentinels, gravitationally bound and watching over the city. Down below was an equally enchanting sight, one Clark drunk in hungrily.

Metropolis in the day was something else. A vibrant city through and through, every corner was illuminated, full of glass and straight-edged, high-rise chrome architecture. At night, though, Gotham was one stunning lady. He’d never tire of Gotham’s view — considering it was Gotham, there was even less light at night; the alleyways were dark, foreboding; and yet, somehow, there was something comforting about it, Clark tended to find. He didn’t like the gloominess, the obscurity. But somehow it felt familiar to him anyway.

The old buildings were beautifully constructed as well, a stark contrast from Metropolis’ more modern buildings. Many of them seemed to be lead-lined, and despite the high crime rates, it was very clear that Gothamites were proud and protective of their city.

“Are you enjoying the fundraiser?” Ma asked, jokingly steering the topic away as it broached whether or not she was taking good care of herself. Clark knew she always took good care of herself, though, so he allowed it. “It’s not your usual scene, is it?”

Clark grimaced at the thought of going back into the mess, leaning his arms against the railing. He couldn’t even touch the champagne; he never did when on the job. Even off the job, he wasn’t a big fan. Somehow, alcohol didn’t seem to have much effect on him. Was that normal? Perhaps he was just blessed with amazing tolerance.

“I’m actually covering for Jimmy,” Clark explained. “His father isn’t doing so great.”

“Oh, that’s horrible. Give him my blessings, why don’t you," Ma sounded sympathetic, and when Clark assured her he would, she went steely. “Now stop dawdling! Go back in and mingle.”

“I will, I will, but gosh, am I sick of hearing them gossip. It’s all Bruce Wayne, this, Bruce Wayne that—“

“Bruce Wayne what?”

Clark nearly dropped his phone straight off the balcony.

Shit.

“Clark?” said his Ma.

“I’ll— call you back,” he murmured, very faintly.

“Oh, no,” came the voice — a silky smooth drawl; rough underneath, scraped like gravel, “do go on. I do so wonder what you have to say about me.”

Now, Clark wasn’t often caught off-guard, but he was now — his heart was pounding, his jaw ajar. Adrenaline felt like shots of morphine through his veins, a jittery kind of injection that had him paralysed for half a second. Slowly, in half-disbelief, Clark turned around and came face-to-face with disturbingly familiar slate-blue eyes.

Okay, so he hadn’t imagined it.

Rao, what was his life. While complaining about Bruce Wayne, Bruce darn Wayne himself had showed up.

Rao? God. Momentarily disorientated, Clark blinked, taking in a very different kind of view this time.

Wayne’s dark hair was slicked back, framing a shockingly handsome face with well-defined cheekbones, and a jawline that might as well have been sculpted by the Greeks. Michelangelo would have a field day with the graceful contours of his face. Predictably, his suit was tailored to perfection; he had one hand in his pocket, the other on his hips. Expensive fabric clung to his outline, accentuating broad shoulders and suggesting cording muscle underneath as he shifted.

There was a glint of golden-silver at his wrist, likely a watch that cost more than Clark’s entire annual salary. Infuriatingly, everything was compounded a thousand times in attractiveness by the arrogant tilt of his head and the quirk of his lips. That darn man was smirking. He was enjoying making Clark uncomfortable.

And Clark was. He really was. Those eyes were— where had Clark seen them before? It reminded him of—

Of—

Someone. Someone important or maybe a shade of greyish slate blue he’d seen in someone else’s eyes. They were so, achingly familiar and yet so— foreign.

That wasn’t the only thing that was strange. Wayne was known to drink a lot, and sure enough, there was the stench of alcohol around him, but his gaze was heavy, assessing, and cuttingly lucid. There was a heartbeat he’d recognise in his sleep slamming against Clark’s ears, and it had to be Clark’s own, it was the only explanation, but—

The smell of cologne and musk underneath, too, was something that made goosebumps rise all over Clark’s arm. A rare occurrence.

“Mr— Mr Wayne,” Clark stuttered, awkwardly, once he got the words to come out.

Wayne spread his arms, theatrical. “That’s me.”

“What are you doing here?”

“It’s almost like this is my fundraiser.” Wayne walked forward, just half an inch, but Clark suddenly couldn’t move, couldn’t breathe. Wayne’s gaze pinned him in place. Something felt different. Wayne was acting different from just about thirty minutes ago. He was perfectly balanced, his words unslurred, his comebacks quick and scathing.

It was odd. At the same time, it made perfect sense to Clark.

“You haven’t been a very gracious host, Mr Wayne,” Clark blurted what he’d been thinking all evening with no preamble. He wasn’t sure what possessed him to say it, but maybe it was the curiosity digging its heels at the back of his mind, the urge to pry some hidden mask off until his fingertips bled; he could feel his awkward country boy behaviour melt away. “Getting drunk, insulting half your guests and flirting with the other half, and then breaking four wine glasses is certainly a unique way to raise funds.”

“Please, call me Bruce.” Wayne lifted an eyebrow, more amused than offended. “I’m honoured. You must have been watching me very closely.”

Clark hadn’t realised it either, but he must have been. Reining in his frustration, he tried to sound as polite as he could:

“Mr Wayne, I do believe you are truly contributing to a good cause. All of you here have the potential to do so much in the world. A little bit at a time. People like you, with the power and the means… you have a responsibility. You could do so much. If only you could be a little less…”

“Frivolous? Stupid?” Wayne suggested, and for a moment Clark blinked at him, astonished. Another smirk was toying at Wayne’s lips, but it was more genuine this time, there was more in his eyes now. Self-deprecation, at himself. A spark of interest, at Clark.

He seemed to look at Clark anew, up and down in once-over that had Clark’s mouth going dry.

“That’s not what I meant,” Clark began, but he was interrupted.

“And you? Lingering on the balcony and badmouthing the host?” Wayne clicked his tongue, stepped closer until he was within arm’s reach. Too close. “You haven’t been a particularly gracious guest, either.”

And, well, he had Clark there. “I’m sorry,” he said, forcing his tongue to unstick, and for some reason the proximity was inhibiting his ability to think, “I have nothing against you, really, I’m sure you’re a— great person—”

“My goodness,” Wayne interrupted in a light breezy voice, with emphasis, with much humour, “you sound pained just having to say that. It’s a cute attempt, though. Very polite.”

“No, I don’t— it’s the truth. I was just talking about how everyone has been saying things about you this whole evening.”

“About me? I’d like to say things about you.” Unhurriedly, lasciviously, Wayne’s eyes roved over Clark’s face, then his figure, and somehow Clark got the feeling that despite the ill-fitting suit he wasn’t deterred. There was— a shocking intensity in his gaze, like Clark was being flayed open.

Red splotched Clark’s cheeks, rather against his will. The full force of the Bruce Wayne charm was intoxicating. It was dangerous.

“Yes.” Clark cleared his throat. “Mr Wayne, have you heard of a little something known as personal space?”

“Bruce. And not really,” Wayne told him dismissively. “Either way people do tend to talk about me a lot. I’m rich and handsome. Comes with the territory, perhaps; they just can’t resist my charm.”

This man was ridiculous. “Surely,” Clark said, very dryly. “I’m sure breaking your ribs tripping and falling down the stairs is particularly charming, if the rumours are true.”

Wayne looked delighted at the sass. “One hundred percent true, much to the chagrin of my butler.”

“Is it true you’ve even been volcano boarding? Your butler — he must worry about you a lot.”

“He does. Too much.”

“For good reason, I expect.”

“Perhaps.” Here Wayne lowered his voice, coyly: “Is that all you’ve heard? What else have they been saying?”

And Clark paused.

There was no way, right? Bruce Wayne wasn’t actually hitting on him right now. He had a room full of rich and attractive people to flirt with. What was Wayne’s angle here?

Wayne didn’t seem fazed by the lack of a reply. He reached out, and Clark had to catch himself from stiffening reflexively — thankfully, all Wayne did reach to turn over his press pass and read out Clark’s name, curling the syllables around his tongue.

“Mr Kent.” The name settled easily in his mouth. Wayne looked him in the eyes again. Closer, Clark was once again taken aback by how piercing this man’s gaze actually was, just for a moment, before it glazed over. “The Daily Planet, huh? I don’t usually do reporters, but I can make an exception just for you.”

“Mr Wayne, I don’t—“

“Bruce,” he corrected again.

“My Wayne,” said Clark firmly. “I’m simply here to collect quotes for my coworker to write a piece. If I weren’t, it would be highly unethical to proposition a reporter working on anything related to you or your company. If— if that’s what you’re implying, I mean.”

“I shall count my lucky stars that you aren’t writing the piece, then.”

“That isn’t the point. It goes against our code — we need to remain some sort of impartiality, at least, when writing a piece, to uncover the truth and report to the best of our abilities.”

“Even if it’s a fluff piece?”

“The type of piece doesn’t matter.”

“Such a Boy Scout.”

A lighting jolt of familiarity shot through Clark at the nickname. “Excuse me? I’m hardly a Boy Scout for having integrity.”

And, to Clark’s surprise, Wayne snorted with a strange cynicism that made Clark blink, “A journalist with integrity? Colour me impressed. That’d be a first.” Then: “Surely you can be persuaded; a drink, a dance—“

Clark folded his arms and didn’t let him finish.

“Do you always think with your libido?”

Bruce ran his tongue over his lips. “Only for people that interest m—“

“Mr Wayne, please. You have the ability to help people, in the position you’re in. So many others here are the same… but you, Mr Wayne — I had hope for you. I’ve read about Wayne Enterprises’ efforts in the environmental and social spheres, about the children you helped. I wanted to— I’d believed that you, despite everything, cared. About your company, the people in it; where the money goes, how it helps. This whole night, though, you haven’t seemed to be taking it all very seriously.”

And something like the beginnings of vexation slammed onto Wayne’s face just as quickly as it disappeared. A split second, where he looked to be grappling with himself silently, before he pursed his lips and put on a smirk again. One significantly more artificial, now that Clark knew to look.

“I’ll have you know, my fundraisers are actually very effective,” Wayne tossed his head back and laughed, gratingly. “I’ll tell you a secret.” He leaned forward, stopping just shy of the shell of Clark’s ear, breath hot against skin. “I know what I’m doing. You’re right, Mr Kent. I think I can do good. I should do good.” That self-deprecation was back. “It’s the least I can do.”

Clark stared at him for a beat.

Right. Okay. That was— wait.

The dissonance of it all gave Clark whiplash, his body and brain left floundering and disconcerted. Wayne sounded like he was joking, or maybe flirting, or maybe pretending to be better than he was — but Clark considered the idea, rolled it around in his head.

If so, then that meant that Wayne cared about more than just himself and his own pleasure, that he was more aware of everything than the public was led to believe. That he led them to believe. That was quite a secret to drop randomly on a reporter on a balcony, of all people. Clark resolutely disregarded the goosebumps on his arm from having that mouth so close to his ear and instead inhaled, returning his levity with dead seriousness:

“Why?”

And for a second, just a split second, near-imperceptible but just enough to convince Clark that he was right about Bruce Wayne being full of shit, that smile flickered away.

“Ah, reporters, reporters. Always so serious. Lois Lane — surely you know her, she’s famous among journalism, not to mention also working at the Planet — was like that, too — the last time I spoke to her, all she did was telling me to ‘stop talking nonsense’. What you see is what you get, though.” Wayne pulled back and clapped him on the shoulder, lingering for longer than appropriate, but all of a sudden all the flirting and lusty looks from under eyelashes no longer fazed Clark.

“I see a lot, Mr Wayne. More than many in that room.”

Wayne replied only after a beat. Playing dumb, then. “Like what you see?”

“I do, actually,” Clark murmured, and that seemed to startle a laugh out of Wayne, one that was less plastic and more warmth. Clark found the sound melting to a candied sweetness in his ears. The more Clark puzzled it out, the less the pieces seemed to fit. The man in front of him was flirty, flippant, perhaps facetious, but vapid and shallow he was not.

Clark’s mouth seemed to move faster than his filter. “I’ve— read articles about Wayne Enterprises’ endeavours. I didn’t think much of it, but—“ he wasn’t sure where the information was coming from, how he knew all this with a passion, “—employee wages are capped at a very high level. You pay extremely well, and it’s well known that there are strict anti-harassment policies in place all throughout your branches. And there have been— stories, from several of your workers, that you helped them get jobs personally.”

For a brief moment, Wayne looked— annoyed, again, but the expression was smoothly replaced with one of boredom. “Please,” he laughed, laconically, “most of it’s done by my board directors, anyway; half of what you said sounds like gibberish to me. Plus, you of all people should know how the media tends to exaggerate things. You’re a reporter.”

“These are facts, though,” Clark argued, and there was no answer. In the ensuing silence, Wayne slipped like water, like shadow, beside Clark, facing the balcony; looking over the city. Finally, finally, his smirk faded. Instead, it was replaced with something inscrutable, harder to read.

Wistfulness? Contemplation? That same self-deprecation he’d been seeing hints of, maybe.

Whatever it was, it was clear that this was a place he treasured. Gotham was his city.

“It’s not everyday I see people come up to this balcony,” Wayne murmured, a deft change of subject. “A shame.”

This was not what Clark had heard. This was not what Clark was prepared for. He’d braced himself for someone unreasonable and glib, charismatic but ultimately with no depth.

The man standing in front of him was— Clark wasn’t sure what he was. But it was not that.

“You,” he ventured, “love this city very much, don’t you?”

Wayne didn’t tear his eyes away from the skyline, seemingly contemplating something.

“I do,” he said finally, then turned back to Clark. “Mr Kent.”

“…yes?”

Bruce Wayne paused, briefly.

“Do I know you?”

It was an obvious pick-up line. And yet, and yet. Clark let the question seep into his bones and felt the answer: Yes. But things still didn’t add up, and his headache was making a vicious return, so he settled with:

“I’ve been to your charity galas before, but as far as I can remember, this is our first proper conversation.”

Bruce— no, Wayne went silent, his brow creasing.

“Perhaps,” he conceded, and turned back to the balcony railing. Moonlight fell on Wayne, who had initially been backlit by the light of the ballroom, silhouette outlined by darkness. Here, smokey wisps of silver caressed the edges of his features, softening them in a way that strangely made Clark ache.

He looked… human. It was a bizarre thought that crossed Clark’s mind, and it only intensified the pounding in his head and the blood rushing to his ears, so he buried it.

“Gotham,” Wayne said all of a sudden, “is beautiful, isn’t she? She sings so fine at night. A tune of woe and desperation, the streets scream for a protector. Vengeance and justice, it’s a fine line to walk. Sometimes I wonder…”

Clark tilted his head, prompting. “You wonder…?”

Again, micro-expressions flitted at rapid speed over Wayne’s face. Bewilderment, before he looked seconds away from burying his head in his hands, before he threw his head back and merely laughed. “I don’t even know. It doesn’t matter. As you can see, Mr Kent, I am rather drunk.”

“Are you, though?”

“Why wouldn’t I be?” he challenged.

“You tell me, Mr Wayne,” Clark shot right back.

“Mr Kent, you couldn’t separate me and my bottles of wine in the cellar if you tried. There’s perfectly good champagne here tonight. Of course I would partake — I always do.”

“You certainly seem a far greater degree sober than you had just ten minutes ago.”

“God knows why,” Wayne muttered under his breath, obviously not meant for Clark to catch, then said, “Sue me. The wind on this balcony does wonders.” He winked, a sort of charm that was so easy to fall into, but that was it. Clark wasn’t letting this go. He would push and push until he got something real. “Not to mention the eye candy.”

“You can have your eye candy back in the ballroom.”

“But it’s so stuffy in there, Christ, surely you think the same, you’re out here too.”

“I came out to take a call. Why are you still here, Mr Wayne?”

“I don’t know,” Wayne said, “Perhaps I’m rather enjoying your presence. I do so wonder how you would look if that suit fit a little better, hm?”

Clark frowned. “This isn’t about me,” he returned stubbornly. “The party’s in there, and yet you’re still here. Mr Wayne, you said it yourself — your fundraisers, despite your seemingly irresponsible behaviour, are known to be effective. Underneath, somehow, you know exactly what to do. Your company runs smoothly, stocks are high, Wayne Enterprises’ management is famously well-organised. You yourself told me: You know what you’re doing.”

“It was a joke, Mr Kent, surely that was obvious — even I’m not so unaware as to think I do anything of use in my company. Sorry to burst your bubble, but you’ll have to thank my managers for that. They do so know how to make things work. I just sit there and let the cash rake in.”

“Surely all this can’t be a PR stunt. It’s one thing to donate here and there, it’s another to put in such a consistent effort. Not to mention all your anonymous donations—“

Wayne stiffened.

“—and not even the I-mean-to-be-found-out kind.”

“And how, exactly, pray tell, do you know about these ‘anonymous donations’?”

“Lois,” Clark admitted, and Wayne rolled his eyes with a sarcasm that had Clark all the more determined to push him forward, into the light.

“Reporters. Ever so nosy.”

“Only when we have a reason to be. Do we have a reason to be, Mr Wayne?”

“Hardly. Unless you’re interested in my many exploits, but I’m under the impression the Daily Planet is rather reputable. A bit more than a gossip rag, no?”

“I don’t care about all that; you’re kind, Mr Wayne. You’re kind. You took in children when they were in need. I saw a few of them out there, in the ballroom. They love you. They’re grateful to you. Dick Grayson, Timothy Drake, Barbara Gordon—”

Wayne flinched as if he was struck, just barely, but Clark was insistent now. It was of vital importance, suddenly, that he should tell this to Wayne. That he should know Clark thought he was kind. This back and forth finally had Wayne gripping the railing harder than necessary, a darker edge of frustration lining the curve of his lips — an acerbic, mocking thing.

It felt like the most genuine thing Clark had seen from him this whole evening.

“Okay, I’ve had enough. Leave it, Mr Kent.”

“No,” Clark said, with a burning surety and single-minded resolve, and Wayne huffed, half in incredulity, half in amusement.

“I don’t like you, Clark Kent,” Wayne said. “Not people like you, obsessed with being righteous with all your lofty morals. Naivety is what it is. Going around preaching that you can do good in the world, that people are inherently good, that oh, you can make a difference. You must be blind. The world isn’t so forgiving. I’m sure you know that. Look at yourself — where did the meek and timid Kansas boy back in that gala go? All I see is one persistent journalist. Your terrible clothing do a good job, but I recognise a strong figure when I see one. All this,” Wayne pointed, lazily, sardonically, “is very hypocritical of you.”

And despite the abrupt harshness, victory coiled in the space behind Clark’s chest, warm and triumphant.

“That’s an awfully cynical thing to say.”

“It’s the truth. Gotham is my city. I know her more than anyone — kindness will not do the trick. Here, kindness is weak. Mercy is foolishness.”

“Cynical,” Clark repeated, his point reinforced. “But that’s not all, is it? Despite that, you want to do good. You should do good, you said. You want it to make a difference. ‘It’s the least I can do’?”

“Please. It was merely a jest. Hookers and alcohol can only do so much; might as well dabble in some philanthropy. How much can we really do, anyway, in the end?”

“I don’t believe that.”

Wayne just snorted, low and quiet. “Alright. Sure. That sense of responsibility repulses me. I really, really don’t like you, Kent.” At last, at last, he turned to go. He couldn’t leave, though, not like this — shit, not like this. With a burst of frantic urgency, Clark stepped forward, ready to stop him. How, he didn’t know, but—

Clark didn’t need to do anything. Right before exiting the glass-panelled doors of the balcony, back into the ballroom, Bruce Wayne stopped dead in his tracks. His back was broad, bearing a weight that made Clark agonise: I want to bear that weight with you; I would, if you would let me. In seemingly uncharacteristic indecision, Wayne lingered, and Clark stood there in the moonlight under the stars, waiting — he didn’t know for what — with his hand half-outstretched.

“Fuck it,” Wayne muttered, before whirling around, marching right back up to Clark, and shoving him against the balcony railing.

“I hardly—“

“Just shut up,” said Wayne, annoyed, and then he pressed their lips together with much more force than necessary.

He kissed Clark, not soft or gentle, but rather harsh. Passionate. Teeth bit down on Clark’s lower lip, drawing out a cut-off sound, his knees going weak. The railing might have dented beneath him, but the feel of Wayne’s mouth, hot and insistent, chased the awareness away.

What in the bloody hell. It seemed not all the rumours about Wayne had been false, then. Helpless, Clark’s hands came up to grip Wayne’s back out of sheer instinct. The kiss deepened; it was the kind you parted your legs for, the rest of the world vanishing in an instant. Bruce’s hands on him, clutching at the nape of Clark’s neck, felt like a brand, a searing burn against bare skin; in the dark, Clark found himself groping almost blindly, his fingertips dancing over Bruce’s clothes, tangling in his hair.

When Bruce — Wayne, whatever — pulled back sharply to suck in a breath, all Clark could do was stare at him, dumbfounded and dazed.

“What—“

“I seriously dislike you,” Bruce bit out, dead serious for the first time tonight. His eyes seemed to glow in the darkness. His hair was tousled, his suit unbuttoned; tie loose and shirt half untucked. God, he should not look that good.

“I don’t understand,” Clark replied faintly.

“Don’t you?” Bruce asked, and then said: “Come home with me.”

And Clark knew, deep down, that it was an even more horrible idea than it felt, to become just another notch on Bruce’s bedpost.

And somewhere, deep down, Clark also knew that if he said no, he would never get the chance again.

Clark already had enough material from the fundraiser for Jimmy to write an article. Even so, he could refuse. He should refuse. Clark had to refuse.

“Okay,” Clark said. And that was that.

Something was wrong, the voice in his head sung the whole time, a taunt, a plea, a warning: Something is wrong. Something was wrong, but just then, in the arms of a man that was a facsimile of someone he knew and loved, Clark couldn’t bring himself to care.

“Something’s wrong with Bruce too, then? I can’t reach either of them by my usual means.”

“Yes, Ms Prince. He’s— the same, but different. Diminished, somehow. I don’t think Master Bruce recalls anything about being Batman, but he remembers bits and pieces of his life as Bruce Wayne. Enough for me to be convinced it’s him, even with almost everything remotely related to his alter ego forgotten. Ms Lane told you the same thing about Mr Kent?”

“Yes. The way he is now, Clark is dangerous — we’re lucky he’s controlling his powers subconsciously, but it’s still a risk. I’ve already contacted Zatanna. She should be back on Earth very soon to take a look at them. Perhaps tomorrow morning?”

“That’s a relief to hear. Before that, I think we might have another problem,” Alfred began to explain, extremely wryly. “They’re both currently in one of the Manor’s guest rooms. They’ve absconded there after tonight’s fundraiser. I must say, I’ve seen a lot in my lifetime, with Bruce and his exploits. For Mr Kent to be added to the list…”

There was a pause.

“Surely, you can’t mean—“

“Indeed.”

“Oh. Oh, no.” Diana sounded torn between delight and horror. “No, surely not — to think that this was what it would take for them to finally— well. This is a disaster. When they regain their memories…”

“I would have tried to stop Master Bruce, but he was rather eager. I don’t think he saw me try to get his attention before dragging Mr Kent into the nearest available guest room. Funnily enough, it’s the guest room Mr Kent most frequently uses when he stays over, so perhaps you’re right about them still subconsciously retaining certain habits.”

“Oh, goddesses above. I’m worried, but I rather look forward to the aftermath. Perhaps they’ll finally get their heads out of their asses now that they’ve worked out all the sexual tension.”

“Knowing Master Bruce, I, for one, do not particularly look forward to it. One can wish, however. I shall wish on the nearest star when I can.”

“Alright. We’ll be at the Manor tomorrow morning, then. Do you think you can convince Clark to stay the night?”

“Convince Master Bruce to let Clark stay the night, you mean. I will make sure I do. With that being said — good night, Ms Prince.”

“Good night, Alfred. Things will hopefully be back to normal soon. Let’s hope they talk this through like adults.”

Famous last words, thought Alfred, before he hung up the phone.

By the time they finished, the fundraiser was over, and Clark didn’t know what he expected after the most confusing, mind-blowing sex of his life. For Bruce Wayne to kick him out, maybe, or call him a taxi. He definitely wasn’t expected Bruce Wayne to exchange a few heated words with his butler, storm back into the guest room, throw a shirt at him and say:

“It’s late. You can stay here until morning.”

“Do you treat all your conquests like that?”

“Why? Would you like to feel special, Mr Kent?”

“No, of course not, I just— anyway. I’ll pay for the vase I broke.”

“Leave it, really. It’s fine. Take that bed. Tomorrow you can head back to Metropolis.”

On a post-coital high, Clark took a second to process the words. Then, bleary-eyed, buried under silk sheets that felt heavenly on his skin, he blurted: “And you?”

Are you staying? was the implied question. Bruce paused on the way out of the door, his clothes already back on, armour built back piece by piece in the sashay of his hips and the smirk of his lips. The man Clark had glimpsed earlier — full of scars, inside and out, beautiful in more ways than one — bitter, someone who cared too much; smart, perhaps too smart, and incredibly perceptive — was slipping away just like that. All Clark could do was watch powerlessly and grab onto sand running through fingers.

“Don’t push it, Mr Kent.”

And then Bruce left, another migraine slowly creeping through the bliss Clark had basked in, dragging him to slumber.

The bed, Clark found, was cold.

Chapter Text

When Bruce awoke after a near-sleepless night, all he could think was shit. Fuck.

He never had such lapses of judgement. He had learned how to keep himself in check, assess people and their threats and how much to get himself involved with them. Clark Kent had hurled a dozen spanners in the works of Bruce’s plans and said with puppy-dog eyes and irritating determinism, “Oops.”

He could bed whoever the hell he wanted but not people like Clark bloody Kent. The man that had kissed Kent last night — it was too close to Bruce, closer to Bruce than Bruce Wayne.

What on God’s green emerald verdant earth had possessed him to act like that last night? It wasn’t like Bruce. Had he actually drunk a little too much? No, that couldn’t be; he was always careful, aware of his body and his mind. Fuck fuck fuck. His mistakes had begun the second he stepped onto that balcony and stupidly, idiotically, got swept away by Kent. Why had he done it? Why had he let slip so much?

Why had he acted as though somewhere, deep down, he had wanted Clark to see him? To know him?

A headache was creeping up on him again, worsening his already foul mood. Whatever the case, it made Bruce’s skin crawl and bile rise up in his throat. Distance, distance, distance — he needed to disconnect.

Alfred, that traitor, could tell Bruce was instantly ready to dismiss Kent, and had instead coerced Bruce into making him stay for the night. It was strange; Bruce knew Alfred disapproved of the way he treated his one night stands, but he rarely interfered with Bruce’s behaviour unless it directly impacted his safety or his relationship with his kids.

Not that he had treated Clark like any of his other one night stands. Fuck.

Just another thing to add onto the growing annoyance that was Bruce’s week. Now here they were, so, great. With the same pounding headache, Bruce trudged down to the kitchen to get his daily dose of coffee and Alfred’s eggs.

The headache only intensified when he walked in and saw one (1) early-riser farm boy journalist, Diana Price, and somebody else he didn’t recognise making easy conversation over toast.

“What,” Bruce said, rubbing his eyes and then his temples. Surely he had to be dreaming right now. It was too early for this.

“Oh, great! He’s here,” said the woman he didn’t recognise, standing from the table. “Okay, it seems like the spell was targeted at wiping certain memories? But the effect split and diluted so it only erased certain parts of them like their personas but— oh, that is some major tampering even with the dilution, considering how intertwined their alter egos are with their life and identities and habits. Most subconscious habits should have stayed, but it’s likely they get some headaches to try and deter them from the confusion to dig out the memories.”

“Alfred,” Bruce smiled through gritted teeth, “who are these people?” He refrained from using the word ‘lunatics’, but it was on the tip of his tongue, and as if he could hear it, Alfred shot him a quelling look.

“It’ll be explained in a second, Master Wayne,” said Alfred, just as Prince cleared her throat and stood.

“Let’s not prolong this any further. Zatanna, if you would,”

And before Bruce could react, everything went black.

“Where is he?” Clark asked, dimly, moments after waking. He already knew the answer — anywhere but here. Diana was seated on the chair next to his sunbed at the Watchtower, sadness colouring her expression.

“Give him a bit,” she soothed. “He’ll come around.”

The events of the absolute trainwreck that was the previous day flashed in bright technicolour before Clark’s eyes. It was all coming back to him now — everything made sense again, but all he wanted to do was smash his head into some Kryptonite hard enough to get a concussion and hopefully erase his memories all over again.

Cologne, Bruce’s breath on his thigh. A tongue up his navel, teeth at the base of his neck. A low bass, a growl in his ear.

Shit, shit, shit.

“Clark?”

Bruce’s focus; his touch, his eyes, his smell — the sound of his heartbeat, elevated, the sheen of sweat on bare skin and Clark’s fingers tracing webs of scars; they had been anything but gentle, confused and clashing, but it had been exhilarating. That man had not been Bruce, not fully. The other man had not been Clark, not fully. But they were close enough.

“Clark.”

Oh, how his heart had yearned yesterday for something he didn’t yet understand. Clark knew now, and he pitied the version of himself who didn’t just as much as he envied him. To try and get close to Bruce was like trying to handle a rose, petals soft and deceiving, the thorns of the stalk pricking at your skin all the same. Sex with him had been— Bruce had always had an iron-clad control, and to see him in the throes of arousal was—

“Clark! Earth to Superman.”

Clark blinked at her, feeling the ghosts of last night slither away.

“Oh. Yes. Sorry, Diana — you were saying?”

Diana nudged him. “I’ve briefed Batman already, so I hope to hear from your side. I don’t think there’s any lasting damage—“

“Aside from the fact that Bruce and I will quite possibly never look each other in the eye again, you mean.”

“—on your health, your identity, or anything of that sort,” Diana went on, not without sympathy. “Can I hear your side? About how much you remembered, that is.”

Clark took a second to gather his thoughts, much more lucid than before. No. He could do this. He had to get Bruce out of his head. “My clumsiness was still put on, for ‘journalism reasons’, but there were these gaps in my memory that I didn’t want to think too much about — how I got my physique, the specifics of how I get around, every single time we go for league patrol — how Conner came to be, or what Kara had been doing all those years… there were no false memories to fill in the spaces. They were just— blank. I didn’t think too much of it, but I felt it there. I knew things didn’t add up. For example, I visited my Ma far too often and too easily, considering the distance from Metropolis to the farm.”

Diana nodded. “You were able to control your powers?”

“The spell was incomplete, right? There were a lot of things I was subconsciously still aware of, or able to do, both physically and mentally. Externally, I held back my powers pretty well, though my more internal powers like heightened senses were a struggle.”

There were things about Bruce he shouldn’t have known, and vice versa. With no metric, Clark hadn’t quite been aware that his senses were filtering certain things too. Thankfully his other powers like super speed and strength had been kept in check, except for— well. He had broken that vase at Bruce’s house. Irrationally, he blamed Bruce for teasing him to the point where he had lost control of his super strength, just a bit. Come to think of it, hadn’t Clark almost floated halfway through?

“I think,” Clark continued slowly, because Diana was still waiting expectantly for elaboration, “Bruce and I still recognised each other, somehow. He was definitely more open than he had been the first time we met, or he would have been were I simply just a reporter he’d met on the balcony. The fact that he entered the balcony in the first place — perhaps we’d sought each other out instinctively to fill in those missing pieces, the empty gaps in-between.”

“Hm.” Diana quirked a brow. “Ironic, I must say.”

“What is?”

“Without your memories, yes, somewhere, you still recognised each other. Of course. It’s before and after that, Clark: ironic. Is it not the same?”

“What do you mean?”

“Why you seek each other out, that is.”

“I’m sure he seeks me out all the time,” Clark agreed sardonically. “That’s why he took off running.”

Inexplicably, Diana looked amused at that.

“You rub off on each other.”

“If that’s a pun, it’s in poor taste.”

“I did not mean— well. Perhaps it was a blessing in disguise, Clark. To get it out of your system.”

Get what out of his system? The only thing Clark was going to get out of this was heartbreak and a headache and a familiar desire to sock Wayne Enterprises’ CEO squarely in his stupidly handsome jaw.

“I never wanted this, Diana,” Clark laughed softly. Bitterly. “Not— not like this. Not ever, I mean.” Bruce was his friend, whether or not he admitted it. That friendship was hard-earned; it was something Clark had clawed for, battle-ruined with mud on his hands and sun in his eyes, stitches on stitches and smiles wielded like swords, silence and patience and moments in-between. Clark was fine with that. He was more than fine with that — he treasured the thing they had now, fragile like glass yet strong as steel. He cradled it in his hands everyday and bottled up all of Bruce’s little half-smiles like prizes.

Sure, he wasn’t anything like Bruce ‘master of denial, CEO of avoidance, married to repression’ Wayne. It was true that Clark could be emotional. That the airs he put on were that of warmth, not cold like Bruce. Bright smiles and a confident raise of his chin, shoulders back and words of reassurance.

But that meant Clark had also learned to keep his own feelings in check. To prioritise. And for this, their friendship — Bruce’s comfort, his mere presence — far preceded anything Clark would even let himself ask for.

(Clark didn’t get himself into the habit of asking. He couldn’t.)

“Alright, Clark,” Diana murmured, offering a nod to provide some modicum of comfort. “Bruce is an unpredictable man. Who knows how he’ll take this. We can only hope he pulls himself together. The same goes for you.”

Clark spread his arms, leaning back onto the sunbed. It revitalised him, nourished him both physically and mentally, and he immediately felt better. “I am hardly the problem here,” he snorted. Diana fixed him with a stern look.

“Both of you are the problem.”

“Gee, such flattery,” Clark said drolly, with a smile to take off the heat. “Okay. I’ll be heading back soon. I’ve got to get back to work, both at the Planet, and as,” he gestured to himself, “you know.”

“Again, you should be fine, no aftereffects, but be careful.” Diana dismissed him with a wave of her hand and a returning smile. “See you soon, Superman.”

Clark managed to change and reach the Daily Planet’s office just in time to be considered punctual. The first thing he did was to seek out Jimmy, who was still seated at his cubicle. “Morning,” Clark greeted with a cheer he didn’t quite feel. “Give me a second. I’ll send you an email for yesterday’s fundraiser too, with a few of my own comments. Good luck with the piece.”

“Morning, lifesaver,” Jimmy replied, looking up from his computer with a grateful thumbs-up. “How was the fundraiser? Did you enjoy myself at least?”

If only Jimmy knew. “It was alright,” Clark shrugged, eager to get back to work so that he could maybe stop thinking about his best friend every five seconds and how he had gone and possibly screwed it all up by, well, screwing him. It was fine, though. It was fine. He had never won Bruce over by being anything less than stubborn, anyway. Which was a feat, if Clark did say so himself, considering how stubborn Bruce was.

But Clark was a much more patient man.

It was a quarter to three when Lois materialised by his side with a sandwich and coffee. He’d been so absorbed in editing his latest piece that he’d skipped lunch break. Surprised, and thankful, Clark accepted with a smile as she raised an eyebrow: “How was the fundraiser?”

Clark’s smile faded and he placidly bit down on the ham and cheese. It was harder to lie to Lois; he rarely did.

“It was— you know. Same old, same old.”

Which was a blatant lie! Unless he ended up on the bed of Wayne Manor every other fundraiser, Bruce’s mouth hot and insistent, a firm thigh pushed between his; Clark’s fingers exploring the outline of his abdomen, coaxing quiet pants from the base of Bruce’s throat. Before that they had stumbled, blindly, in the corridors, Clark tugging insistently at Bruce’s cufflinks and tie, and when Clark had palmed him hot and hard through his suit, Bruce had tugged at his hair; bit down at the juncture between Clark’s neck and collarbone. Which, of course, was the moment the (probably supremely expensive) vase behind him had mysteriously shattered from a single touch as he attempted to find the wall for leverage, though neither of them were particularly paying enough attention to care.

“—lark. Clark. You’re spacing out.”

So much for keeping the memories of last night at bay. “Right. Thanks for the food. I’ll pay you afterwards.”

“Take it as my treat for you helping me with the cartel the other day,” Lois said dismissively, narrowing her eyes. “Don’t think you can get away so easy. You haven’t eaten lunch and you’ve been acting suspiciously since yesterday.”

Since… oh. Clark stood, grabbing the half-eaten sandwich and coffee cup, jerking his head towards the elevator. Lois understood immediately, the two of them heading side by side to the rooftop.

“So?” she demanded, once they arrived. “Spill.”

“I lost my memories yesterday,” he admitted. “Partially, that is. I forgot that I was Superman for a bit.”

Lois’ eyebrows shot up. “How does that work?”

“I don’t know. It doesn’t matter; I’m alright now. I remember everything.”

As Clark took another bite of his sandwich, downing it with a gulp of coffee, Lois seemed to process something, concern creeping over her face. “Are you,” she started slowly, “okay?”

Clark swallowed his food and followed his first instinct. Which was, naturally, to smile.

“Of course. I’m always okay. Why?”

“Don’t give me that ‘always okay’ bullshit. I’m asking why because— Clark. Surely… Perhaps it doesn’t matter, but. To not be the last Kryptonian man for a bit. To be like everybody else. To not have that mantle so heavy on your shoulders, the staggering weight of that S. And then to wake up and have all of that back — are you okay?”

Clark felt like someone had just punched him in the gut, scraping out his insides and spitting them out with acid residue. He lowered his coffee, appetite abruptly lost.

He had been trying not to think about that. The whole incident with Bruce’s was overwhelming enough. Waking up had been a slap in the face in more than one way.

“Some things were retained, subconsciously,” Clark explained, level-headedly. “Even when I didn’t know that I was alien, or that I could crush this whole building without breaking a sweat, I still...” He had still felt— lonely. Cripplingly so. “Anyway. In some ways, it was worse. I didn’t have the League. I didn’t have Bruce. But at least…”

He trailed off, but Lois dipped her head in understanding. It left a taste in his mouth to know that even after all this time, Lois was still one of the only people that could read Clark accurately — and their relationship hadn’t exactly lasted — so what did that say about Clark?

Not wanting to dwell on it any longer, not when the sun was shining so bright today, so brilliantly, Clark cleared his throat. “You’ve eaten already?”

“I have,” she affirmed, but obviously unwilling to let go of the topic so easily: “Is that all?”

“What do you mean?”

“I mentioned the fundraiser and you went,” she pushed up imaginary glasses and hunched over exaggeratedly, pitching her voice low, “‘Same old, same old,’ and then your eyes glazed over for like ten seconds.”

Clark made a face at her. “I do not sound like that. And I was just— recalling something.”

“Recalling what? Is this about Bruce?”

“Why would it be about Bruce?”

“It’s a fundraiser at Gotham, Clark. Held by Wayne. I’ve been to these events, you know, with the two of you there. I’ve seen your little song and dance. Like some bird mating ritual.”

Mating what. “Excuse me?”

“I’m just saying, you have a type.” She flipped her hair in one swift motion, a sharp glint in her eye. “Intelligent, check. Career-driven, check. Sarcastic, observant, fit, check, check, check. I’m nowhere near as repressed but maybe it’s the out of reach part that you love. Headstrong, check—“

“Okay, Lois, enough,” Clark interrupted. He pinched his brows in exasperation. Lois had been insinuating things for months, no matter how many times he told her he had no such intentions. He didn’t… she wasn’t wrong. But she wasn’t right either. “Also, at this point you’re just complimenting yourself.”

She shrugged. “As I should. How did interactions with him go without your memories as Superman?”

“We didn’t interact much at all,” he fibbed with a straight face, quashing his conscience ruthlessly. Clark didn’t want to further any misunderstandings, after all, or have to explain why exactly the situation was so disastrous. Again, though, Lois was someone he rarely lied to; as if sensing his anxiety, she squinted at him suspiciously.

“Oh, yeah? How come?”

“He— looked a little busy, yesterday in particular. I’ll speak to him during our next mission. Or maybe I’ll pay him a visit tonight at the Manor.”

“That’s good,” she replied, and though she didn’t look satisfied, she didn’t push it any further. Clark finished the last dregs of his coffee before tilting his head back, enjoying the feel of the fresh air winding through his hair and the warmth of his favourite sun for a moment longer before turning back to her.

“We’d better go back before Perry starts yelling at us. Thank you, Lois — for checking in on me.”

“Anytime,” she said, wholeheartedly, and then they both went back in.

By the time Clark got off work — overtime, it was well past dinner hour — he’d also managed to get a few breaks in to save a lady from a fire and stop some burglars and help out wherever he could. He reached his apartment just to drop off his stuff before he was off again in his suit, stopping a bus before it could veer off course and slam into a tree; as he soothed a wailing girl from the bus, he found himself tuning into a heartbeat from miles away without much thought.

Clark caught himself a few seconds in, hiding a grimace as the now sparkly-eyed girl thanked him for saving them.

“Stay safe,” he flashed a blinding grin, zooming out of there before he could do something stupid like invade Bruce’s privacy and track his exact location out of habit.

It was no use, though. When he passed a stupidly luxurious car he thought of the Batcave and its many gadgets. When he passed a circus poster he thought of Dick and then of Bruce. When he passed a building owned by Wayne Enterprises, and then another—

This was getting him nowhere. Clark shouldn’t delay it any longer; he had to talk to Bruce about what happened. It would be fine. After all, what they had done — it was done without their memories. They hadn’t known each other. Clark hadn’t known the extent of the consequences of hooking up with Bruce Wayne. Bruce hadn’t known that Clark wasn’t human, or remembered that he knew Clark was emotional and messy and everything that he hated in a relationship.

A romantic one, at least. Their very strong and very platonic current friendship — one that Bruce would deny to his dying breath — was based off of mutual trust and a long, tumultuous history. There was a reason Clark and Bruce gravitated to each other, naturally. That Clark could hurt people so easily while Bruce held reserves of Kryptonite to hurt him back, but they still found each other again and again with trust interlinking their pinkies; the promise and responsibility and weight of the other’s life held close to their chests.

When did it happen? When had Clark started spending less time in his Fortress of Solitude and more time at the Wayne Manor, watching Damian train or having conversation over tea with Alfred? Visiting Bludhaven with Bruce to sit at cafes with Dick, or staying overnight at the Manor, late nights with Bruce at the crackling fireplace, orange sparks reflected in the glimmer of Bruce’s eyes and the glint of his crystal glass. “How was work,” Clark would ask, and Bruce would roll his eyes and recount stories of idiocy and “oh, you should have seen his face when the deal was made.” “How is your mother,” Bruce would ask, and Clark would tell him about the farm with a smile and they would trade tales of their children and how they seemed to be getting along ‘quite well’.

Conversations with Bruce were never boring — he was clever, unerringly so, full of skills and knowledge Clark couldn’t get enough of. They’d talk tactics, strategies, philosophy; jokes, hobbies, observations. During Justice League missions they were a sight to behold, so in-sync Wally often joked they were telepathic. Off-battles, they’d bicker and argue sometimes just to be contrary, unrelenting until their strategies and their plans were polished, refined to perfection. They were co-leaders. Equals.

Clark wasn’t going to let anything jeopardise that.

The moon was already out, shining bright as he shrugged on a flannel and some jeans before flying to Gotham. He knew the city inside and out now, how to move undetected even with the lead-lined buildings and a road full of wary, alert citizens. Of course it wouldn’t escape Bruce’s detection, though; if he was at the cave, he would know Clark was coming.

Coming to a stop at the doorstep of Wayne Manor, Clark paused. Before him was a set of ornate wooden doors, intricately carved and full of memories. It was nothing like Bruce’s other apartments, or even his office, that were full of glass and usually at a very high level because he liked to see things, to be able to look over Gotham like some psychopath with a God complex, except, of course, Bruce actually cared about protecting people and his city. Those minimalist apartments were modern and the complete opposite of the more old-money feel of Wayne Manor, though Clark privately preferred the latter. The former were more— clinical. Full of chrome and transparent furniture and shiny marble floors, abstract art pieces and rather distasteful sculptures that showed none of Bruce in them. 

Ironic, that Bruce showed a tendency to favour glass, transparency, in his spaces, considering how frustratingly opaque the man could be sometimes.

At least here, in the Manor, Clark could feel the history, the warmth of the presence of the Waynes. Art collections from Bruce’s mother and nicks in the floorboards where one of his children had somehow destroyed it doing cartwheels or knocking stuff around. Wallpaper, peeling but well-maintained, the upholstery and embroidery elaborate but not excessive. 

Clark’s own apartment was nothing like that — he was too busy at the Planet, or as Superman, at the Fortress or the farm or the Manor. No one visited him; it was always him visiting people. It was more convenient that way, and it wasn’t as if he had many people to invite over. His apartment was messy and he’d only gotten into the habit of sleeping there more often when Lois was around, but she wasn’t any more; she wasn’t, and so Clark’s shabby apartment wasn’t something he had much attachment to, although he was proud that he had earned the money to pay and upkeep the place with his own hands.

Okay, he’d been standing out here for too long now. Wiping his abruptly clammy palms, Clark took a deep breath and raised his hand to knock, but— darn. Right. He was dawdling even longer. Knowing Bruce, he’d— his reaction to last night would be one of three things. Flippancy, which was the best Clark could hope for but not so much so that Bruce was in denial; avoidance, which had obviously been Bruce’s first instinct that morning but could only be so effective because Clark was going to corner him eventually; or he was simply going to be very mean to Clark in the hopes that Clark would leave him alone, which was a tactic he’d employed often in the early stages of their relationship that had ultimately resulted in fiasco after fiasco.

And Bruce could be mean. Downright nasty, sometimes; that shrewdness, he knew exactly where to cut to make it hurt. But that was because he was an asshole idiot jerk that panicked when he was seen with anything perceived as weakness. So yes, Bruce could be cold and harsh and scornful. But he could also be so, unbearably kind. Thoughtful. Gruff, but protective. Caring. Diligent. Stoic. Funny and witty and intelligent and perceptive and sacrificial and oh, how Clark ached.

Maybe this had been a mistake after all. Maybe Clark should just leave. His resolve wasn’t failing him, it was just, well, sometimes Clark was never quite sure what to do when it came to Bruce. Yes, he he should leave; Clark could just wait for Bruce to contact him first (unlikely), or see him during their next joint mission (could be tomorrow or it could be next month and they’d be too busy fighting crime to talk), or maybe even during a gala or fundraiser as Clark Kent and Bruce Wayne (never mind how well that had gone the last time)—

“Good evening, Master Clark. It appears that I have grown so old waiting for you to knock on the door that my hairline has started to recede.”

Just like that, Clark blinked and the door was open; there Alfred stood, highly unimpressed, to welcome him in. Clark was left frozen with his hand still up and his fist tight as if to knock. Rather sheepishly, he dropped his hand and waved awkwardly as if that had been his intention all along. Alfred didn’t look fooled.

“Alfred! Good to see you. I’ve insisted a million times before, please, call me Clark.”

“Okay, Master Clark,” Alfred repeated politely, and when Clark still didn’t move, he lifted an eyebrow with a signature wryness and a tinge of sarcasm that always made Clark think, so that’s where Bruce gets it from. “I was rather hoping you’d come in before Christmas, but alas.”

“Oh, right, sorry,” Clark hastily made his way in and was immediately bombarded with Damian ambushing him from above.

“Intruder—! Oh, it’s just you,” Damian huffed. He unattached himself from Clark’s head and flipped onto the ground. “Father isn’t in yet. He’s still at work.”

“Quite,” confirmed Alfred, shutting the door behind him. “But please, do stay. Have supper with us, if you haven’t already. Master Bruce… should be home soon.” Alfred shot Clark a piercing look before addressing Damian, stern but gentle. “Master Damian, please, it’s past your bedtime. Your father will be here tomorrow; you can talk to him then. Good night.”

“I’m not a kid, I don’t have a bedtime,” grumbled Damian, but it was obvious he was tired by the way he trudged off without complaint with a grudging good night to both Alfred and Clark. Clark couldn’t help the smile tugging at his lips watching Damian leave.

“He’s a cute kid. A handful, and vicious, but cute.” Clark studiously avoided Alfred’s very pointed gaze as he cleared his throat and turned. “I was hoping to talk to Bruce, but it’s fine. I’ll come back some other day. Thank yo—“

“Stay for supper,” Alfred suggested, in a tone that was more statement than suggestion. “Master Bruce just has to tidy up some things. As usual. It would do the two of you good. Plus,” he added, “I had the feeling you’d be coming over, so I made extras.”

“Oh,” Clark said. How could he say no to that? “Sure, then. Thank you very much.”

Alfred smiled. “Master Bruce will be back soon.”

It’ll be fine, Clark told himself, and then he followed Alfred into the dining room because if nothing else, the man did make delicious food.

It had been a long, long day. Bruce had woken up at the tower and had instantly realised that he had, once again, fucked it all up. Great. Lovely. Marvellous — now Bruce would never be able to get the image of Clark in orgasm out his fucking head.

There was no justification. Even without his memories, he should have known it was a bad idea. He did know it was a bad idea. He would be a big fat liar if he claimed he hadn’t seen the signs, blaring a bright blood scarlet in front of his eyes with the words ’STOP’ scrawled in blocky neon, even without his memories, without the conscious understanding of why, exactly, taking that infuriating man home was a horrendous fucking decision.

The thing was, Bruce was a liar. Taking Clark to bed had been a terribly selfish decision. And the thing was, Bruce was selfish. He was greedy. He had seen the awkward, surprisingly sharp, annoyingly upright stick-up-his-ass reporter and thought: that one. I want him.

Even without his memories, Bruce had let down his guard around Clark. His farce, his Brucie mask, deconstructed bit by bit in the face of every single version of Clark Kent that could exist.

And although this was the first time he’d had explicit confirmation that Clark was indeed not straight, Bruce would also be bullshitting to claim he hadn’t once thought what Superman would be like in bed. Fuck. He’d always made sure the train of thought was destroyed as soon as it surfaced, but— sue him. He was curious; Bruce was a science man at heart. It would start off clinical. How different was Kryptonian biology? (Almost identical, apparently, although Bruce hardly had the time, wherewithal, or knowledge to experiment, and thinking back, Clark may or may not have physically floated at some point). Were Kryptonians sensitive at certain spots? What were their sensations like — would it be the same in the presence of Kryptonite and without?

Inevitably, then, the wondering would shift from Superman to Clark Kent. Would Clark unravel, lose that sense of responsibility just once in his life? Would he be rough, or gentle, or both? How he would look on Bruce’s bed, on his sheets, the wrinkles on his eyes creased as he smiled, the flawless skin of his neck bared as he clutched onto Bruce and panted. And— damn it, Bruce was thinking about it again. Fuck his entire life.

Paperwork upon paperwork was spread across his office desk, Bruce’s fountain pen staining his fingers with an inky black. A glance at the clock confirmed that it was getting late. He leaned back in his chair and briefly closed his eyes, acknowledging that he had barely slept the previous night, or the night before, and that certainly hadn’t helped his concentration. Or maybe that was an excuse, because sleep deprivation was something he was far too used to; it was more Clark, as much as he was loathe to admit, the phantom feel of his nails on Bruce’s back, of fingers digging into Bruce’s abdomen, of Bruce mouthing at his navel, and, well. It was no wonder he had to drown himself in work to even remotely have a chance of not thinking about it — who the hell would forget a night like that?

Bruce spared another moment to feel a little regret over continuously taking out his frustration today at work. He’d pushed his team harder than he would have, almost overdoing a negotiation deal. He had to rein it in; this wasn’t sustainable. Clark… Bruce could only suspect what he was thinking right now. What he thought of last night. For someone so seemingly open, Clark could be supremely difficult to read; though, knowing Clark, his reaction to last night could be one of three things:

Reassurance, because no doubt he’d know Bruce was pissed at himself, and at Clark too actually, because it was irresponsible of the both of them, never mind that they’d lost their memories. Logic, because Clark was equally irritating and determined to be contrary — and despite what one would think, Clark’s rationality was ice-cold when it came into play, something Bruce saw more often than most considering Clark knew reason appealed to him the most. Or maybe, and most likely, patience, adapting to however Bruce reacted, because Clark was irksome like that, always putting other people first, molding himself into what he thought they needed, never mind what he himself needed.

Bruce hated it. Bruce hated him. And if only hate was the only thing he felt, things would be so much simpler.

Rubbing a hand over his face, he decided that he’d get the rest of his work done at the Manor. He hardly wanted to risk Alfred’s wrath, after all; Alfred had cooked and made him promise he’d be back by eleven. It was already half past.

Later, in the car, his finger tapping impatiently at the wheel, the glare of the red traffic lights falling across his face, Bruce resolutely did not think about Clark. After supper, Bruce would head out for patrol, and go to sleep immediately after. He’d brew coffee, or perhaps sneak in a short Proust chapter before patrol if possible. True, Dick was in town and he and Tim were covering his shifts for around a week, but Bruce would still prefer heading out with them anyway.

Wayne Enterprises’ new acquisition was rather successful, too, if Bruce did say so himself, but they couldn’t get cocky. He’d have to schedule a meeting with one of his major shareholders, talk about the new hospital he was planning to build, check in on how the latest orphanage was doing. He was busy; he had work to do; he was a professional, both as CEO and as Batman and as a leader of the League. So — it was alright if things were a little awkward with Clark. The dread sitting in the pit of his stomach was only because—

A dozen scenarios, at rapid speed, shuffled through his head as the light turned green and Bruce stepped, harder than necessary, on the gas. “I didn’t know you were into me that way,” said imaginary-Clark, and the pity in his eyes would make bile rise up, acid burning Bruce’s throat. “I’m sorry, but I hope we can still remain friends.” Regret marring his face, underlying disgust. Or something Clark would never say but Bruce found himself thinking nevertheless: “As if I would ever be interested in you; obviously, who would, in someone so bitter and callous and scarred and unloveable,” and Clark would laugh in his face, mockingly, because it really was a joke, thinking anyone could love him.

Not that love had anything to do with this. Bruce had had plenty of one-nights stands, and Clark knew that; not everything in the media was fabricated. So. Clark had no reason to presume. The only thing Bruce could pray for — and trust him, Bruce was not a religious man by far — was that this wouldn’t ruin what they had. That Clark would still be willing to— talk. To Bruce. To spend time with him comfortably. To joke around without abandon and be youthful the way he couldn’t be for anyone else. With all that Clark had done for him, it was the least Bruce could do; to provide that space.

He parked the car and grabbed his briefcase, entering the Manor with a ruminative frown. Strange; Alfred was typically here to greet him. Bruce passed where a certain vase had been on the way to the study room and grimaced at the reminder. In Clark’s— eagerness, yesterday, he’d momentarily lost control of his super strength, although Bruce was too busy undressing Clark from that horrid suit to notice the details.

Bruce had no idea when he’d see Clark next — their schedules were both unpredictable, and Justice League missions requiring their assistance popped up every so often usually without warning. But it would all be alright, as long as Bruce had control over the situation; he could plan what to say in advance to every scenario he could think of to try and mitigate the damage as much as possible. That was his speciality after all; strategies, damage control, contingencies upon contingencies. It was fine. He could stay in control, could salvage this.

Bruce dropped his briefcase in his study, loosened his tie, entered the dining room and fuck everything he did not have a contingency for this.

There, in his grand tweed nerd country-boy get-up, was Clark — because of bloody course it was. The man was annoyingly fucking unpredictable at the worst of times. Perhaps Bruce should have seen it coming; unlike Bruce, Clark was always one to dive headfirst into confrontation, or conflict, even when it didn’t bode well for him. He’d certainly shown a propensity for burning himself over a metaphorical fire again and again like some fucked up overgrown moth to flame, as evidenced from the fact that he was friends with Bruce in the first place.

Clark had a mouthful of pasta, chewing politely as he ate generous forkfuls. Across from him, Tim sat regaling him with tales of Conner at school, much to Clark’s obvious concern. It wasn’t often Clark didn’t sense his presence immediately, but today Clark seemed preoccupied, even as he nodded attentively, swallowing his noodles before replying.

Bruce took a moment, leaning against the doorway to watch the way Tim gestured excitedly with his hands flailing, and Clark humouring him with smiles and well-timed comments. Shit — when had it come to this?

Alfred was the first to notice him; he gave Bruce a warning side-eye from where he was bustling around the kitchen opposite. Clark had just finished the last of his pasta when he suddenly shot up, whirling around at breakneck speed to look at Bruce.

“Bruce,” he said, looking understandably taken aback, considering he was used to detecting presence from miles away. “How long have you been standing there?”

“Long enough to hear that our sons have been thrown into detention for pranking each other with grafitti genetalia in school,” Bruce replied, neutrally, before quirking an eyebrow at Tim: we’ll be talking about this later.

“Shit,” Tim muttered, before standing and nudging Clark. “Good talk, man, uh— I’d better go to sleep, I’m suddenly feeling a little tired, um. I’ll be taking a short nap before I meet Dick for patrol. See ya,“ and off he went. Leaving Clark and Bruce, in the dining room, staring at each other for a beat too long.

“Let me just,” Clark pointed redundantly at his plate. He stood, Bruce tracking his movements the entire time from the doorway, before running his plate in the dishwasher, despite Alfred’s protests. Then he walked up to Bruce. Hands fidgeting with his glasses, looking like a man facing the gallows:

“Shall we talk?”

Bruce resigned himself to not going for patrol that night. His most well-laid plans always crumbled against the force of nature that was Clark Kent, anyway. He waved a hand, eyes fluttering shut. “Go to the hearth. I’ll meet you there.”

Clark murmured his assent, walking out the doorway without objection. Their shoulders brushed as Clark left, a gentle touch, leaving Bruce staring at the now empty dining room, Alfred still lining up the cutlery in the kitchen nearby. God, he needed a drink. Finally moving from his position in the doorway, he walked to Alfred’s side and began rummaging through the cabinets to find a bottle of scotch stashed away from the kids. He made sure to grab two glasses. Clark probably wouldn’t partake, but— Bruce always offered.

“Don’t,” Bruce said, when Alfred opened his mouth.

“You have a good thing going, Master Bruce.” Alfred didn’t sound happy. “I trust you’ll be careful with it.”

“I’m always careful,” Bruce scoffed, before taking his drink and making his way to one of the many sitting rooms in the Manor, but one that he and Clark liked to frequent. There was this old red armchair there, next to the fireplace, that Clark always curled up on. Bruce would lounge on the couch beside it, watching Clark watch him, the fizzle of the flames their shared song, even when it wasn’t winter.

Sure enough, Clark was already on the armchair, head tilted back and mouth flattened into an unreadable line; the second Bruce stepped into the room, it was likely that Clark had heard him coming, because he straightened up with an automatic smile. Bruce walked over and set the bottle and glasses down onto the coffee table with a clink.

“Want some?” he asked, levelly, making sure his voice betrayed no emotion. He uncorked the bottle and poured golden scotch into his glass.

“It would be—“

“—wasted on you, yes, yes,” Bruce finished airily, and Clark’s smile turned a touch more genuine.

“I pity your liver.”

“I pity you more. You have yet to experience the wonders of drinking.”

“The wonders of a raging hangover, too?”

“Touche.”

Clark hesitated, briefly. “How’s work? I heard about the new hospital.”

Wary, Bruce settled onto the couch with his legs crossed, taking a slow sip from his glass. “I’m hopeful. It’s going well; remember that shareholder I told you about that was causing me trouble? He shouldn’t be a problem anymore. I’ll be finalising things soon. Ideally we can begin construction next month.”

“That’s good to hear.”

“And you? How was work today?”

“One of the girls I saved today looked like Steph. She was cute. As for the Planet, I’m beginning that article on the urban infrastructure development at the outskirts of Metropolis — I’ll have to interview a few stakeholders soon enough.”

“I hope it goes well.”

“Thank you.”

There was another beat of silence before they spoke at the same time.

“Clark, if you—“

“I never thought—“

Both of them cut off, and Bruce flicked his palm to indicate Clark should go on.

“Last night was a mistake,” said Clark, and Bruce had braced himself to hear it, but that didn’t mean it stung any less. It felt like someone had reached into his ribcage; like they had crushed the breath out of him and wrung him dry. He took a more generous swig of scotch as Clark continued. “Listen, Bruce — not like that. I just meant that neither of us were in our right minds. It doesn’t have to mean anything. We saw each other, we recognised each other, we were confused and feeling things we didn’t understand.”

And there’s the logic.

“Your point?” Bruce said, sharper than he’d intended.

“My point is, are you alright?”

All Bruce could do in response to that was let out a bark of laughter, lowering his glass.

“You said it yourself, Clark,” he said. “It was a mistake. Nothing that serious, surely. You’d hardly be the first person I brought home from similar events.”

There was an almost imperceptible flinch from Clark. “Yes, but—“

“But what?” asked Bruce, calmly. “Was it because I was less of the playboy Wayne and more,” he held out his palm vaguely, but Clark knew what he meant, “this? Don’t think too much into it, Clark; you’re right about the subconscious recognition. It just only reached to a certain extent.”

“Yes, well— you’re right. I just… okay. We’ll put it behind us?”

God, thank the heavens this scotch was strong. He gulped down the last of the alcohol, the liquid burning down his throat. “Naturally. If anything, I should be asking you: are you alright? I didn’t quite strike you as the type to put out so easily.”

To Bruce’s fascination, a light pink dusted Clark’s cheeks. “I don’t!” he said indignantly. “I rarely bother with one-night stands. It’s just…”

“What,” said Bruce humourlessly, “fell for the Bruce Wayne charm just like all the rest?” Clark, not knowing who Bruce was, was willing to sleep with a known sleazebag; Clark, as he was now, as uninterested in Bruce as could be. Figured.

“No,” Clark said, his voice going quiet as Bruce leaned forward to pour another glass of scotch. “Not the Bruce Wayne charm. Here, let me.”

Their hands brushed, smooth against calloused skin as Clark took the bottle of scotch, mirroring his lean forward to fill about half the glass for Bruce.

“You weren’t that different, you know.”

Surely he had heard wrong. “How so?” Bruce snorted incredulously. “Any version of me like that, without Batman, it isn’t me. Just like any version of you not Superman fundamentally misses something.”

“I know,” Clark agreed, “but there were still pieces of you. Did you not see pieces of me, too?”

“Who else would be so stubborn?”

“Says you,” Clark shot back, a smile curving his mouth again, and just like that, Bruce felt the edges of his frustration, his bitterness, his anger, melt away.

“What was up with the whole bumbling reporter act if you thought you didn’t have powers?”

Clark lifted a shoulder. The outline of his facial bone structure was traced by the warm orange glow of the fire, making him look soft and pensive. “A few reasons. It’s been ingrained in me for so long. Plus, it does wonders in journalism; people are always more willing to give scoops to a country mouse over a tall bulky man.” He jerked his head, thoughtfully. “You too, Bruce. If anything, your lies were much thicker than mine.”

Taking a considering sip, Bruce took a second to reply. “I think, partly,” he began slowly, “because, like you, it was easier to be underestimated.” More than that. It was easier not to be known, or be vulnerable, and he’d had to put on a front, ever since he was a kid in a school mocked by peers without his parents.

“You were— unhappy,” Clark ventured, prompting.

Now that was funny. “Am I ever happy?”

“Shut up,” Clark muttered, and despite himself, Bruce had to bite back an ill-timed laugh. “You’re so dramatic sometimes.”

“Me? Surely not.” It wasn’t like his response to his parents being killed had been to don a black suit and go around punching criminals.

“Very funny. Sure, you can be one miserable son of a gun. But you’ve gotten better over the years. Listen, Bruce; it’s okay to enjoy yourself sometimes. Life isn’t all sunshine and rainbows, sure, but it’s not all doom and gloom either.”

Bruce put his elbows on his thighs. “I know, Boy Scout,” he replied wearily. Clark had taught him that. Clark had brought so much light into Bruce’s life, because that was what he did — every where he went, he touched it for the better. And Bruce knew he wasn’t perfect. That he was hardly— optimistic. But Clark had helped him to try.

“Do you?” Clark asked, rather helplessly.

“Look,” said Bruce. “The mistakes I’ve made, they aren’t small. Ask Jason. He’d be happy to tell you all about it. This Manor, this life; the position I’m in is special. The person I am… I’m not exactly a paragon of goodness, Clark. I’m not— like you.”

“Don’t,” Clark snapped. “Don’t do that.”

“What? Put you on a pedestal? Trust me, Clark, I’m not.” Bruce understood. Superman had to be perfect. Superman had to be an exemplar of grace and morality. Clark — Clark was more human than anyone else. He could be messy, flawed. He could make mistakes, just like Bruce. Their first meeting had made all that quite obvious; and Bruce suspected Clark valued that Bruce understood that. “You’re no more perfect that I am. But that doesn’t change the fact that— I mean— Clark. You’re so, effortlessly… good.”

Clark jabbed a finger at him. “Have you seen yourself? You carry around goddamn lollipops in your suit.”

“See? This is exactly what I mean.”

“As in?”

“You always see the best in people.”

“There is always best to be seen.”

“You’re a good man, Clark,” said Bruce, and Clark rolled his eyes.

“You were the one who once told me good and evil were social constructs.”

“And so they are. Must you disagree with everything I say?”

“Must you say things that are so blatantly disagreeable?”

Bruce huffed and drank more scotch. “I think that version of me was lying to myself,” he admitted, after a moment. “Trying to display such a carefree lifestyle. I think— I think he felt guilt. For not doing more. For not doing enough. For seeing his parents die in front of him and doing nothing, for seeing all the injustice his kids faced and not taking more drastic action and feeling like nothing he did made a difference — I don’t know.”

“Exactly what I meant when I said I saw pieces of you,” Clark accused. His mouth was drawn down; pressed into a dissatisfied line. “You and your guilt complex. Even now, you don’t think you’re doing enough. You never think you’re doing enough. You always think you did something wrong; you should have been faster, stronger, kinder, whatever. Does your brain ever shut up? You’re too smart for your own good.”

“Maybe you’re simply not thinking enough,” Bruce countered, never mind that Clark was one of the quickest, most acute minds he knew.

“Are you calling me dumb?”

“If the shoe fits,” said Bruce, lazily, to which Clark reached over, snatched the glass out of his hands, and threw the armchair pillow at his face. Hiding a smirk, Bruce ducked without much difficulty.

“Incorrigible.”

“Thank you.”

Clark let out a breath. “You are making a difference, Bruce,” he said.

“We are making a difference,” Bruce corrected. “Now give me my scotch back.”

Instead of simply passing the mostly-empty glass over, though, Clark stood, helping him pour just slightly more before pressing it into his hands. “It’s good to unwind — relax for once, God knows you need it — but don’t overdo it,” he instructed. “Your liver needs a break just as much as you do.”

This side of Clark used to get on his nerves, but now, Bruce couldn’t find it in himself to be irritated. “Do you ever stop nagging?”

“You keep giving me things to nag about,” replied a disgruntled Clark, and to Bruce’s wordless surprise, sat down next to Bruce. They were far too close, considering the size of the couch; but Bruce didn’t move away, and neither did Clark. The warmth of Clark’s body heat, running higher than a normal human’s, warmed Bruce just as much as the fireplace did.

“You know,” said Bruce, voice dropping to a murmur, “correct me if I’m wrong, but— I understand, you know. How it feels to wake up after a day of forgetting that— forgetting so many burdens in your life. Are you…” He trailed off, but Clark offered him a smile. It was a sweet one, if imbued with a muted wryness. When he spoke, it was in an equally quiet voice.

“Lois said the same thing. Really, it’s not that bad; Bruce, I like the work I do as Superman. I like being able to help people.”

Closer, Bruce could see the specks in Clark’s brilliantly blue eyes, the curl of his long lashes. “Of course I know that, Clark. But it’s not about being Superman per se, is it?” It was about being human. Not feeling so alone. Not feeling that crushing responsibility all the time.

Clark ran a finger along the rim of his glasses, still smiling. “Honestly, it wasn’t that different. A lot I still remembered, or felt, somewhere inside me, anyway.”

Bruce paused, searching for an adequate reply, a comfort he could offer no matter how paltry — before abruptly freezing, voice fading. Clark’s fingers were on his chin, all of a sudden, tilting his head slightly. An index finger brushed over his cheek, a careful sort of tender. Clark was— Bruce didn’t know what he was doing. He couldn’t open his mouth to ask. The breath felt knocked out of Bruce’s lungs; chest seized by something he couldn’t name.

Bruce could only watch Clark rather dumbly as the room fell quiet, save for the fireplace and Clark’s breathing. 

After a second, Clark seemed to come back to himself and jerked his hand off as if burned. “Eyelash,” Clark said hastily, by way of explanation, and he didn’t meet Bruce’s eyes as he held up a single fallen eyelash for Bruce to see on the tip of his finger.

Oh. Right.

Bruce composed himself with a practiced speed, running a hand through his hair. Fuck; this man was going to be the death of him. They were even closer now, Clark having shifted towards him, their thighs pressing hot together and shoulders grazing each other as they moved.

Bruce surprised both of them with his next question. “Are you going to make a wish?”

“I didn’t think you believed in that sort of thing,” Clark said, sounding far too amused for Bruce’s liking. 

Bruce fell back onto the couch and tightened the grip on his glass, because it had almost fallen out of his hands during Clark’s earlier stunt. “No, but you do seem like the type to believe in such nonsense.”

“You’re not entirely wrong,” conceded Clark. “It’s harmless, though. Just a little bit of fun.”

“Wishing for something does nothing. If you want something, you’ll have to reach for it yourself.”

Clark wrinkled his nose, but the way his eyes curved into a grin revealed his mirth.

“Sorry, I forgot you were allergic to fun.”

“Hilarious. Just shut up and make your wish.”

Eyes closing, Clark listened to him — for once — and went silent. Bruce drank, wordlessly, before allowing himself to indulge in a second of observation.

Even with flimsy glasses and a horrid fashion sense, it was undeniable that Clark was attractive. Bruce had known that even without his memories. It was more than that, though, that attractiveness. The sheer, untamed power that Clark kept under control, that he used to protect; the way some things were so simple to Clark, that it was so easy for him to choose to be compassionate everyday, even having seen the ugliest of humanity as a man doomed to be an outsider.

Clark had given him hope again, for a new world. A better one.

If all it took for Bruce to keep Clark here, by his side, was to move past last night — then it didn’t matter. He would cut out as many unnecessary feelings as needed. He could— he would forget about it.

Clark opened his eyes and blew the eyelash away in one go, a tiny smile spreading over his face as he met Bruce’s eyes.

“What did you wish for?” Bruce murmured.

“It’s a secret.” Clark sounded, for a second, strangely wistful. “Don’t you know? If I tell you, it won’t come true.”

They looked at each other for a second, low voices intermingling; then a pause, a drawn-out silence, where they just stared, far longer than they should, the atmosphere inexplicably tense. There was something so intimate, suddenly, about this moment suspended in time: a frozen snapshot. Clearing his throat, Bruce looked away — moment broken — and shrugged.

“Have it your way, then. Tell me about De Luoro’s cartel that you helped Lois bust the other day.”

When Clark straightened up, eagerly, he was still— touching, Bruce, casually, but it didn’t mean anything, Bruce told himself, Clark said it himself, that he didn’t want Bruce, that it didn’t mean anything — all it took was one bright, unabashed grin, and the crushing weight of the room’s air lightened just like that; no longer stifling and unsure.

“Only after you tell me about your new grappling hook.”

And Bruce let himself return the smile, reluctantly. He could control himself; could stay in control.

Nothing had to change.

“Alright, Clark,” he said, finishing the last of his scotch. “Alright.”

Chapter Text

That night, Clark stayed over at Wayne Manor. They talked shop, and more shop, because Bruce was a workaholic that way — not that Clark was much better — and then went into a lengthy and rather ideological debate before Clark forced him to sleep. Bruce had— he had immediately conceded to Clark’s point, earlier: it doesn’t mean anything. He hadn’t just conceded; he’d made it pretty clear that he was indifferent, that it wasn’t even worth fussing over, like Clark was the one being presumptuous for implying that what happened the other night, the conversation and the sex and the unexplained and fierce connection between them, could possibly be something remotely meaningful.

It was the tack Clark had chosen to take, anyway, so he couldn’t complain. Clark wasn’t complaining — he wasn’t lying when he told Bruce it wasn’t that deep. Bruce was there; he had been hot, and intriguing, and had kissed and propositioned Clark in a way that swept him off his feet and Clark had found himself unable to say no.

Perfectly normal. It didn’t matter that Clark, even without his memories, knew himself to rather avoid one-night stands. He had no particular craving for sex, most days; he was too busy, and there was always a risk too — with his powers, his identity as Superman. It didn’t matter that amnesia-Clark had latched onto the Bruce parts of Bruce Wayne and that his feelings had been completely disproportionate to his experiences with the man. It didn’t matter that thoughts like ‘if sleeping with Bruce without memories was like that, how incredible would sleeping with Bruce now be’ flickered across Clark’s mind with rapid speed and hasty dismissal.

It didn’t matter because Bruce was still by his side — because Bruce had still stayed — and that was all that Clark cared about.

Unfortunately, while Clark’s more emotional determination and more level-headed reasoning were wrangled in line, Clark’s stupid subconscious brain was left a straggler. He— noticed things, now. He noticed things he’d been avoiding noticing for as long as he could bear, sharper and more clearly and as detached as he could be because the alternative would be to have everything crumble apart in front of his eyes.

It started small. In the middle of breakfast, Bruce grumpy and bleary-eyed over coffee, his kids running amok on their way to work or school, dropping by the table to scarf down eggs and bacon before leaving. Clark grabbed a napkin, wiping spilled orange juice from a squirming Damian’s shirt, and paused: was this normal? Wasn’t this— strangely domestic? But the Waynes were practically family, so it was a given, and he let it go.

Then: the gifts. Bruce liked to buy Clark things, always had, even though Clark had hated it at first. But Bruce was persistent, and sly, and he’d do things like get one of his kids to pass it over, or slip it into his clothes, or phrase it in a way that Clark couldn’t refuse like “share it with your mother, I’m sure she’d appreciate it”. It was how Bruce was; one of the ways he showed care. He almost never did so directly. His penchant for symbolism and meaning unspoken was a language Clark had learnt to be fluent in.

When Clark had showed up at the Planet the other day, after getting into an argument with Bruce about something or the other, there was a box of cologne on his desk wrapped with a small black ribbon. A while back in the Manor he’d seen the exact same bottle — Bruce had been on his tablet watching the news, and with his permission Clark was going through his rows of cologne, sniffing each one of them experimentally, careful to keep his super scent under control.

It was ridiculous; nobody needed that much cologne.

But it was very Bruce Wayne, careless and over-the-top, and Clark suspected Bruce secretly enjoyed switching it up sometimes. He liked control in every aspect of his life, after all — even down to the smallest detail, perfectionist detective that he was.

A few of them were heavy. Strong and dark. Clark only really recognised those from when Bruce was at fundraisers or in office. There was one that smelled more like Bruce’s shampoo, his natural scent, smoke and musk and a faint hint of vanilla, and Clark had hovered in front of it, breathing in deeply for just a second longer. Bruce had glanced over, then; asked, lowly, “You like that one?”

And Clark had only shrugged, but here he was anyway. When he reached his apartment, carefully placing the cologne into a drawer — it was only then he stopped. Took a step back for the first time in as long as he could remember.

There were the cufflinks Bruce had bought him, blankets and a watch and a small lamp. Socks, headphones, a coffee machine; even a tailored suit that Clark had scolded him for, one he hadn’t gotten a chance to wear yet.

Somewhere, somehow, without Clark realising, the question had turned from why was Bruce buying him all this to why was Clark letting him?

His acute awareness of Bruce’s presence, too, was something Clark had never thought twice of. Sometimes it was the listening: the even thump-thump of Bruce’s heartbeat in Clark’s ears, his quiet, steady breaths. Sometimes it was his smell: the sweat after a workout, dirt and debris after a mission but always that underlying earthy musk, vanilla shampoo and body wash from a shower or the fresh scent of his clothes and linen.

Most of the time, though, it was the watching. Bruce sipping on a coffee cup or reading a book, the rhythmic rise and fall of his chest. The way Bruce interacted with Tim or Damian or Stephanie or Alfred, the way his skin shone and his shoulders heaved after training at the Batcave. The slant of his mouth or the curve of his brow, the sides of his cheeks deepening into a rarely-seen dimple, the way his nose wrinkled slightly in disdain and grudging amusement when Clark made a bad joke. Clark would watch and he hadn’t even known he was doing it.

That also meant, though, that Clark knew Bruce very well. Bruce was moody. That much was clear — less clear were the triggers. He hid it most of the time, but the aches and pains of his body sometimes caught up to him, or the high-stress nature of his work would raise his blood pressure. It was worse whenever he had injuries; the frustration of not being able to do much got to him. On those days, he’d be more snappish; sometimes he’d lash out at Clark, or Alfred when he tried to take care of him. He’d apologise after that, though — not verbally, but through gifts or gestures or I’ve got a dinner reservation for two, you coming?

And Bruce was— he could be so thoughtful, sometimes. Considerate. That thoroughness in battle — his focused intensity and conscientiousness when strategising or coming up with new gadgets — could so easily translate to his relationships. He would brew an extra cup of coffee for Dick whenever he stayed the night, with exact proportions of cream milk and sugar. He would tie criminals up in a place where the police force could access them safely and conveniently. He would get Alfred to cook Clark’s favourite food, every so often, except Clark hadn’t ever explicitly told Bruce what exactly he liked, other than “anything Alfred cooks is delicious”.

A few weeks after the day they slept together, Clark was wandering around the Manor after a refreshing conversation with Tim about investigative work — he took after Bruce, that one, with his thirst for knowledge and sharp reasoning not unlike the ‘World’s Greatest Detective’ — when he tracked Bruce’s heartbeat to one of the sitting rooms, curiously, because his breathing pattern had changed.

There were a lot of things about Bruce that were always on, dialled up to eleven, with his signature intensity and charisma. When he wasn’t Batman, he was CEO. When he wasn’t CEO, he was a playboy. When he wasn’t a playboy, he was still thinking and working and learning. All throughout, he was a detective. Clark was blessed; he was blessed to catch the slips, the moments in-between, where Bruce would dip his head back on his chair slightly and his eyes would flutter shut, or he’d spend time watching his kids, or enjoying the view from his balcony, or even watching the occasional film documentary.

This was one such moment. He’d take power naps every so often. It spoke volumes that— that Bruce, of all people, allowed himself to do so with Clark in the house. In that sitting room, then, lying on a brown chaise sofa, Bruce was asleep. His brow was smooth, and he looked… peaceful, in a way he hardly did when awake.

Something almost sickening washed over Clark at the sight.

He grabbed a blanket and covered Bruce with it, careful not to linger too long, because there was a line between ‘observation’ and ‘being a creep’ and watching Bruce like this — eyes closed, shields down — probably crossed it. He used super speed, because Bruce tended to be alert even in sleep; then Clark curled at the feet of the sofa, head on the armrest, and fell asleep next to Bruce.

When he woke, the space where Bruce had been was empty. There was a wrinkle left in the fabric, a heat where he had been. Clark could hear him down in the cave. The blanket was— it now fell over Clark’s shoulders, and— Clark fisted a hand in the woolly fabric, helplessly.

So, yes. Bruce made it so easy to…

To…

Rao, Clark couldn’t handle this.

To make things worse, his libido, which had never really given him a problem before, was starting to act up.

Clark could handle good-looking people. He was friends with Lois; hell, he worked with the Justice League. A congregation of literal kings and goddesses and people who looked like they had been carved out of stone. Physical attraction to Clark had always been a little more than that, anyway, and lust was rather low on his list of priorities most of the time.

Most of the time.

Clark couldn’t see things the way he had before, and not for lack of trying. When Tim sparred with Bruce on the Batcave mats, Clark had attempted, very unsuccessfully, to not stare. At Bruce. Who had a plain shirt on, which was already more skin than he showed most of the time. Webs of scars crossed their way on his arms, muscles flexing visibly as he rolled his shoulders and stretched, sweat dripping down his sides. The context he was in was vastly different from the last time Clark had seen him this bare; even so — or maybe because of it — it was hard to think straight, watching Bruce’s fluidity and his predatory movement, the raw skill and hard work and discipline that must have been put in.

Unfortunately, Clark may or may not have started drooling slightly at the sight. Which was horrible; he’d seen Bruce shirtless countless times, after missions or during a workout. He’d never allowed himself to look, though, properly look. He didn’t allow himself to fantasise, either, but there was no fantasy needed anymore, now that he had memories to draw from — but then those memories would tread treacherously close to fantasies, and Clark was in serious trouble.

It didn’t take much, really. Bruce would lean in a little too close sometimes, or— he got drenched in water, fighting some fish monsters in a mission the other day, the Batsuit clinging even more than usual to his skin; and when he held up a heavy stone pillar with one hand to save a girl, thighs flexing, barely batting an eyelid, Clark had to go back and take a very long and very cold shower.

Surely it made sense. Of course this would happen after— after such a night. Still, it was troublesome; it made a little ball of anxiety curl in the pit of Clark’s stomach, at what would happen if Bruce found out.

And it was undeniable that Bruce was a well-known bachelor voted sexiest man in magazines everywhere. It was more than that, though, that attractiveness. He was a man who, beneath it all, loved so very fiercely, his parents and his friends and his kids; but he’d had it ripped from him, and he’d been angry, of course he had, and it could’ve been so easy to channel that anger into hate — but instead he chose to be Batman.

Bruce had taken his pain and his drive and his determination and came out with a hope that he could make things better.

Clark couldn’t find that not attractive. Skin-deep, his mannerisms and his quips and his everything.

With that being said, though, Clark had been studiously avoiding anything that would bring him to Gotham as a journalist for some reason or the other. The few times he had attended one of Bruce’s charity events events they hadn’t interacted any more than necessary — it wouldn’t be good to draw undue suspicion, was Bruce’s reasoning — but sometimes Bruce would purposefully tease him, or roll his eyes at Clark from across the room subtly when a particularly dense comment was being made.

Jimmy had said that he’d make excuses to go, and well. He hadn’t been too far off the mark. Clark enjoyed being able to visit Bruce, always, even if they couldn’t speak much. He enjoyed seeing Bruce — not in his element, not quite, but able to keep people in the palm of his hand. One of his masks, except Clark was in on it. In on his smarmy jokes, his lewd once-overs, his vapid frown — “what’s a merger?”, he would ask, as if he couldn’t recite Marx with his eyes closed — and glasses of champagne that were, in truth, barely touched.

Those cases, though, were different. Clark had— he had known, of course, who Bruce was. Vice versa, Bruce had known who he was. The flirting, the interest, every time it had been directed at Clark, they’d both known it was deliberate. That it wasn’t real.

It wasn’t real. Until it was, that day. The attraction had seemed goddamn genuine and maybe, just maybe, if they had met under different circumstances—

That was a dangerous train of thought.

Clark wasn’t unsatisfied with their current relationship — quite the opposite. It was everything he could have hoped for and more. There was no reason to be greedy; no reason to… Rao. His thoughts were going in circles, an infinite loop-the-loop sucking him in and spitting him out with a good case of motion sickness to boot.

So yes. Needless to say, Clark wasn’t anywhere close to, quote unquote, ‘putting it behind’ him. He’d been flying to the Fortress a lot more, recently, to clear his head. But he had to ignore everything — someway or the other, somehow — because Batman was his best friend — and he wasn’t planning on that changing anytime soon.

Bruce had to ignore everything. He realised, of course; he wasn’t daft. The way Clark’s stares lingered when he took off his shirt, now, or how despite always having been a tactile person, Clark was touching him more.

He— wasn’t quite sure how to feel about it.

Because, on one hand, it was always flattering to be wanted — even in a physical sense. That Clark had enjoyed himself, at least, that night, was a comfort of sorts.

On the other hand, Bruce had no idea what to do with that.

This situation, this whole fiasco, God. It brought a bright flaring burst of something that felt like anger at the pit of his stomach. What the fuck was Clark thinking? Obviously, he wasn’t thinking, unless it was with his dick. Perhaps that was an unfair statement, because Bruce had never known Clark to be tied down by such worldly, hedonistic desires (unlike you, pointed out a voice in his head), such as money — or lust. But Clark was acting outside of expectations — he was acting out of line; after all, he was the one who had told Bruce that sleeping was Bruce had been— what had he called it? A ‘mistake’.

And the worse thing was how Bruce found himself responding in kind. He’d eye the line of Clark’s neck appreciatively, the strip of toned sunkissed skin exposed when Clark’s shirt rid up. The fit of his torn jeans and the muscle of his calf.

Especially after he’d resolved to let go of whatever lingering impressions he had from that night, the personal failure only stung more. So no, the real question was what was Bruce thinking?

He wasn’t even quite sure why it made him so irritated. There were a plethora of reasons to pick from, though: Clark was being contradictory as usual. Bruce was, despite himself, still attracted to Clark. Sleeping together again would be ill-advised on ten different levels — they worked in the League where they risked their lives everyday — it would be a conflict of interest. It would be— messy. Clark didn’t seem like the type to pursue purely sexual relationships, but he’d always surprised Bruce; plus, it wasn’t like they were strangers.

No, it was worse that they weren’t strangers, were they? Nowhere near at all. Bruce wouldn’t risk what they had, solid and indomitable. To think Clark would was…

He was thinking about this all wrong.

The fact was that Clark wouldn’t, would he?

Irrationally, that made Bruce angrier. Fucking Boy Scout. Goody-two-shoes. Sanctimonious prick. He was too good. Couldn’t he let his own desires take the forefront every now and then? Shit.

The fact that Bruce was, in the midst of all this, being so irrational — letting emotions take control, everything spiralling rapidly out of hand from one stupid failure of a spell — it just made him burn with an even more heightened infuriation. Safe to say, the criminals in Gotham were quaking in their boots.

It all came to a head, one night, at — of all things — another gala.

Irony was what Bruce did best, but really? 

Clark hadn’t been seen anywhere at Bruce’s fundraising events, not since then, but it was League work this time, with a few members assigned to the mission. A masquerade. An infiltration on a planet called Tagliane, in which they had to bypass security manually, since their blasted system used some mix of technology (which Bruce could hack) and biometric magic (which he could not, and neither could anyone available for the mission). 

So. They were to lift prints from their mark, one of the attendees of the party, and Wally would go with the prints to the nearby factory where their mark had kidnapped humans from their Earth for some weird slime experiments, while the other members waited outside the factory.

Frankly, it wasn’t a very difficult task. The English-speaking Taga were rather adept shapeshifters, and while some chose to take on more unfamiliar forms, there were no shortage of figures that looked perfectly human. That also meant Bruce fit right in; and Clark, too, because the stubborn idiot had insisted on coming with him for back-up. The Taga were extremely unfriendly to outsiders, though. If they got caught, somehow, there was no doubt it would dissolve into a brawl.

Fortunately everything went off without a hitch — Bruce got the prints within the first ten minutes, just before Clark could even find an opportunity to enter the ballroom.

There was a brush of wind; it was Wally zooming by to obtain the prints Bruce left in an inconspicuous corner, as per the plan. A few minutes more of dawdling, then it was time to go — except Bruce was stopped right outside the exit:

“Are you not enjoying the party?”

It was the host, who didn’t look very happy that he was trying to leave so early. Bruce could only curse inwardly, because considering the excretion systems of the Taga, ‘bathroom’ wasn’t an option.

“It’s a pleasure, thank you,” he replied pleasantly, before his eyes flickered over the crowd to meet Clark’s. Clark was already looking at him — he jerked his head slightly to indicate he understood, and as Bruce slipped away from the host, the intercom in his ear crackled to life.

“B and I might be unable to reach you guys for a while — can y’all handle it yourselves?”

“Who do you think you’re talking to?” came Arthur’s voice. “We’re already in the factory with the hostages. It’s more or less,” the sound of punching and screaming, “empty. We’ll wrap up in five minutes. The two of you can prance about there for as long as you guys like while we transport these guys back.”

“You two have the teleportation wristbands?” Diana’s voice asked for confirmation.

“Affirmative,” Bruce muttered over the comm, not moving his lips, but he frowned. He didn’t like not being there.

As if reading his mind, Clark spoke.

“Let’s trust them, B. Loosen up a bit, okay? We’ll stay a bit more until more people leave, and then we’ll transport back to Earth.”

“I didn’t say anything,” snapped Bruce. Was he that transparent?

“You didn’t have to.” Clark met his eyes fleetingly across the room. “You know, that mask of yours resembles a certain phantom. I mean his is white, not black, but still. Even when I first watched the musical, I’d— he reminded me of you, you know, although you aren’t quite so— heavy-handed. You can be, though, now that I think about it.”

“How flattering. Does that make you Christie?”

Bruce could see a frown shoot across Clark’s features. “We’ll have a happier ending then them, surely. I—”

“—okay, enough flirting, guys, it’s gross. We’re going off-comm now. Enjoy your little romantic getaway on Tagilo or whatever the heck this place is called,” Hal declared, unnecessarily gleefully, before the intercom went silent. That little shit. Hal was a dead man; the next time Bruce saw him, revenge would be served ice-cold, shoved down his throat.

The waiters were serving glasses of a thin blue liquid that bubbled with carbonation. According to Bruce’s prior research, it was their version of alcohol, designed to inebriate, although it hardly affected a human’s biology. He accepted one when offered — the buffet food was safe, too — but didn’t touch anything else, just in case.

It was so simple to fall into his party persona, even off-world — it was an effortless slip, the dialling up of the charm and the flirting. It was different; here, nobody recognised him. Even so, with Bruce’s plain, black mask covering half his face, he found himself mingling. It was best for the mission anyway; he wouldn’t be too memorable, but still charming and somewhat likeable, vapid and clueless.

Across the room, then, he spotted Clark. There was another Taga next to him — he was standing too close, practically plastered to Clark’s side, and he had a hand on Clark’s shoulder, the other hand dipping dangerously close to the bottom of Clark’s spine. Clark’s brow was creased; his mouth was twisted, uncomfortable, and Bruce could read the polite refusals on his lips; but the Taga just moved closer, and before Bruce could even think about it, he found himself making a beeline in their direction.

Bruce reached close enough to wrap his hands around Clark’s forearm.

“If I may steal him for a second,” he articulated to the disgruntled Taga, but there was a warning glint in his eye as he pulled Clark away with a little more force than necessary. Clark took his lead without much trouble, casting Bruce a relieved smile.

“I was just—“

Bruce didn’t let him finish. “What’s a guy like you doing in a place like this?” he drawled, stretching the syllables. He disgusted himself a little with the uninspired pick-up line, but he was used to it.

Plus, thinly-veiled sarcasm was always a delight he could revel in; more so when he knew Clark could damn well pick it up.

Clark raised his brows back: Oh, so that’s how we’re playing this?

“Nothing wrong with a place like this, is there?”

“Not when it’s allowed me to meet you, no,” Bruce agreed, and almost, almost without thinking, dragged his eyes over the line of Clark’s body, his musculature half-hidden but evident; the swell of his biceps and the cut of his hips. And— Christ, Bruce had been careful not to give in to the urge to do that all evening. It was rare, so rare, to see Clark in a suit that actually fit him, God forbid.

To think it was Bruce’s, of all things—

A ball of heat crumpled in his chest and settled, shifting, at the base of his gut.

Clark cleared his throat. For the mission, he was wearing a white mask. It was ornate and adorned with sequins, that covered the left side of his face, from his eye and slightly wider as it went down. It really was a pity to obscure Clark’s good-looking face like that.

“Excuse me,” said Clark, very pointedly, but not without amusement, “my eyes are up here. I’m not just a piece of meat, you know.”

Oh? Oh? Clark had the audacity to say that to him, after how he’d been acting? That anger seared again, hot and sharp and glaring.

“Look who’s talking.”

The words slipping out before he could stop them. They were too acerbic, too biting to be a joke, to still be part of their little playact; and briefly, but not brief enough that Bruce couldn’t catch it, Clark froze.

“You know, I’m disappointed that today’s theme is a masquerade,” Bruce continued, before Clark formulated a reply, because— shit. He hadn’t exactly meant to bring it up. Then again, he hadn’t meant to sleep with Clark Kent, or even flirt with Clark on an alien planet during a mission.

To be fair, he was doing it because Clark had seemed uncomfortable. Because they had to blend in. Because it was a fun way to kill time without risk of getting caught. So what did it matter?

Clark still seemed a little tongue-tied.

“…care to elaborate?”

Bruce only hesitated for a millisecond. Fuck it, he could say whatever he wanted. “That face of yours; surely, it’s a pity for it to be obscured.”

In a deliberate mirror of that day with Bruce’s eyelashes, very carefully, very slowly, Bruce brought his fingers up to grip Clark’s chin. Clark kept perfectly still, but the amusement had bled out from his features.

“You should really,” Bruce tilted Clark’s head upwards, letting the chandelier lights glimmer across his irises before dropping his hand, “expose it to the light. It belongs there.”

Silence. It stretched, long like taffy.

Then:

“So you say.”

Abruptly, Clark reached out, latching gently onto Bruce’s wrist, and it was Bruce’s turn to pause; he stared down at Clark’s hands, momentarily struck mute. It knocked the breath out of Bruce’s lungs — the intimate brush of skin as Clark slid a careful finger under the cuff of his sleeve, rubbing his cufflinks in between his thumb and index.

“These match your eyes quite nicely, you know.”

It was Bruce’s turn to blink, mouth dry. This— Clark had never been so bold, not like this, at least not meek and clumsy Clark Kent, and when he met Clark’s brilliantly blue eyes, he saw a blaze that made his lips curl up in a slow smirk.

It was defiant — it was a challenge.

If Clark thought Bruce was going to back down, he was mistaken. “Feisty, aren’t you,” he murmured, voice dropping almost an octave, and Clark’s pupil’s dilated, just a fraction, as Bruce stepped in closer. “Your tie’s crooked.”

Deliberately, Bruce let his hands skim the sides of Clark’s warm neck before reaching his tie, swallowing hard as goosebumps rose where his touch had been. Clark was— watching him, cautiously, but also with a strange resolve that Bruce had always liked.

Then Clark was touching him. A hand on Bruce’s chest, hot even through the fabric. He brushed the suit lightly, but hard enough for Bruce to feel it, and then said, rather brazenly, “There’s lint.”

“Lint,” repeated Bruce, disbelievingly. It was all he could do to make sure that the word came out even. Neutral, with none of the fondness that threatened to spill over escaping.

“Lint,” confirmed Clark, stubborn, and fuck, Bruce couldn’t stand this man.

“You’re not very good at this, are you?”

“I’ll be good at anything you want me to do,” Clark shot back. It came out more like a retort than anything; even if he looked as though his lifespan had decreased ten years saying that, and—

Clark pushed Bruce’s dress shirt open, mouthing at his abs, fingertips tracing a scar on his waist; shit, the way Clark bit gently into the ridges of muscle had Bruce swearing.

—“I don’t doubt that,” Bruce replied, very low, a quiet buzzing in his ears. “All you have to do is ask, sweetheart.”

“God— Bruce—“, and Bruce was on his knees, a hand pressed against Clark hip to hold him to the wall, his lips on Clark’s inner thigh; Clark could only fist a hand in the locks of Bruce’s hair, breath choked; “Ask for it, sweetheart,” Bruce demanded, voice low, hoarse.

At last, there was a flush climbing to the high of Clark’s cheeks. Triumph always tasted cherry-sweet, that vindication, except Bruce wasn’t exactly welcoming the memories, here.

“You know,” murmured Bruce, stepping away with difficulty, and Clark jerked in his direction before stopping dead in his tracks, “are you hungry?” He didn’t even mean it in an innuendo way, or at least not fully; Clark didn’t get hungry as often as humans, nor was it necessarily the same kind of hunger, but Bruce knew he hadn’t eaten for quite some time.

Clark looked thrown by the segue for a second. “Huh?”

“You should really try the hors d'oeuvres here. They’re delectable.” That was a dead lie. He hadn’t so much as touched the buffet, and both of them knew it.

“What would you recommend?” That fucker Clark Kent knew exactly what he was doing as he dipped his chin demurely, all faux innocence as he looked at Bruce through his eyelashes. Now that was just unfair. God. Bruce wanted to shove Clark into the back of his car and grind on him until the both of them were wrecked and ruined.

Bruce lifted a lazy shoulder, his hip cocked and weight on one foot.

“I think you’d look good with anything in your mouth.”

Clark had long since learnt not to be shocked by his brazenness when Bruce got into the mood, but his cheeks were still tinted red. “Right,” he said — so inanely that Bruce had to tamp down the automatic Bruce response to that, the affection swelling like saccharine poison, because right now it was the wrong reaction from the wrong Bruce.

“You do seem rather fit. What do you do in your free time?” Bruce changed tack, leering shamelessly. “I do a bit of yoga, every now and then. I can assure you, I’m very flexible.”

“I do love myself a man who does yoga.”

That statement was so absurd Bruce almost laughed. “It certainly comes with its variety of… benefits.”

“I’ve heard about them, yes.”

And Clark was still— looking. Looking at him, and Bruce despised being unable to read the glint beyond the sharp resolve in Clark’s eyes; but under the iridescent fluorescent lights, shimmering crystal rainbows dancing across the mask and onto his face, he appeared as breathtaking as ever.

Deliberately, Bruce dragged his tongue across his lower lip, gratified when Clark’s gaze flickered downwards. Screw him. Screw Clark, really, and Bruce wanted nothing more than to kick him, suddenly, or just— something. Make sure Clark was affected by this, somehow. Make sure that Bruce still… at least it was a choice, here. At least Bruce knew that seduction was hardly new to him; that it was new to do this to Clark, but at least when it was a conscious choice it made sense. Clark’s attention was on him, and at the end of it Bruce was going to make sure Clark regretted it.

This was Clark’s karma, Bruce thought viciously, the game Clark had started and Bruce was going to end. He’d kept his self-control steady afterwards, with rock-hard resolve, but somehow Clark had to go mess up all of his plans again. So fine. Fucking fine. He’d give Clark what he wanted, hm?

He would, in moderation — but when the crowd jostled Clark forward — Bruce inhaled sharply, a familiar scent — and everything could only rapidly spiral from there.

Fuck. It was the end for him.

“You used it,” Bruce said, not a question.

Clark’s gaze searched his face, as if flummoxed, but without a shadow of a doubt, Bruce knew that Clark knew exactly what he was talking about.

“It seemed like a waste not to,” Clark muttered, eventually. Just like that, his bravado was gone, and he rubbed a hand over the back of his neck with a shrug. This man could destroy the building in two seconds flat. This man could strangle dozens without resistance. This man had fought monsters and saved millions and despite it all, befriended Bruce, and here he was. Flustered, gorgeous; the cut of his hips, the gloss of his lips; and apparently, after everything, still willing to flirt with Bruce. To— wear a suit Bruce bought for him, to wear Bruce's cologne, like a kept man.

Goddamn unfair. Bruce was, at heart, a weak, weak man. There was only one way the night could play out after that. His lips parted, forming the shapes of words that scraped out of his throat, jagged at the sides:

“I seriously dislike you.”

Clark, who had been shuffling his feet, jerked his chin upwards to meet Bruce’s eyes again. Sharp. Questioning.

He had to know what Bruce was doing.

There was a loaded pause; the din of the ballroom roared around them.

He was beautiful. Damn it.

“I don’t—“ Clark began, before stopping short, his jaw working. “I don’t understand,” Clark finished after a pause, finally, tentatively, hoarse — and that was as good as Bruce’s reply.

“Don’t you?” he said, and then he lifted his hand, tucked a curl behind Clark’s ears. His hands were shaking, slightly. And he knew Clark could feel it, sense it; how could he not? “Come home with me.”

Another silence. Clark observed him, very carefully. Bruce could see it — the words Clark bit back, the measured breath out, and the small, unreadable smile he offered Bruce:

“Okay.”

And then that was that.

“What now?”

The sight of Clark in his sheets, shirtless, was both familiar and foreign. If only Bruce were a stronger man. If only Bruce could be honest. If only Bruce were someone that Clark deserved.

But he wasn’t. 

And so, Bruce buttoned up his shirt, lifting an eyebrow, and didn’t look back as he left the room.

“You tell me, Clark.”

It was only two days later Clark found himself in the Manor pushing his hips mindlessly against Bruce’s, shifting in his lap. Bruce had raked his nails down Clark’s back, slow and deliberate, and Clark responded with a stifled groan into Bruce’s skin, biting the hollow of his collarbone. And there was the day after that, too. Clark had been trying to give Bruce a massage — goodness knows he needed it — but they’d just ended up flushed and breathless on the floor.

So it was true, really, that people could adapt to anything. Sleeping with Bruce became a— regular occurrence. It was a blessing, a special kind of gift from Bruce. His body was more honest than him; and it was surprisingly easy. To fall into a rhythm, another addition to their already complicated relationship, except Clark didn’t quite know what to make of the whole thing.

God, Bruce was… he could be soft one moment and fierce the next, light and flippant but the glow in his eyes dead serious. Clark wasn’t even exactly sure how or why it’d started. Bruce had known about Clark’s lingering attraction — hell, Clark had been so obvious, in hindsight, anyone would’ve been able to seen it; and he hadn’t ran away. On the contrary, he’d seen the spark — then leaned in and lit the flame.

Convenience, probably. It was convenient for him, and he probably thought it was the case for Clark, and so he’d relented. Clark wasn’t one to look a gift horse in the mouth, but Christ. Bruce never stayed for too long afterwards; after particularly dangerous missions, they’d get angry, and relieved, then fuck on the floor; at night, when Clark was over and Bruce was in the mood, all it took was a look and Clark would find himself on his knees in one of the Manor’s many bathrooms.

It was a horrible, horrible idea. Clark was having enough trouble being normal about Bruce as it was. But he could hardly stop, could he? 

He’d gladly take whatever Bruce would offer him. It didn’t matter what he wanted. If Bruce was happy, so was he.

It would go like this, sometimes:

After a bench press, Bruce caught Clark’s heated gaze, then walked towards him in the Batcave; throwing Clark onto the mat, though Clark could easily catch himself.

“Need some help with that?” he asked, huskily, because he was a little shit, and then he’d duck between Clark’s thighs.

Or, “I told you not to be so reckless,” snapped Clark, relief flooding his chest when Bruce came to consciousness, and he dragged Bruce back to privacy as soon as he could, taking Bruce apart as revenge because he’d been sick to his stomach with worry, damn it, and was desperately relieved.

Getting laid more often put him in a better mood, too, one that Lois commented on, but Clark waved off. J’onn and Arthur threw him and Bruce weird looks, too, occasionally — as they always had, but more often now, and Clark suspected Alfred damn well knew what was going on, but just hadn’t said anything to him yet. Other than that, he was sure no one noticed; or if they did, no one commented.

But an unease lingered, somewhere at the back of his mind. Bruce was still inscrutable, at the best of the times; and even as they slept together, Clark had to be so, very careful. What they had was— fragile. Delicate. Nothing like their partnership, and more like the beginning of their friendship, when they were still testing the waters, trying the other out. Bruce made it very clear to him, when they started it: this was sex, nothing more. He drew boundaries in sand with knives that Clark had long since learnt not to be hurt by.

And so Clark was happy — he was — but he had to let things go. It was all about compromises with Bruce. He couldn’t be— he couldn’t be too tender, too gentle. He couldn’t kiss Bruce for too long or cup his cheek and smile. He couldn’t bury his head into Bruce’s neck and fall asleep. They both had their roles, an audience of two in an empty theatre, and Clark didn’t think Bruce would appreciate improvisation here.

That was alright. Bruce still spent time with him. They still talked, fought, saved the world together. It was nice.

There was a knock on the door that pulled Clark out of his thoughts. “Come in,” he called, and Dick peered into Clark’s guest room in the Manor. He was the only one in the house who bothered to knock, actually, excluding Alfred; Bruce and his other kids just barged into the room most of the time.

“Clark? Can we talk?”

“Dick!” Clark exclaimed in greeting, joyful, and he took off his glasses and shut his laptop. “Of course. Sit down, please.”

Dick shuffled in, dragging his feet, and didn’t meet Clark’s eyes for a moment. He looked— thoughtful. Serious. Compared to Tim’s intellect and Jason’s harshness, it was less often Clark saw flickers of Bruce in Dick, but with that look on his face, well.

He seemed a little like Bruce in that moment.

Clark scratched the back of his neck, biting his lip, and asked warily, “Dick?”

“Clark,” Dick said again, standing awkwardly in the middle of the room. That look didn’t bode well; Clark half-rose from his chair, a concerned question dying on his lips. Dick scuffed his feet against the floor, like a little kid, visibly debating whether or not to say something.

Then he looked up resolutely.

“What’s going on with you and my father?”

Clark stared at him, dumbstruck. Perhaps he’d heard wrongly.

“I— what?”

“I’m not blind, you know,” Dick said. “I’ve known the two of you for years. I’ve had front row tickets to all your sexual tension. It’s ridiculous. Bruce has been— he’s been more mellow, and at the same time— I don’t know. He’s conflicted about something, I can tell, and it’s never ever that simple with him, is it? It’s super annoying. Clark, I just… if you were together, he wouldn’t be this— as in— shit. Uh, you get what I mean.”

Clark, in fact, did not get what he meant. Not remotely. Standing, Clark rubbed his mouth and then his temples, breathing out deeply. “It could be anything in Bruce’s life, Dick, what makes you think this is about me?”

“It’s always about you, isn’t it?” Dick huffed, wry and amused but also exasperated, and then he asked again: “What’s going on?”

“I hardly think I’m at a liberty to say. You know how much your father respects his privacy, I— he wouldn’t like if I exposed us in any sense—“

“So you admit there’s an ‘us’?”

“Dick,” Clark sighed, “Your father—“

“—has zero emotional intelligence and told me to ask you when I asked him about it.”

That made Clark pause. “He told you that?”

“Yeah, he said, ‘Clark can explain it to you.’”

Bruce, that bastard. The ball was in Clark’s court now, huh?

“Well.” Clark pursed his lips, offering a tight-lipped smile. “You see.” He searched desperately for the words. “Er, when two consenting adults—“

“Gross.”

“—when two consenting adults, uh, consent. To… relieving some stress? Yes. Then they occasionally find time to, um. You know.” Clark could feel himself steadily turning red. “Anyway, it’s a friend thing, okay? Like good friends. Except with benefits. I believe Kon termed something similar in a book he read ‘friends with benefits’. No strings attached. Bruce and I — okay, there is no Bruce and I. It just kind of— happened. After we both stumbled into it after a mission. A wayward spell gone wrong. Then it, uh, kept happening, who knows what Bruce is thinking but anyway, it’s not like it’s a hardship.” He was rambling, and he couldn’t stop, and Dick still wasn’t saying anything. “It’s not— there’s really nothing to worry about. Bruce is Bruce, haha. It doesn’t mean anything. It’s convenient, you know, since we share similar schedules, and we know each other’s secret identities, and so…”

Dick let him run out of words, Clark trailing off stiltedly. He just stood in the middle of the room, his gaze unwavering, with an echo of his father’s intensity. His expression was strange. Pitying. Like he was— sad. And the silence stretched, uncharacteristically heavy, before Clark spoke again.

“I mean, we’ll stop if it interferes in either of our lives, of course. And if Bruce ever… as in, if he’s ever interested in someone, I’ll back off. Immediately. It’s— your father is hot, that is. He’s hardly difficult on the eyes. It’s a mutually beneficial arrangement, and it’s easier on me, too, since I don’t have to worry about my powers and all that. Considering that—“

“Clark,” Dick cut in. He approached Clark, slowly, like approaching a hurt animal. “You don’t even know what you’re doing, do you?”

Clark felt like he had been slapped in the face.

“Of course I do.“

“You’re shaking.”

Dick was right. He was, trembling ever-so-slightly, and Clark hastily shoved his hands into his pocket without much fanfare. No — no. Dick couldn’t know. Clark had been careful, he had— well. Dick couldn’t know. So why was he…?

Clark was probably just overwhelmed by the mortifying ordeal of having to explain his best friend’s sex life to his son. Involving himself.

“This is kinda embarrassing,” he said sheepishly, laughing, but Dick didn’t laugh with him.

“It’s just sex?” he asked.

“There’s nothing else, Dick, really.”

“So if I were to tell you Bruce was in love with somebody, you would be perfectly fine with that?”

Clark opened his mouth, then closed it. He tried to imagine it: Bruce, eyes soft, speaking to a faceless figure over dinner. Bruce, waking up in the morning with someone that wasn’t Clark by his side, grumpy and groggy and without his sky-high walls. Clark felt sick to his stomach all of a sudden. Nauseous, but he forced himself to swallow the bile rising to his throat and replied, “Always.” He glanced up, looking Dick straight in the eyes. “As long as he’s happy.”

“Oh, Clark,” Dick said, softly — and then he was wrapping his hands around Clark in a hug. Clark barely registered it, the comforting and sympathetic warmth enveloping him. In a daze, Clark’s arms came out to hug him back automatically, before Dick pulled back.

“What is it, Dick? You’re acting odd.”

“Nothing,” Dick shrugged, before taking a deep breath and flashing a dazzling smile. “It’ll be alright. I just know it. Be sure to take care of yourself, ‘kays? I’ll be unable to visit Gotham for a while, but come to Bludhaven when you can.”

“Naturally,” Clark agreed.

“You should bring Bruce out, too, somewhere. It’s reaching that time of year soon.” The time of year where Jason ‘died’, Dick didn’t say, but he didn’t have to say it, because they’d both seen how badly Bruce had been affected. How badly Dick had been affected, too.

“I was already planning on it. I have somewhere in mind.”

“Good,” Dick replied brightly, before whirling around to leave.

And Clark didn’t know what possessed him to reach out to stop Dick before he was gone, to say, “Thank you.” But it was fine. Dick seemed to understand.

“It’ll be alright,” he repeated, then he was gone.

Clark made good on his word to Dick. There was a League mission a few days after that. A clear-cut mission, with no major injuries, although J’onn did get sucker punched in the face by a fish humanoid multiple times. After debrief, Clark waited patiently for everyone to clear out, before floating next to Bruce and landing with a blazing smile. They walked, side by side, to the tower’s monitor room.

“Do you have a minute?”

“Would you like me to drag you to the bathroom, Kal?” Bruce quirked an eyebrow, and it took Clark a second to process the glint in his eye.

“Huh? Oh, uh‚ no — I mean, I wouldn’t be opposed, but,” Clark cleared his throat pointedly, blushing. Damn it. “No, no, it’s not about that.”

“Then?”

“What are you doing this weekend?”

Bruce’s footsteps faltered, slightly, before he recovered his motion smoothly and they entered the monitor room. “I could be persuaded to make time. Why?”

“Well,” Clark started, as they sat down at their usual seats in front of the screens, “there’s an immersive art exhibit that just opened. I was wondering if you’d like to join me. It’s Van Gogh. You like him, don’t you? You gave me a crash course on his art pieces the last time we were on duty together. We should go. It’ll be fun.”

A split second, then Bruce smiled; a soft thing that Clark couldn’t tear his eyes away from, even as it made stitches grow tight in his chest as they sewed his bleeding heart aimlessly. Fruitlessly, because in the face of Bruce Wayne it could only tear tissue apart — cannibalise itself endlessly.

“Sounds good.”

“Really?”

“Don’t make me repeat myself.”

“Great,” Clark said, suddenly in a brilliant mood. He would get tickets, then — and they would have great fun because even though Bruce loved this kind of stuff, he so seldom went whenever he didn’t have a concrete reason to go. “Okay, that’s— good. I can’t wait.”

There were projections of paintings, stark on black walls with write-ups next to them, but Clark was more preoccupied with listening to Bruce than reading them. “He and Gauguin profoundly impacted each other’s works,” Bruce was explaining as they walked along the dimly lit aisle. A mini-tour guide, so to speak. He was adorable, pretentiously so. “It was tragic, really, almost everything about Van Gogh’s life and his struggle for sanity. They were good friends, but after the ear incident, I could only imagine how it went down for both parties after that.”

“Mhm.”

“His fascinating and skilful use and understanding of colour, actually, was somewhat attributed to the fact that he was colourblind. Just goes to show beauty can be found even when you’re different — more so, perhaps.” Bruce seemed to emphasise this with a side eye in Clark’s direction.

“I didn’t know that.”

“He had Theo in his life, too, which was another strong bond that he had. Even if no one else supported him at the time, his brother did, and I’m sure it meant a lot.”

Clark continued to make vague noises of assent as they walked out of a Ukiyo-e styled room detailing the Japanese influences of his work. They could move without worry — Bruce was half in-disguise, and everyone around them was preoccupied enough to not recognise them; plus, the lighting gave well-provided cover for them.

“I put my heart and my soul into my work, and have lost my mind in the process’. Tragic,” Bruce murmured, as he led Clark round the back to another section. “Except in the midst of tragedy he never saw himself as tragic, so maybe that’s not quite accurate.”

Bruce lingered in the area. He seemed lost in thought, so Clark left him to it and actually moved to read what was written on the walls. Bruce probably already knew most of it, but had fallen quiet as he admired the artworks.

On the walls were consecutive paintings, obviously part of a collection, as they all depicted sunflowers in varying states. Clark found that he liked them a lot. They were varying shades of blue and yellow — teal, navy, gold and saffron and an amber dipping into orange. The buds of some sunflowers were still unfurling; others in full bloom, their petals drooping, or resembling the fluff of a dandelion.

Clark thought the texture was intriguing. The brush strokes were visible, and the painting seemed almost alive, seeping out of the frame, like if he touched it he’d be able to feel roughness under his fingertips. He wandered back to Bruce, who addressed him.

“Van Gogh painted the beauty of the world. He suffered deeply, no doubt, yet somehow he always found a way to capture the majesty of nature.” Bruce pursed his lips, brows furrowed, but then it eased and he gave a quick, furtive half-smile. More to himself than anything. “‘What’s done in love is done well’, he said. How familiar. Being no stranger to tragedy but still choosing hope so relentlessly.”

Clark was— half-listening, at best. Because Bruce was appraising the paintings so intently, a gleam in his eye — not as Bruce Wayne pretending he knew what he was talking about, or Batman on a mission, or one of his many micro-defences and disguises in between — but just as Bruce who secretly loved art, despite being a science man through and through, who had read books and books on what had so interested his mother before. The glaring white spotlight overhead leaked from the paintings and sneaked over to run its fingers down the contours of Bruce’s face, streaks of light that seemed to make him glow; ethereal.

Clark’s breath caught in his throat. There was something unplaceable, pondering, in the twist of Bruce’s lips, lips that were pale pink and slightly chapped. This man was tough; he was strong in every sense of the word; he had been through so much and come out whole. He never stopped striving to be the best he could be — he worked hard and he saved people and he got hurt and he looked at Van Gogh with a smile on his face. So Clark watched Bruce as he watched the paintings, and Bruce commented, after a stretch of silence, “Beautiful, isn’t it?”

“Yeah,” Clark agreed. He was very quiet. “Beautiful.”

They started to move on to the next room, though Bruce placed a deliberate hand on Clark’s wrist to stop him, turning back to cast a final glance. “Sunflowers…” Bruce murmured, under his breath, but of course with Clark’s super hearing he caught it anyway. He puffed up his cheeks for a moment, amusement alight in his snort. “Don’t they remind you of something?”

“The... sun?” Clark offered, puzzled, too distracted by Bruce’s gentle touch to think straight.

“Yes, Clark, it’s great that sunflowers do indeed remind you of the sun,” Bruce snorted, and the wryness was back in full force. “It’s alright. Come, let’s check out the other areas.”

They entered an exhibition space that was vast, stretching far and wide, every inch of the white floor and wall plastered with moving projections. Red, then an emerald green, then a shifting blue that showed multiple paintings and inspiration everywhere they looked; flowers and fields and skies. In the centre of the room there were beanbags, chairs, benches. Teens snapping photographs, elderly enjoying the view.

Clark’s footsteps slowed when a new projection transitioned over, a familiar swirl of sky and stars that made him hold his breath. There was an allure, there; a mystique, the use of colours and shapes to deconstruct and reconstruct something already beautiful to an immortality on canvas, and Clark could only think of Bruce, then. Hazy memories and washed-over conversations. Inscrutable and mysterious but simply bewitching at its core. Bruce looked over questioningly at why Clark had stopped, just as the scene transitioned into its next, and, shaking his head, Clark ran to catch up with him as they continued to walk.

The sight of Bruce — dyed blue and stained with vibrant monochrome colour — stayed with Clark even as they left in the evening.

“What was your favourite part?” Bruce asked, afterwards, as they strode along the cobblestone sidewalk to the nearest diner. The streetlamps glowed as the sun set in vivid stripes of pink and purple. Bruce’s hands were in his pockets, head tilted. More so during this time of year, it was rare to see him like this. Unburdened, if only temporarily. He was never at peace, always stressing about something or the other; but for the moment, Bruce looked content, and Clark would give the world if it meant Bruce could stay like that.

You, Clark didn’t say. Instead, he said, “I liked the night paintings. The cafe, the sky.”

“What, Starry Night?” The sides of Bruce’s eyes crinkled, almost imperceptibly. “How cliche. I’m inspired.”

“Don’t be a snob,” Clark retorted, very resolutely not sticking his tongue out because he was a grown man, thank you very much. “I liked the— landscape ones, too, of the fields and crows. Reminds me of Kansas, you know. And you? You seemed to like all of them — the sunflowers, especially.”

“You’re not wrong,” Bruce murmured; there was a stilted awkwardness, strangely, as he said that, before it vanished just as soon as it had arrived. “I especially liked the beginning with the bricked walls and the staircase, too, where there were his self-portraits through the years.” He paused, then added, “It was a good experience, Clark. Thank you.”

“It was my pleasure,” Clark replied, deeply heartfelt, and perhaps a little too genuine — a little too sincere — because Bruce shot him an odd look that had Clark wincing internally, though the moment glossed over as they reached a district with restaurants.

Dinner was lovely. The place wasn’t too crowded nor expensive, and it turned out Bruce had actually made a reservation ahead of time, a quiet corner booth where they could eat the pleasantly mouth-watering food in piece. Bruce was beach-warm and effusive, temperamental as always but currently settled to an atypical serene. He rolled his eyes when Clark played footsie with him while waiting for the appetiser, but didn’t snap or pull away, just huffed under his breath and murmured: “Are you five?”

Throughout dinner, they made mellow conversation; Bruce laid his palms flat on the table, leaned forward, as if to hear Clark better, and damned if that wasn’t attractive. He wasn’t overly flirtatious or purposefully ignorant like Bruce Wayne, he was just— sharp, intent yet placid, prodding at Clark to get the reactions he wanted. He was just Bruce, in a good mood.

He seemed to be enjoying himself. That was wonderful. That was— Clark could feel himself responding in turn, mirroring his lean even though he could pick out Bruce’s dulcet tones with his hearing, no problem. Laughing, rubbbing the back of his neck. He felt airy and radiant all over, like he’d been basking in sunlight, his face turning towards Bruce.

Clark could almost believe that they could do this often, that Bruce was always like this. That this moment could last for an infinity.

They talked about the exhibit; they talked about the latest book Bruce read and the show Clark watched. They talked about work — not the League, it was too risky, but their civilian work — and by the time dessert was served, Clark was bent over the table in stitches over one of Bruce’s stories from a Wayne Enterprises meeting, with perfect deadpan delivery to boot.

“—so I said, ‘God, no. The stripper was there, yes, but it was in fact me.’”

“You’re horrible,” Clark gasped, in between his laughter, and Bruce’s eyes curved up like crescent moons as he leaned back and shrugged.

“I’d be willing to give you front row seats to the show, later,” he offered. The mood changed; the air grew heavy. His voice had dipped to a rasp, the lick of lips lips sultry. Clark promptly choked on his saliva.

“Looking forward to it,” he replied, weakly, and perhaps he ate the final lava cake dessert much faster than warranted, but who was he to hold out?

The drag of Bruce’s skin that day had been heaven; the feel of his mouth the beginning of Clark’s new religion. Sparks flew — it was different from the angry make-up sex that they had, or the kind after casual easy flirting, or after a particularly perilous mission. It was mind-blowing — it always was, with Bruce — but it was the only time the voice at the back of Clark’s head, forever digging its claws into him when he and Bruce fucked, finally shut up.

Clark slept, soundly, and he’d usually go back to his apartment but that night he stayed at the Manor; and he didn’t expect Bruce to be there next to him in the morning, but he would be there in the kitchen before Clark left for the Planet and he left for his office, and Clark could be satisfied with that.

He had to be.

Bruce finished busting a drug ring and efficiently tied the goons up with ropes, leaving fresh blood to dry on his suit. There was a shadow, nipping at his heels, and before he left the scene she slinked with a predatory grace to his side. “You’re in a good mood,” Selina quipped, voice smooth like silk and highly insinuating.

“I was wondering when you were going to show yourself,” replied Bruce, but his heart wasn’t in the chiding, and they could both tell.

“Don’t forget.” Selina wrapped a nailed hand around the side of his shoulder. It was teasing, deliberate. “I can tell when you’re getting laid, honey.”

“Stop that,” Bruce warned, shrugging her hand away. “You’re being ridiculous.”

Their relationship had gotten too messy, after a while, when they slept together. They left the cracks in each other wider than before, tearing each other apart instead of filling each other whole. “Who is it?” she asked, then laughed, tinkling and sly. “You don’t have to answer that. It’s pretty obvious to me.”

Bruce let his eyes close, took a deep breath in and counted to three. “You know nothing.”

“Don’t I?”

“Watch it.”

“I’m certain you’re scared,” she told him, eyes narrowed into slits. “That what happened to us will happen with him. That sleeping with him will ruin things — will ruin the both of you. And yet you still slept with him. No,” she corrected, observing Bruce very carefully, even as he stood stock-still, “you’re sleeping with him, aren’t you?”

“Catwoman—“

“You don’t have to worry that much, Batman. He and you are different from you and me; you’ll help each other, together, not wrangle each other down. You know that we still want to see each other happy, don’t deny that. So I’m here telling you to get your head out of your ass. Did you spend time with him yesterday?”

Bruce weighed his options. Selina couldn’t— she couldn’t know what she was talking about. Who she was talking about. But the glint in her eye, the mirth in her tone — God, she was far too perceptive for Bruce’s liking. A terrible trait she shared with Clark.

“So what if I did?”

“What did you guys do? Musical, opera, concert? Maybe a picnic at the park? A museum?”

Bruce stared at her impassively.

“Come on, I have all night. I’ll let you get back to patrol as soon as we finish this conversation. Until then, I’m standing in your way.”

Damn her. “An art exhibit,” he bit out.

He immediately regretted it when she let out a bright crow of laughter, in obvious delight. “So romantic! Then, what? Dinner and sex?”

She wasn’t far off the mark — right on the money, in fact — but Bruce was hardly going to give her the satisfaction of telling her that. His jaw tightened, but she seemed to have gotten her answer, anyway, and covered her mouth with glee as she cackled like the bitch— sorry, witch, that she was.

“I can’t believe this,” she said, in a way that said she very much did believe it. “You went on an honest-to-good date with Sup—“

“Careful,” Bruce hissed, appalled by her carelessness. She didn’t know what she was talking about, anyway. It was mutual attraction, and Bruce was no stranger to casual sex. It just so happened it might be mildly ill-advised, since it was with one of his best friends and his closest co-worker, but it was damn good sex, wasn’t it? They were grown-ups. They could stop any time. “And it was not a date.”

“Sure,” she said, as though she were humouring him. As though she knew all about them when really they would never be like that.

“You know nothing,” he snarled again, abrupt fury springing from a place he couldn’t quite place or recognise, something Selina seemed to sense because she gradually sobered and squared her narrow shoulders.

“Both of you are fucked up,” she told him bluntly. “Get a grip. You always stand in your own way, and for what?”

He wasn’t in the frame of mind to deal with this. “I hardly think you’re in any position to give advice,” he hurled back, readied inexplicably for a fight, primed to attack maybe not physically but with words; and Selina bristled instinctively, claws out and teeth sharpened, before she sighed, relaxed, and the tension was broken.

“Not this again. This is why we were never going to work out. Ugh.” She pinched the bridge of her nose, tail swishing unhappily. Bruce tugged on his cowl at that; not quite an apology, but close enough that Selina would know what he meant. Still, his tone was harsh through his voice modulator.

“It’s a mutually beneficial arrangement," he said icily. "Nothing more.”

Selina’s reply was cutting. A warning.

“Sure. Keep telling yourself that. Go ahead, then, sleep with him, even when you know you shouldn’t. Not like this. Don’t say I didn’t warn you.”

She slapped him on the shoulder, hard — but she cast him a final wistful glare before somersaulting off. Bruce was left, standing, in the cold night, still unmoving; and as police sirens blared in the distance, a flicker of red and blue light he was so familiar with, Batman disappeared into the shadows and left no trace behind.

Chapter Text

August slipped away into a moment of time, ushering in brown leaves and candles, hot cocoa and maple trees. It had been more than six months since the day they’d first slept together and Bruce and Clark had fallen into a kind of rhythm. Clark was practically living at the Manor, now; and they’d fucked in the bathrooms, hard and fast and messy, or the bedroom, quiet and drawn-out, or Bruce’s office, clattering stationary and destroying at least two mugs — even, on special occasions, the Batcave. Clark had learnt to tell when Bruce was in the mood; when he wasn’t in the mood. Likewise, Bruce had learnt what Clark liked, made sure that no matter what they both had a good time.

Bruce’s schedule was still ridiculously hectic, and it was always a challenge to catch proper time with him; however, Bruce always made time, for the people in his life, like his kids or Alfred. For Clark. But it made Clark— it made him unhappy, in some ways, to see how Bruce treated his body. Not as an extension of himself, but a weapon. Diets and training and supplements, long work hours and dubious sleep timings. Even during sex — Rao, it felt like sometimes Bruce used sex as a tool. Bruce enjoyed sex, that was obvious, but it was also obviously his way of blowing off pent-up steam after a day of work where he’d had to pretend to be oblivious and dumb while being fully cognizant of everything around him; of having to deal with rude and horrible people all around. Clark suspected it cleared his mind, gave him a way to relax for a bit.

Clark was abruptly, startlingly grateful for the chance to— be used, sort of, to help Bruce. It wasn’t as if — and he thought this with a pang of guilt, a stone in his stomach — he wasn’t, in his own way— taking advantage of Bruce, somehow, considering Bruce had no idea how deep Clark’s feelings ran.

But even when they were sleeping together, Bruce — he still didn’t like to talk about things. Not directly. Clark could tell, though. He tried to coax answers out of Bruce after an orgasm, when he was more laid-back, pliant; open. Sometimes he’d stay for a few minutes and tell Clark about it: how a mission had gone wrong, or how he’d been a little too slow, a little too late, leaving dead bodies in his wake. Other times he’d bristle, draw away in the half-dozen ways he could as punishment for Clark’s prying.

Throughout the years, this was always a problem, but Clark resented that it somehow felt like he had been set back. Bruce had begun opening up long ago, but now he seemed to be— what, keeping himself in check, perhaps? His behaviour had changed, minutely, gradually, to a more erratic push and pull, though fundamentally he and Clark still found their way back to each other as soon as they could.

Diana had tried to confront Clark, multiple times, about their arrangement, which Clark brushed off with ease, thankful because she knew not to press; J’onn was harder to wriggle out of, because of his powers, but Clark made hasty excuses until he gave up. The other members — they’d probably realised, by now, but most of them walked around eggshells regarding the topic. Well, save for Hal, who very loudly made innuendos, and Arthur, whom Clark suspected had tried to talk to Bruce; but the innuendoes had been happening long before this, so everyone took it in stride.

There had to be— protocol, for relationships in the team. Bruce had forbade it at first, as a rule — conflict of interest, needing to make decisions objectively especially with such high stakes, blah blah — but it had soon been demolished after a few precedents and arguments against it, where Bruce was outvoted. Clark had remained neutral, then, and let it play out. And here they were — although he could hear Bruce arguing that it technically didn’t count, because they were in a physical relationship, which was… God. It wasn’t a real relationship, and Clark knew that all too well, didn’t he?

Even so. Clark would be lying if he said he wasn’t— surprised. Even a physical relationship toed the line of it being a breach of Bruce’s strict demarcations and personal rules, ideology. It was uncharacteristic of him, to say the least, even if it was ‘convenient’. It was— no, Clark didn’t allow himself to hope that it was because Bruce had been affected, like he had been. It was just—

Rao. Clark was getting a phantom headache even with no Kryptonite in sight.

They went out more often, too, after Clark invited Bruce to the Van Gogh exhibit. In return, Bruce had bought them tickets to a ballet in Gotham — Clark had enjoyed it tremendously. He could always appreciate displays of strength and beauty and grace, raw skill at its finest, honed to a sharp edge. As thanks for his thanks, Clark had brought Bruce to a showing of Phantom of the Opera in London. Clark wondered if Bruce could tell why he’d chosen that particular musical; then concluded, of course Bruce did, because it was speaking exactly in Bruce’s language. In return Bruce had brought Clark to the opera, Wagner, Clark had brought him to the orchestra, Tchaikovsky. And so on, and so forth.

It would be a disaster if Bruce was recognised in public, but both of them were experienced enough in disguises to not worry too much. Well, Bruce always worried — but Clark had his super senses, so that did help a lot.

That wasn’t to say they could always enjoy their evenings together uninterrupted. Clark vanished every now and then when he heard cries for help; Bruce would sometimes be typing away single-mindedly in response to emergencies. But it was part of the package — part of why they worked so well, in fact; they understood each other’s lives, their priorities, their habits.

Clark knew people, how to lead and how to inspire, but that was the extent of it. He made faux pas after faux pas, stumbled clumsily through social conventions as Clark Kent, most of the times genuinely on accident. It was the opposite for Bruce. Bruce knew everything — that was exactly why he knew what not to do, and then proceeded to do all of it. More than that, he knew Clark, including how to make Clark melt like putty in his hands.

And when Bruce didn’t have that perpetual stick up his ass, Christ, he could be so wickedly funny. Their humour codes meshed well. Bruce would deliberately say things, make quips, just to make Clark laugh, and it worked every single time.

Even Bruce’s kids had gotten used to his presence. It wasn’t that Clark fit in, effortlessly, but— he liked to think that he did. Helping Tim with his homework, eating with Duke. On the rare occasions when Jason dropped by, to ‘visit Alfred, and no one else’, they’d talk about Clark’s experience with writing and Jason’s own interest in English. He reminded Damian not to be too reckless and he caught objects with telekinesis whenever someone knocked them over in haste. It was pathetic, maybe, to think that Clark could have this, when he wasn’t actually a part of the family — but he could play pretend. Clark was very good at that. Bruce had taught him well.

In return, Bruce also— Clark had never been quite sure how to treat his own children, not like Bruce did. He wasn’t built to be a parent. He tried, of course he did but it was hard, and he only respected Bruce all the more for it — Bruce had been talking to Conner and Kara, too, not as often as Clark saw his children but still enough that it made Clark breathless in the chokehold of something he could never have.

He was at the Fortress, now, clearing his thoughts after a bad fire in which he’d— he was a hair’s breadth too late, to save the father, he’d already been crushed. Clark got the rest out, but. It was hard. It never stopped being hard. What use were his goddamn powers if he couldn’t even use them to save the people around him?

Bruce would understand. He, the League — they understood more than anyone. But Bruce was on an important business trip, and Clark could hardly show up at his side halfway around the world, so he was here instead, alone in the middle of the Antarctic, staring into the cold white and trying not to miss Bruce so fiercely he could taste salt on his tongue. It was laughable; it had barely been two days since Bruce had left. Rao. Clark was screwed, and not just in the literal sense.

And then:

“Clark.”

A voice, from halfway across the world — that it was all it took: just one word. Clark was off in an instant, materialising his way through the windows of a high-rise hotel and speeding into a hotel suite, unseen.

“Bruce,” he said, and tried to not to sound desperate or overly concerned. “Bruce. What—“

“Nothing’s wrong,” Bruce said. Sure enough, there didn’t seem to be any imminent danger; au contraire, he was lounging in a bathrobe, his legs crossed on the edge of one of the suite’s chairs, a wine glass perched on the table. “My meeting ended. Were you busy?”

“No, I was just—“ Clark blinked, stood awkwardly in the middle of the lavish suite. Bruce’s hair was wet, unstyled, attractive, and Clark had in fact missed him, who was he kidding. “I was spending some time at the Fortress. Thinking.”

Bruce looked at him — looked through him, thoughtful; and the edges of his features softened, his mouth thinning into a line. “What’s wrong?”

“Just a little too late,” Clark shrugged, vaguely.

A shadow flitted across Bruce’s expression.

“Ah,” was all Bruce said. He got it. Clark knew he would. 

“And you?”

“Maybe I just wanted to see you,” Bruce smiled, slanting, an echo of a playboy’s sentiment except it wasn’t quite there yet, and it made Clark yearn for a bottle in his soul, one that could hold his wistfulness and longing and a confounding burst of resentment without cracking open his chest. “Well. It’s been a mess. The meeting was a disaster. Turns out one of my employees has been leaking insider information for a few weeks now.”

“Oh, Bruce,” Clark murmured. Bruce valued loyalty; he valued his own ability to make sure things went smoothly. “You couldn’t have known. Or, well, you did know eventually, and— you were probably just outbid. That’s all.”

“So it is,” Bruce replied, and for a second, neither of them moved, stewing in the silence. It wasn’t uncomfortable. It was— comforting. Bruce sipped his wine as Clark took a seat on the edge of Bruce’s bed, picking up a notepad carelessly tossed to the side. He could parse out a bunch of chemical equations that would normally be a chore to fathom, but Bruce had taught him a lot, and Clark’s photographic memory and processing skills weren’t just for show. It was some about some drug, one Clark didn’t recognise — Bruce let him flip through it as the latter sat and brooded about something or the other. Emo as usual.

But Clark felt Bruce’s eyes on him like a brand, and, after a moment, he put the notepad aside and looked up.

“What?” he asked, more accusingly than intended.

“You came,” Bruce said, perplexingly, sotto voce. Clark lifted a shoulder, not quite comprehending.

“You called,” he said simply.

They stared at each other for a moment. The colour of Bruce’s eyes seemed to shift, whenever Clark looked at it, a piercing grey melding into a slate blue.

“The thing about being able to do everything yourself,” spoke Bruce after a second, musingly, “is that you start to think that you have to do everything yourself.”

Then — strongly, firmly:

“You can ‘call’ too, Clark. Any time. Perhaps not any time,” he huffed, a quiet dryness, “but I’ll come for you, eventually. Always. I’ll always come for you.”

And that— alright. Okay. Bruce was— damn it. Clark’s tongue stuck to the roof of his mouth, throat working wordlessly; then Bruce winked, highlighting the double entendre without fail, and Clark let out a breath, rolled his eyes.

“Noted,” he said. “Thank you, Bruce.”

He had meant for it to come out with a tinge of sarcasm, at least, but— it just came out grateful. Fond. Bruce waved a hand and went back to nursing his drink.

It was odd. Bruce was— he seemed to be in one of his moods, one of his rarer ones; pensive and maudlin, a playful sense of humour but with an edge to it that kept him sharp.

“What’s with the notepad?” Clark asked, looking through it again.

“A case from long ago just resurfaced. A few stragglers trying to develop a new enhancement drug, except their test subjects ran amok killing people. You should stay far away from it,” Bruce added flatly, “I’ve already started analysing its contents.”

“Always the detective.”

“I’ll take that as a compliment. Once I prepare and develop the counter drug, there shouldn’t be any problem.”

“Shouldn’t you leave that to the,” Clark waved his hand, “medical, research, scientists, or whatever?”

“It’s more efficient this way. Plus, with cases like these—“ Bruce swirled the wine in his glass. “—they tend to throw the victims into rehab or jail and be done with it. In Gotham, at least; though things have improved over the years. Clark, you don’t have to sit like that. Just relax.”

Clark was seated hunched, stiffly, on the edge of the bed, with its white and cleanly-pressed sheets; except there was an indent in the centre to top of it, a lingering warmth, where Bruce must have been lying moments earlier. Clark imagined it, for a moment; Bruce curled up, working, or maybe catching a much-needed break — his back pressed to the bed, head tilted back, eyes closed, one hand gripping the sheets and the other—

“My clothes aren’t clean,” Clark pointed out, evenly, severing the train of thought before it could escalate. “I know how anal you get about hygiene.”

“Anal,” Bruce echoed; he lifted a brow, surprisingly without any innuendo. He was still off-colour, somehow. Like he was observing Clark. Not just observing; searching for something, in his words, in his face. “It’s fine. You can lean back, lie down, whatever. Mi casa es tu casa, and all that.”

“This isn’t even your ‘casa’.”

“Semantics.”

“You know what I mean.”

“Surely. Come on, Boy Scout. You look like you’re here for a job interview. Your posture is terrible. I’d rate you a two out of ten, although with that face, maybe I’d up it to a five.”

“If that’s how you judge job interviews, it’s a miracle W.E. is even functioning at all,” Clark returned, sardonic and teasing and a tiny bit bemused, just as Bruce put his wine glass away and rose to his feet. He was— he swayed slightly, uncharacteristically, on his feet, and inquisitively, as Clark opened his senses slightly, he— ah.

Bruce’s alcohol tolerance was by no means mild, but the stench of alcohol was stronger than usual, and the bottle of wine on the floor next to the table seemed to be almost entirely gone.

“Are you alright?” Clark questioned, mildly baffled. Was this about his employee?

Bruce caught his drift instantly. “Don’t worry, I’m sober,” he snorted, stalking towards Clark’s direction. “Perfectly clear-headed, just— God,” he laughed, and Clark stared at him, “that wine was stronger than expected. And she—” Clark didn’t catch the tail end of the sentence, Bruce rubbing one tired hand over his mouth.

“Are you alright?”

“You’re repeating yourself, Clark, perhaps you’re the one with impaired inhibitions here. I’m fine, alright? Lay off me.”

Clark stood as well, crossing the space between them in three broad strides to meet Bruce in the middle of the room; fisting a hand into Bruce’s dress shirt collar, wrinkling it, and then pulling him in. “Come on, Bruce, answer me. What happened?”

Bruce’s gaze was as piercing, as intense as ever, focusing to a laser-sharp point.

“Nothing, Clark.” He caught Clark’s wrist with more force than necessary; even though they both knew it wouldn’t hurt Clark, that Clark could easily break away; voice dropping, a note of a threat in his growl: “Let go of me. Now.”

And Clark did, obediently, but neither of them moved away. He usually didn’t pry, but— he dialled up the scents, for a bit, and—

And then jerked back impulsively; mindlessly.

“Oh. Selina?”

Bruce’s jaw went tight, taut with tension. For a second, it seemed he might snap at Clark; perhaps tell him to leave, or just deny it, but then he pressed his lips together and said, “It’s not what you think. She—“ Bruce cut himself off, swallowing visibly, and Clark was suddenly, unfairly, irrationally, blinded by a wave of defensiveness.

That feeling — washing over him with a simmering, hot intensity— Rao. Jesus. He couldn’t. He shouldn’t. He’d told Dick himself, that if Bruce were to find someone he’d actually consider being serious with, Clark would lay off. Her perfume was here, in Bruce’s hotel room, and, considering their history, how attractive Selina was, it wouldn’t be so far off to think— and Bruce had still called Clark over afterwards, without explanation, that piece of—

Bruce should’ve at least given him a warning. Come clean on his own, not leave Clark to— figure it out himself. He always did this shit; God, would Bruce even have said anything if Clark hadn’t asked? Would he have continued to fuck Clark, to let Clark fuck him, without so much as a second thought, or was this just his way of cutting things off, knowing Clark would be able to sense her lingering presence? Indirectly, convoluted, like he always did.

Or maybe he was just ready to stop without explanation, because — I would hardly see why I owe you one, Clark. But that was bullshit; just because they were no strings attached didn’t mean Clark was goddamn made of stone. Bruce of all people should know that.

“What? What would I think?” Clark threw the question out like a challenge, flung it to the ground as a gauntlet to be picked up. Hell, it wasn’t like Selina and Bruce had been a secret, like their romance and their relationship had been something Clark wasn’t privy to — it wasn’t like Clark hadn’t been there, to pick up the pieces afterwards, to get Bruce to eat and stop drinking and it wasn’t like it didn’t take all Clark could do to keep his mouth shut and not say this isn’t the end, Bruce, you still have people who love you; Bruce, you still have me.

“We’re not sleeping together again,” Bruce responded. Very, very calmly, and very measuredly. “If we were, you would know. Although we’ve hardly established that we’re exclusive, I do realise you would think it rather an implicit and unspoken rule, so—“

Clark grabbed him by the collar again, almost seeing white. The hurt morphed, rapidly and without warning, to a scintillating rage. Bruce had the nerve to try and pin this on him? And maybe— maybe he wasn’t wrong, maybe he was right because he was right all the goddamn time, surely, but—

Bruce seemed to sense Clark’s anger. Instead of responding in turn, of rising up to meet him like he usually did, he switched tack. “Clark, listen. There’s nothing going on, okay?” Bruce grabbed Clark’s wrist again, but gentler, this time, more coaxing. “I’m just— we’re long past that, trust me, she just gets onto my case sometimes. It irks me. So yes — she was just visiting.”

And then it hit Clark, all at once, what he was doing. He released Bruce, stumbled back blindly, and flinched. “Sorry. I’m so— I didn’t mean to…“

“I know,” said Bruce, still in a softer voice, soothing and at the same time a warning, “it’s alright. You didn’t— I’m not made of glass, for fuck’s sake.” A hand reached up to smoothen the expensive fabric of his collar, otherwise unruffled and put-together as always.

Clark bit his lip hard enough that if he were anyone else, blood would be drawn. “I just— God. It’s alright if you—“ and the words seemed to get stuck in his throat, but he stumbled through it, “—still have feelings for her. I just think I should know, and if you want to pursue something, I’ll get out of your hair but you just need to tell m—“

“You’re not listening to me. It’s not that. I’ve said it already. Look, she and I were never going to work out, but that doesn’t mean we aren’t friends. Recently, she’s been— forget about that, it isn’t important, but—“ Bruce huffed, a half-laugh, not finishing his sentence; then he narrowed his eyes, glare sharpening, “I’m willing to let this go because you’re cute when you’re possessive, but you’re going to have to watch yourself, got it?”

And all the fight went out of Clark — a breath of relief, of— something more hostile and resigned. He swallowed, hard, nails digging crescents into his palm and bile rising in his throat.

Possessiveness, huh.

What right did Clark have to that? He was being pathetic.

“I know,” was all Clark said, in the end, as he settled back onto the bed. It came out more bitter than he’d intended — more accusing.

Bruce blinked; paused. There was a moment of silence, Clark’s chest still heaving with something he couldn’t name, Bruce looking at him silently.

Consideringly.

Then, to Clark’s surprise, he walked forward and straddled Clark’s hips — thighs on either side of Clark’s waist; put a palm flat on Clark’s collarbone and pushed him down.

With an oomph, Clark’s world reorientated itself. He ended up staring at the ceiling, his back on the bed. A breath, then Bruce was in his vision, grinding slightly into his lap and slotting their mouths together, open-mouthed and wet. Instinctively, Clark could only arch up; meet him halfway, arousal pooling abruptly in his spine.

“Bruce,” he gasped helplessly, the words dying in his mouth as Bruce broke away. The whiplash from incipient emotional to sexual confusion was head-spinning, but then Bruce placed three fingers at the dip of his throat, as if to keep Clark down, which only made Clark shift under him with intent.

“I’m sober,” Bruce said again, his lips shiny and red, and Clark couldn’t tear his eyes away; and it did seem to be true, but Clark could only look at him in a daze. “Selina doesn’t know what she’s talking about, okay? I’m not going to think about her anymore. Not when you’re under me.” His voice had gone hoarse; sultry, rough. Clark couldn’t think. He couldn’t reply, but it didn’t seem to bother Bruce.

Bruce smirked, slightly, all dimpled charm and predatory teeth, but then it fell away, and it was just him; his eyes dark and serious and intense.

“You want me, Clark?”

He touched Clark, without abandon, thoroughly — groping at his chest, and Clark choked on a moan, as Bruce rasped:

“Then come and get me.”

It was late into the evening when his phone rang. Clark answered in Kryptonian —  it was always a blessing to be able to practice; he didn’t take it for granted. Granted, he was still a little rusty on his vocabulary, but he could handle most conversations with ease. “Kara? What’s the matter?”

“Nothing,” came Kara’s voice, tinny through the phone. “Just wanted to check in on how you were doing.”

Clark kept his phone on speaker as he delicately used his laser vision to heat up the small metal graft on one of Bruce’s gadgets. It had been damaged in a fight the other day. He kept up conversation like this, light and easy while multitasking, until Kara asked: “What are you doing?”

“Helping Bruce with a favour. Getting him to let me help him was like pulling teeth, you know?”

Kara sniggered. “I don’t think that expression quite works in Kryptonian.”

Clark winced and let go of Bruce’s gadget. He was more or less done with what Bruce had asked of him, anyway. “Cut me some slack here, please.”

“It’s fine! You’re learning fast. Keep going. How’s Bruce, by the way?”

“He’s— good,” said Clark, clearing his throat. “He’s as reckless as always. His knees have been acting up again and I keep getting him to try and rest, but you know what he’s like.”

Over the phone, there was a quiet beat. Then, “Mhm.”

“There’s this, uh, case, that resurfaced from a while ago, about corruption in Gotham’s police force. Is ‘corruption’ right? Anyway, his sleep schedule’s all messed up again. And…”

So that was how Clark ended up digressing to prattle on, very extensively, about how Bruce had been.

“—someone asked me, do you think Batman has dimples? And I told this story to Bruce, and he just said, Batman doesn’t smile.”

“Uhuh.”

“Which is obviously utter nonsense, right? I told him this, but he turned up his nose and said, justice does not smile.”

“Right.”

“It was disgustingly— what’s the word, cheesy, but he was obviously messing with me, so I let it go, but not before I reached over and poked at the sides of his mouth so it was shaped in a smile. He tried to kick me after that, but it was worth it, so…“

Midway, Clark trailed off and coughed. It hit him how peculiar he was being, because Kara had asked one throwaway line, a pleasantry — how’s Bruce? — and Clark had just gone and made a fool of himself.

Kara spoke up when he stopped. “No, no, please, go on.”

He couldn’t shake the impression that, somehow, she was making fun of him. “Um, yes. Point is, he’s fine.”

“Seems like it,” Kara said. Her tone was deliberately neutral, but— it was shaking with a suppressed amusement.

“What is it?”

That seemed to be permission for Kara to burst into laughter. “Nothing. Just, you realise you’re using a very intimate speech style when speaking about him, right?”

Clark stared blankly at the phone in front of him and felt a burn of humiliation crawling over his skin, a kind of pathetic shame; the ferocity of being stripped bare without permission. Kryptonian wasn’t a very forgiving language when it came to having to establish the way you saw another person in relation to yourself by selecting certain conjugations and patterns. Even when he bid farewell to Kara, the feeling stayed with him, and he was left clutching Bruce’s gadget mutely, head in his knees.

It was always humbling to be reminded that he hadn’t been cautious enough. In hiding it, that was; in making sure he wasn’t asking for more than he could have. To be reminded that— that what he wanted, who he wanted, was somebody he couldn’t have, a one-sided affair that could lead to almost nowhere but his own ruin. And if Clark wanted to avoid that — if he wanted to keep himself sane, keep his best friend by his side — then, well, he’d have to better well be even more careful in the future.

Bruce finished up the last stitch on his midriff, not bothering to look up as the bathroom door opened. He set down the needle, tossed a blood-stained gauze into the bin.

“Save it.”

“I told you not to go in alone.”

Clark’s eyes were alight with a righteous fury. Bruce never quite knew whether he loathed that expression or found it inadvisably hot. Right now, it was leaning towards the former. “And I told you it was a perfectly fine one-man job. Save your time for things that actually deserve your concern.”

“You—“ Clark made a bit off sound, nose flaring. “Stop talking. Now. Just— Bruce, you were lucky it was just a scratch — if it had been even a millimetre off, you would be… Rao. I can see your ribs are broken. Your fractures from before have barely healed. You deserve my concern, okay? For goodness’ sake.”

The mirror was slightly smudged from Bruce’s fingertips, the cupboard above head with the medical kit half-open. His skin was still stinging from the hydrogen peroxide; there was blood smeared across the walls and vanity, diluted crimson running into the sink. 

This place was one of his safe houses. Bruce wasn’t even quite sure how Clark had known to open his senses, to track him because Bruce was hurt, but he couldn’t be bothered to tell him off anymore. What was the point? Clark would have done it all over again.

“Enough with the x-ray vision. I know what I’m doing, Clark.”

“I know you do. You think I don’t recognise how capable you are? How brilliant? It’s just,” Clark’s jaw worked, and then he seemed to steel himself, brace himself because they both knew Bruce wouldn’t like what was coming next: “Christ.” He laughed, ragged. “I worry about you sometimes, okay? I’ve said this before. You’re my teammate. My— friend. I think I have the right to that, at least. Not that I need a right to care about someone.”

Bruce shut the cupboard door and twisted the sink’s knob, loud splashing water washing away the tang of iron. He was tired of this. He was tired of them always rehashing the same arguments over, and over, of Clark being a goddamn shitty hypocrite all the fucking time just like Bruce, except Bruce’s problems wouldn’t be much of a problem if Clark just let things go. If he just— if he just stopped with all the caring, right, because Clark had gone and thrown a spanner in the works, because now Bruce was saddled with these unnecessary weaknesses that if only Clark weren’t so Clark, wouldn’t have been there in the first place.

Because the care Clark was talking about — Clark cared about everyone. He cared about his family and friends and a stranger on the street. He would probably care about a fly on the wall. He could even care for Bruce, who had once been an enemy who’d tried to kill him. Who’d tried, extremely hard, to keep him at arm’s length. Who was never straight with him, who was never friendly or gentle or welcoming. 

He cared about the whole world. Bruce wasn’t special.

Bruce hated Clark for making it seem like he was.

“It’ll heal,” he said, tone colourless, “like every other wound.” Then Bruce shut the tap and made to leave the bathroom, except Clark was still blocking the entrance, obstinate as ever, unwilling to step aside.

“Move.”

“Bruce—“

“I’m giving you one more warning. Move.”

For a second, they were Superman and Batman staring each other down. Clark was drawn up to his full height, his glasses tucked into his shirt pocket and his eyes an arresting, unfiltered shade of arctic blue. Bruce’s voice was low, modulated, expression so impassive it might as well have been under the cowl; he was primed for a fight.

Then Clark hunched over, a little — rubbed his hands over his face, almost unconsciously. Stepped aside.

“Will you be staying here long?”

Bruce stalked off to the kitchen, Clark on his heels. “A few hours. Then I’m gone.”

“I’ll accompany you until then.”

Clark’s tone brooked no argument; not that Bruce would’ve found it in him to say, no, fuck you, get out, like he very much wanted to. Except he didn’t really want to, and that was the issue.

“If you’re expecting me to put out…” Bruce trailed off, deliberately provoking.

He was grimly satisfied when a burst of shock and interlaced horror flittered across Clark’s face. “How could you even—?” Clark sounded vaguely sick. Bruce thought he was being a bit melodramatic. Sex with stitches was still doable, if ill-advised, but Bruce knew how to be careful — and if Bruce thought he was being melodramatic, well, there was certainly a problem.

But of course Clark wouldn’t know that. He hadn’t exactly had the same breadth of experiences with injuries and sexual escapades like Bruce.

“It was a joke,” Bruce relented, because it was like kicking a puppy sometimes, with Clark. Ridiculous. What had this man reduced him to?

“It wasn’t very funny.”

“I’ll take that into consideration when I kickstart my stand-up career.”

The real comedic part here was Clark, though. If Bruce were afflicted with the terrible, crippling curse of self-awareness, Clark was doomed with the opposite. All that attention of his was directed outwards. Never to himself, never to his own needs. He probably barely even noticed when the League was concerned for him — the times Bruce had been furious with him, incensed, for similar reasons to why Clark was angry now, countless times; they both knew the risks they took everyday, and yet somehow seeing Clark hurt never seemed to get any easier.

He didn’t seem to realise, either, how much some things weighed on him, Atlas bearing the sky except Clark hardly knew it. The toll it took on him to always have to— smile, even in the face of horror, because Superman couldn’t have a bad day. Superman wasn’t bad-tempered or petty. To be loved and admired in equal measure, to be in awe of and venerated. Clark probably knew what it was like to be needed; to be demanded for.

Bruce craved being able to teach Clark what it was like to be wanted. To be desired.

He wasn’t very good at expressing it with words — so he tried to do it with his body, instead. Superman was untouchable. Able to touch but unable to be touched. Clark was not. Bruce had touched Clark Kent in places no one had before — both literally, and perhaps non-literally as well — and damned if it didn’t make him stupidly smug, gratified, and he had scolded Clark for being possessive but the truth was Bruce was a hundred times more possessive than that.

Sex was a rather effective way, but— it could only go so far when the man himself was still so infuriatingly dense. God.

Bruce ambled to the drawer next to the stove countertop, pulling it open. Sure enough, the non-perishables he’d stashed here the previous time were still here. Crackers, nuts; canned tuna and beans. He grabbed a granola bar and glowered at Clark. The latter was hovering around him like a mother hen on the other side of the kitchen, at a respectful distance but no less vexing. “Look, don’t you have other things to be doing?”

“It’s the weekend. I just submitted my latest draft to Perry. I can afford to stay.”

That last sentence was a lie. There was always something to be doing, somewhere to go. The same applied to the both of them.

Bruce didn’t bother to call him out. “Here,” he tossed a strawberry-flavoured bar with perfect aim, averting his gaze when Clark brightened and caught it.

“Oh, hey, thanks. I love strawberry.”

“Good,” Bruce replied, as if he hadn’t known that since two years ago and purposely left strawberry sponge cake in the Manor’s fridge every now and then for Alfred to serve to Clark when he came over. Dense motherfucker.

The next few hours were uneventful. Bruce stayed on the couch, files spread out over the coffee table, trying to fit the pieces of his latest case together in his mind. Clark — since he was here, Bruce had taken advantage and hoisted several tactical review analyses of the League’s previous battles into his hands, demanding he look over it.

Clark ended up bent over the dining table, nibbling on the edge of his red pen. Bruce glanced up for a moment, over at him, Clark’s brow furrowed in thoughtful concentration. Bruce could see red scribbles all over the paper, circles and arrows and lengthy paragraphs crammed into the margins. Clark’s input was always appreciated, even if Bruce didn’t always agree; and to see Clark treat it with the same gravitas Bruce did, even when he’d go on spiels about how foresight could only take them so far, always reassured Bruce, that the team was safe in his hands. That Clark at least knew how much it meant to Bruce.

At the same time, Bruce had been pretending not to see Clark glance at him, every now and then, out of the corner of his eye, as if ensuring Bruce wasn’t straining himself. That Bruce was indeed alternating between hacking into databases on his laptop and browsing through confidential documents, and not doing something monumentally stupid like breakdancing on the floor and bleeding to death or something.

Clark happened to look up, and their eyes met.

Clark looked a little startled, the pen falling from his lips. Then he gave a quick, furtive quirk of the mouth, and glanced back down. Bruce followed suit, turning the fluster over and over in his mind all the while. The — guilt? surprise? — in Clark’s eyes, like he’d been caught doing something he wasn’t supposed to. The shyness characteristic of Clark Kent but less so of Clark. It was— it made Bruce—

Or maybe this was all Selina Kyle’s fucking fault. Her fault for putting these ideas in Bruce’s head, that Clark could— as if, it would— as if Clark would ever—

Damn her.

Clark snuck him a look again. Checking if Bruce was still looking. Bruce glanced up again, prompted: “What?”

“It’s late afternoon. What do you want for lunch?”

Bruce blinked, slightly thrown. Out of all the things he’d expected Clark to say, that wasn’t one of them, although it was perfectly predictable of him.

“Nothing in particular. Clark, you don’t have to—“

Clark didn’t let him finish; there was that exasperating stubbornness in his voice as he bulldozed through, “Chinese? Western? I’d get pizza, but I know how you get about your diet.” He straightened, letting the pen fall out of his fingers. “Or I can get groceries and cook for you. I’m no three-star Michelin, but I’ll do my best. I make a pretty mean mac and cheese, you know.”

Bruce didn’t know whether to snort or throw something at Clark. “I just said—“

“Groceries it is,” Clark said, and super-sped his way to the door in a blur before Bruce so much as opened his mouth. “By the way,” he narrowed his eyes, “don’t you dare do anything strenuous. Just work on your case, okay? On the couch.”

And Bruce could only frown mutely as Clark waved, cheery, his earlier irritation at Bruce seemingly dissolved, then left out the front door. He always did forgive Bruce too easily. Now he was— out buying groceries? God.

Thirty minutes later, Bruce had more or less figured out what he needed to do for his case — the answer was obvious, it had been staring him in the face this whole time, but he’d have to do some extra reconnaissance next week. That was the only reason that he allowed himself to be distracted, he told himself, leaving the mess behind on the coffee table to wander to the space opposite the kitchen, where Clark was bustling about.

It was almost— laughable. Normal. Ordinary, in a way neither of them were, in a way neither of them probably thought they would be. Clark was humming, a soft ballad Bruce couldn’t quite place, as he moved around the kitchen — regular speed and everything, though he used his laser eyes to heat up whatever was in the pan. Bruce couldn’t see much of what he was actually cooking from this angle. He could, however, see Clark’s back, from here, broad and sure as he moved like he cooked for Bruce everyday.

Clark wasn’t smiling, the glasses he hadn’t taken off were fogged up, and he was in constant movement; a bumblebee in flight, still swaying to the tune Bruce didn’t recognise. He seemed to be relishing it. As if it was giving him some sort of comfort, some peace of mind, as he flittered around like a dance, weaving around the fridge and cupboards and stove, that he could cook. Cook for Bruce, of all things, because Bruce was sure Clark himself wouldn’t have bothered with it, had he been alone.

And so— Bruce couldn’t protest, not really, no matter how much he insisted that he’d been planning to get food on the way back to the Manor.

Plus, it was starting to smell pretty damn good. The aroma of fried rice and crispy bacon, the sizzling of eggs. Bruce wasn’t particularly hungry, but he could eat, since Clark had gone through the trouble already; and he told Clark as such, who looked up from the chopping board — garlic — to shoot him a wry look that told Bruce he wasn’t very convinced.

“I’m honoured,” Clark snarked, clutching his chest. Bruce officially gave up on keeping his literal distance and walked towards him, while Clark was still talking, “Your Royal Highness, sir, oh do tell me what I’ve done, to earn the grace of your presence, your willingness to eat my food—“

He cut off abruptly as Bruce wrapped a hand around his waist from behind, pressing his chest to Clark’s back, his nose pressing into Clark’s shoulder.

“Bruce,” and Clark sounded— a little choked, a little flabbergasted, but Bruce was too busy focusing on the way his words vibrated to pick apart the unreadable note in Clark’s voice. “What are you…”

“Shutting you up,” Bruce replied, and then he turned his face up, a little, into the crook of Clark’s neck, inhaling deeply. And for a second, Clark seemed to give way — the knife dropped from his hands, swaying back into Bruce’s arms, head tilted back, allowing Bruce to mouth at his neck. That blasted invulnerability made sure Bruce’s attempts at hickies never stuck, but— he was still going to try.

Then, to Bruce’s surprise, Clark laughed. Even if the laugh sounded— half-genuine, at best. “Not now, Bruce, I’m preparing our lunch. And—“ He didn’t turn around, but he wrapped a warm hand around Bruce’s hand, still on his stomach, and gently pried it off. “I told you, I’m not doing anything until your stitches heal. Capiche? Now go wait for me at the dining table, I’m almost done.”

Bruce let him go, and there was something tangled in his chest, thick heavy strings pulling at ribcage, housing his rapid, fleeting hummingbird pulse. Bruce tamped it down, in case Clark heard, to a steady, perfectly normal beat. He ran through his own motions in his head again, and— fuck. It was a sick imitation of a life he couldn’t have. What was he doing?

“Suit yourself,” he said, lightly, after a pause, and went back to the dining table. Then he stopped and called: “Maybe you should call me sir more often.”

Clark’s face had probably turned red, and Bruce may or may not have mourned being unable to see it from there. “Maybe you should shut up and wait to be served.”

Bruce set up the table while waiting: napkins, cutlery. When Clark finally served the fried rice, Bruce swept a hand across him to indicate that Clark should sit opposite.

“Sorry, it’s a little simple,” Clark said, awkwardly, and Bruce picked up his spoon. “Uh, enjoy.”

“Don’t worry, Clark, it’s still better than anything Tim can do. He almost burned the Manor down once when he tried to help Alfred make pudding. Pudding. There was not supposed to be fire involved in the first place.”

Clark laughed at that, and Bruce scooped a spoonful off his plate only for his skepticism to melt away like the rice melted on his tongue. It was tasty — the rice was rich and flavourful, underlaid with a savoury sauce that could have been soy. The bits of bacon were crisp, the egg balancing the flavour and the seasoning not too overdone; milder, the way Bruce liked it.

“It’s— good,” Bruce noted, with approval, and Clark practically shot up in his seat, a beautiful grin sneaking onto his face.

“I appreciate the ringing endorsement,” Clark snorted. Sarcastically, but Bruce wasn’t deceived. He was still beaming, perked up like a puppy, eyes wide and guileless and pleased with himself. Foolishly, Bruce thought that— if Clark was going to look like that, with such a simple compliment, then even if that fried rice had been the worst charred thing Bruce had ever tasted in his life, he would have praised it anyway.

“Do you cook for yourself often?”

“Not really,” Clark shrugged, digging into his own meal. “Occasionally. I’m more a takeout kinda guy, as I’m sure you’ve realised. Oh, don’t look at me like that — not everyone has an Alfred, you know. It’s unhealthy, sure, but it’s not like it affects me much anyway, with my biology. It’s cheaper to cook sometimes, though, and I used to—“ he faltered, but Bruce courteously let the moment pass, “learn, a bit. I wanted to learn to cook for Lois. Ma taught me some things as well, how to cook the things Conner liked.”

Bruce gave a short nod. “Well, it paid off.”

Clark shot him another blinding smile, and it was a little like looking into the sun. As if Bruce’s eyes would hurt if he stared too long. So he focused on finishing up his meal instead, and they ate in a comfortable silence, the golden afternoon rays effusing into the room.

Soon enough, Bruce finished every last grain on the plate — it wasn’t a hardship, far from it, considering how good the food was and who had made it — and stood up without further ado. His chair scraped against the marble tiles, hard and screeching, making Clark wince theatrically.

“Thank you for the meal,” Bruce began, about to move off, but Clark didn’t let him finish.

“Bruce — no,” he chastised, hastily. Bruce come to a halt. “You come back here right now.”

Bruce stared at him, then took stock of their surroundings. Nothing was amiss, not that he could see, but perhaps it was something he couldn’t sense. Was there a security breach? He tensed, crouching into a more defensive position. Clark didn’t seem alarmed, or cautious, although that could mean anything.

“What?”

Clark threw up his hands. “Oh, come on — Bruce, relax. Look again.”

Bruce looked. At the table — his empty plate — then to Clark. Who looked back at Bruce, then looked down at the plate pointedly. Bruce blinked; then he clicked his tongue, in disbelief.

“Really?”

“Yes, really,” Clark said reproachfully, “Alfred isn’t here, you know.”

“I was going to move it after you were done — move both plates together, and then do the dishes—“

“For what? Just put it in the sink first!”

“I’ll have you know that I’ve eaten alone before, I know perfectly well how to deal with dishes, thank you.”

“It’s basic manners. Since it’s only me here, it’s fine, but it’s good habit to cultivate. Don’t you learn that in all your fancy mumbo jumbo etiquette lessons for rich people?”

Bruce felt his brow crease. Deliberately, pointedly, he marched back to the table, picked up the plate, stormed over to the sink and very slowly put the plate down. Then, snarkily:

“Doest this please thy majesty?”

Clark did look pleased, or at least pleased enough to let the sarcasm slide. A roll of the eyes indicated that the jab at his earlier ‘Your Royal Highness’ comment hadn’t gone unnoticed, though, something so subtle only Clark would pick up, because it meant that Clark knew how petty Bruce could be. “At least you don’t look like you’re about to be attacked anymore,” said Clark. “Ease up, detective. The only threat was imagining the combined ire of Alfred and Ma.”

“That is a rather serious threat,” replied Bruce, faux grim, and when a laugh slipped past Clark’s lips, he had to bite back a smile of his own. Then he immediately felt peeved at himself for allowing good humour. Clark shouldn’t be here, damn it, lingering like a bunch of stitches were anything worth making a fuss over.

Yet that irritation slid straight through his fingers like silk, the more he looked at Clark, the vestige of a grin still on his face, and even as he tried to grasp desperately onto it, all that was left was a resigned fondness.

God, Bruce was too old for this. Too— broken. Too self-destructive, cold, calculative. Too everything.

“I’ll wash the dishes,” said Bruce, abruptly. “Since you made the food.”

Clark set his spoon down with a clatter and raised an eyebrow. “I have super speed.”

“And?”

“Isn’t efficiency your thing? Think about it. I’ll get it done in a few seconds flat.”

“Doing the cooking, the cleaning, what, you’re going to start sweeping the floor, next?”

“Buried somewhere beneath that is a misogynistic ideal, you know.”

Bruce took the roundabout way across the room, deliberately making his way past Clark and skimming his fingertips across the span of Clark’s back. Just because he could. “Me? Never.” He leaned in and turned his mouth into the shell of Clark’s ear, exhaling. “Now be a good boy and stay here, won’t you?”

Clark turned away, nearly giving Bruce a mouthful of brown curls. With a small smirk, Bruce shrunk back and met Clark’s glower; it probably would have been more effective if Clark’s ears hadn’t been glowing red.

“Bruce. Don’t fake-flirt to weasel your way out of this.”

“Come on, Clark, enough with all your midwestern—“

“You’re injured. Just go lie on the damn couch.”

And before Bruce could even blink, Clark had finished his food and super-sped his way to the kitchen sink. Bruce considered flipping him off, but all he could really muster was a half-resigned, half-amused quirk of the lips. “Real classy,” he told Clark from where he was. “Using your powers to cheat.”

Clark only grinned, his arms already deep in soap-spudded water. “Tough luck.”

And it was funny, how easily they could go from arguing to doing their own thing to whatever this was. It made Bruce want to laugh. It made him want to scream. It felt like— like all the times they slept with each other, like they could be pressed together, bodies flush, chest to hip, bare skin and sweat and all lines of heat, and it wouldn’t be enough.

Close, and yet only in a certain sense of the world. Yet, in other ways, impossibly so: distant. Dangerous. Out of reach, as Superman was. As Batman only ever allowed himself to be. As Bruce only ever allowed himself to be.

And that? That was alright. Bruce still had this — they still had this. And so he stood, let Clark do the dishes without further protest, and went back to where he had left his case files, in disarray, spread across the coffee table.

(He didn’t realise, then; he didn’t realise. Bruce had always been quick to revelations. He was quick to judgements and to action, to fights and to answers.

This particular revelation, though? He hadn’t wanted to realise it.

But that didn’t matter, not in the end — because it had been a long time coming.)

“Care to repeat that?”

“We’re snowed in, sir,” Alfred echoed patiently, looking unimpressed as Bruce scowled so darkly any lesser man would have been sent running. So much for that. He’d planned to make a crime ring bust today, but now all his intel was invalid considering the thick blanket of white currently covering every inch of Gotham. 

“I’m sure the Alphonzos won’t mysteriously disappear in a day or two,” Alfred continued, dry, as Bruce began to pace. “You’ll catch them soon, Master Bruce. It’s hardly like they can do much in this weather either.”

Alfred had a point, but still. Bruce stopped in his tracks and sighed. It was fine. He’d deal with them soon; for now, he could settle his other work. There were footsteps, then, and Clark appeared in the doorway of the living room; he was covered, head to toe, in milky melting snow, and looked a little like a drenched pitiful dog as he blinked his big eyes with hair plastered to his face and clothes clinging to a very nice figure.

“Clark?” Bruce said in a tone that made the implied, are you an idiot? clear. He hurried forward as Alfred scuttered away to grab a towel for Clark to dry off.

Clark let out a sheepish laugh, brushing hair out of his eyes. “It’s seriously crazy out there, even in Metropolis, so I figured I might as well head over, since you guys’ll probably be stuck here for a while.”

Alfred reappeared with the towel and tossed it to Bruce. It wasn’t like Clark would get sick, or cold, but still — it couldn’t have been comfortable. Clark was truly an idiot. One-handed, Bruce caught the cloth, and considered chucking it in Clark’s face, but instead aggressively started rubbing his hair with the towel. Clark didn’t move at the assault, wide-eyed and amused, as Bruce petted the snow off him with more force than necessary and dried him off.

“Are you done groping me?” Clark snarked, but his cheeks were pink as Bruce drew away. “I’m fine, really.”

“You’re a dumbass, that’s what.”

“That’s not very nice.”

Bruce dragged Clark to his favourite armchair and sat him down. Bruce could feel Clark’s gaze on him as he reached over, grabbing a matchbox and lighting one match with a brisk flick of his wrist. With a scratching sound, the red tip of the match caught on fire; Bruce tossed it into the fireplace and watched as the kindling burst into crackling flame.

When he turned back, Clark was still looking at him, strangely unreadable. Bruce frowned back, running one rapid hand through his hair and demanding: “What?”

“Nothing,” Clark said; then he smiled. “It’s just, you know I don’t get cold, right?”

“Of course I do,” Bruce said brusquely. Who did Clark think he was? Bruce had done extensive research on each and every Kryptonian biological file he could get his hands on. Maybe Clark wouldn’t get sick, but surely he couldn’t be comfortable; Kryptonians still had temperature receptors, along with typical human tactile feedback like the unpleasant sensation of wet clothes clinging to skin. Either way, Bruce didn’t allow himself to linger in present company — he cleared his throat, ready to leave to work on modifications to his grapple, when—

“Where are you going?” Clark asked.

Bruce stopped.

“The cave,” he said tersely.

“Stay,” suggested Clark. Except it came out more like a command, a plea. And Bruce turned, a rebuke sharp on the tip of his tongue, about to snipe at the presumptuousness in his tone, to see Clark stalking towards him with a mischievous grin. 

Bruce warily quirked a brow; that look only ever spelled trouble.

“Stay?” Clark said again, more of a question this time, but it couldn’t really be a question anymore if he knew Bruce wouldn’t say no the moment he reached out a hand. Clark’s touch was dry, warm from the fireplace. One hand slid around the back of Bruce’s neck — it was too careful and too tender, and Bruce spent a split second considering drawing back from dangerous territory; but Clark didn’t give him a chance to. His other hand wrapped around Bruce’s shoulder, firmly guiding Bruce backwards until his back hit the wall with a soft thud.

Bruce took a moment to just drink in the sight before him. Clark’s impossibly blue eyes along with firelight contouring features made of marble. Clark met his gaze steadily, the side of his lips pulled upwards ever-so-slightly; it was so easy, frighteningly so, in a way that scared Bruce to his bones, to forget about everything else when it was like this, just the two of them looking at each other. Dimly, Bruce noted that it was long past the eye contact duration deemed socially appropriate. He should go, really. He should stop looking, should go do something useful.

Then Clark’s lips were at his jawline, his neck, and hell, his grappling hook could wait till tomorrow, couldn’t it?

Bruce’s hands instinctively went up to grip Clark’s forearms to steady himself. Clark was absent-mindedly mouthing at the base of Bruce’s throat, teeth scraping his collarbone; Bruce tilted his head back at the touch, exhaling as Clark’s hands wandered down, down, then under the hem of his shirt and across his sternum.

Clark’s mouth made its way up, biting gently at his jawline and tilting so Bruce could feel his stubble brush against Clark’s in an electric, fiery spark that felt like a thrill. Clark kissed him close-mouthed, slow, wandering; chaste. Bruce did what he always did when Clark did that: he nipped at Clark’s lower lip and pressed in, deepening the kiss. Bruce licked, rough and filthy, into Clark’s mouth, gratified when Clark acquiesced, a low sound escaping from the back of his throat.

When Bruce gripped Clark’s hair, tongue prodding the heat of Clark’s mouth, Clark’s fingers curled, nails dragging slightly against Bruce’s stomach. As if in apology, Clark flattened his hands and soothed the skin beneath with his palm, before resuming his exploration. Clark’s fingertips were uncallused, smooth against bare skin. It took Bruce a second to realise the path they were taking — tracing the edge of a scar across his waist where he’d been knifed by the Joker, before. And the fact that Clark knew where it was by heart, that he probably could point out every single one of the marks over Bruce’s body with his eyes closed, his touch still infuriatingly gentle—

It was too much, suddenly. Too goddamn— intimate. Bruce drew away, forced Clark’s chin up with his index, and Clark’s expression froze along with his movement. Resignation danced over his face — quick enough that Bruce might’ve imagined it; followed by understanding, then a strange wryness that didn’t exactly look happy.

Before Bruce could say anything, though, Clark angled his head in a way that indicated he could hear someone approaching and stepped away.

“Father?” came a young voice, clipped. Bruce turned to see Damien standing at the doorway. Damien nodded at him; it quickly turned into a frown upon sensing the other presence in the room, and his voice turned disdainful. “Kent, too. What are you doing here?”

“Damien,” Bruce greeted, equally deadpan. Considering he had just been cockblocked by his son, he would say that his tone came out relatively patient, even as he hastily smoothened his shirt. “Has Alfred told you we’re snowed in?”

“Yes,” grumbled Damien. “But it better be gone by tomorrow. I just— I was just going to sleep.”

“Earlier than usual? Is it because of your Science Fair coming up?”

Damien’s flat expression remained unchanged, but he folded his arms in a way that Bruce could tell meant he was inordinately pleased. “You remembered. Yes. I have to work on my project early tomorrow morning. I will come out victorious in the end.”

Bruce waved him away with a nod.

“Good night, then. Good luck.”

Damien responded with a half-smile in turn before disappearing with a similar ‘good night’. Bruce turned back. Clark was watching him again, grinning like an idiot, teasing and fond. Goddamn it. Clark could be so damn transparent in his affection when he wanted to — that gaze felt far too knowing; abruptly, viciously, Bruce wanted to— to something. To rip his eyes out and roundhouse kick Clark straight at his face, if it meant wiping the expression away before Bruce could get any wrong ideas.

Bruce didn’t get a chance to say anything beyond his scowl. There was a gust of wind and a blur as Clark super-sped away; another blink, and Clark was back in the room on the rug at the table near the fireplace. The chess set from Bruce’s office, carefully tucked away in one of the drawers, was in his hands.

Bruce clicked his tongue. “What did I say about accessing my office when I’m not there?”

“Don’t be a sourpuss,” Clark said, and he sounded so cheerful that Bruce couldn’t even help his own mood from blossoming in turn. “Well? Don’t just stand there. Are we playing or not?”

“I would’ve thought you’d known better than to challenge me to chess, Kent.”

“Well, Mr Wayne,” Clark retorted, a glint in his eye, “put your money where your mouth is, why don’t you?”

The chess set was a vintage one — old, beautiful — carved from wood with every ridge etched with detail. Bruce laid out the pieces one by one with a relaxed familiarity; Clark just sat back, the bastard, and hummed under his breath. The first time they’d played, Clark had stumbled across Bruce in his office with a half-open chess book next to his chess board, solving puzzles and practicing tactics by himself. “What are you doing?” Clark had asked, then: “I’ve never played chess before.”

“It’s a good way to keep yourself sharp,” Bruce had replied, “though I don’t suppose a bumbling reporter from Kansas would have much reason to play.”

“Maybe not,” Clark had agreed. “Teach me anyway?”

And, as always, Clark had been a fast learner. Bruce was still better, of course — strategies, tactics, games, those were his specialities — but Clark was always surpassing his expectations, never fitting into the models Bruce’s mind rapidly tried to construct, the predictions he drew from facts. More than that — it was fun to play with Clark; of course, Bruce still won more often than not, but Clark had his moments of perspicuousness, and there was perceptiveness in the thoughtful furrow of his brow that made the blood under Bruce’s skin zing with something like exhilaration, knowing that Clark could read the outline of Bruce’s every move.

They played often, after that. To unwind, or during one of Clark’s whims just like this. Bruce suspected Clark liked playing against him for similar reasons; that familiarity, the ease, of just knowing each other, of feeling known in every move. It used to scare Bruce — hell, it still did — but over the years, something so simple had become comfort to him, a routine.

Plus, Clark seemed to like it. That was enough for Bruce.

They were in the mid-game of their second match, now. Bruce had his forehead creased, jaw resting on his hand, the fingers of his other hand drumming steadily as he waited for Clark’s next move. “Isn’t it better to actually play chess with someone other than yourself?” Clark asked, defending a hanging bishop with rook to E3.

“I used to play with Alfred when I was smaller,” Bruce said. “Still do, sometimes.” He surveyed the board for a moment. His index and thumb snagged the tip of the knight, moving it to F5, setting up a fork.

“Did you use this same board?”

“Yes. I’ve had it for years.”

Clark saw through his move with an infuriating ease, moving to block the fork, although it weakened his light-squared bishop as a result. “Did you buy it as a kid?” he questioned curiously.

Bruce responded only after a beat, eyes fixed on the board. “It was a gift from my parents.”

In his peripheral, he could see Clark’s gaze flicker up to him, then back down to the pieces. He kept his voice deliberately light.

“Oh? Ma was always telling me to help out around the farm if I had any free time. It would have been nice if we’d played board games together, though.”

Bruce didn’t let up, moving his queen such that Clark’s king would be in check. “You’ve been to our game nights. Jason and Damien and Cass get very competitive with Monopoly. Tim throws a tantrum if he doesn’t win Cluedo.”

Clark shuddered. “Trust me, I’ve seen it firsthand. That’s not even to talk about when they turn on the switch to Mario Kart or Smash Bros or Overcooked.” He shifted his king out of check, only for Bruce to chase him away again. “Hey, leave me alone.”

“And disregard the objective of the game?”

“Maybe you could just resign in the face of my brilliance.”

“Don’t forget who first taught you to play, punk.”

Clark just laughed, clear and bright.

It took another tedious ten minutes for Bruce to trap Clark’s pieces at last. It was gratifying, but mostly just indulgent, to pinpoint the exact moment Clark realised he had lost; he pulled a face, as if he were frustrated, but it rapidly dissolved into a good-natured shrug and a harrumph that was more playful than anything. “Fine. Fine. I resign, gracefully, I suppose.”

Bruce finally cracked a smile, toppling Clark’s king over with a flick of his wrist. It clattered to the board, with a wooden thud, and lay there motionless. “You ‘suppose’? Hardly a graceful resignation.”

Bruce’s snark was disregarded. “My poor king,” Clark griped. He leaned over the table, the broad line of his shoulders narrowing; as he moved to restore the king to its upright position, the back of his hand brushed Bruce’s fingers, still hovering above the board. The graze was feather-light but warm; Bruce let the touch linger for a second, thoughtlessly, only pulling back once the king was back in its original place.

Clark glanced up through his lashes, a fleeting smile crossing his face.

“What?” Bruce snapped.

“Nothing,” replied Clark cheerily. Probably sensing danger, he swiftly changed the subject; he grabbed a knight piece and galloped it across the board. “Do you think people ever play with these like they’re playing with dolls?”

“I highly doubt so,” Bruce said dryly.

“Shame.” Clark set down the knight. “These pieces are so well done. Your parents must’ve picked the set out very carefully.” Your parents must’ve loved you a lot. Bruce couldn’t reply, but he knew Clark didn’t expect him to. Instead, Clark stared for a thoughtful instant at the board, then picked his king up again. “Conner used to make his Barbie dolls kiss for no reason, you know. He’d come up with all these stories…”

Clark dragged his king over the checkered squares without finesse, adopting a ridiculous low voice that had Bruce burying his head in his hands, his elbows propped on the table. “‘You.’” Clark stopped his king in front of Bruce’s king. “‘Your army has defeated me. We surrender. Please, let us stop the fighting.’”

He paused, pointedly, jabbing Bruce’s socked foot under the table. It’s your turn.

“No,” said Bruce. In a perfectly normal voice.

“Come on,” coaxed Clark.

“No.”

“Bruce.”

“No.”

“Fine,” said Clark, and he went back down an octave, this time in a Gotham accent as he picked up Bruce’s king with his other hand, making it dance as if it were the one speaking. “‘I, too, have no desire for further bloodshed.’” Then, his own king. “‘Marvellous! So let us make a truce!’”

“The creative writing industry is jumping for joy,” Bruce commented sarcastically.

Clark disregarded this. Bruce’s king began having a seizure again. “‘What do you propose?’” Clark paused dramatically, and Bruce wasn’t— he wasn’t even looking at the board anymore, he was just looking at Clark. Clark’s king stomped heavily on the board. “‘I propose… a union.’”

Ridiculous. This whole affair was ridiculous, and yet— Clark was— he was— God. Bruce’s heart felt too big for his chest, his ribcage was shrinking and his chest was tight and his bones were wrapped around his lungs and squeezing hard. Bruce didn’t know what sort of expression he was making, but for once it didn’t matter — Clark was absorbed in whatever nonsense he was doing, evidently enjoying himself; he wasn’t looking in Bruce’s direction. 

“‘A union’?” Clark asked in a flabbergasted manner to absolutely no one. Switching accents, he went, gravely: “‘Yes. A proposed marriage. To show our citizens we can truly become one. To show our kingdoms will be at peace, and that all the sacrifices we have made are not in vain.’”

“Clark, what—“

“‘I accept.’”

Then, to Clark’s obvious amusement and Bruce’s complete, utter bewilderment, Clark smashed the two kings together in what was likely an approximation of two chess pieces making out, vigorously.

“Clark,” Bruce said again. Helpless. “God.”

And Clark began laughing, unabashedly; and for someone who could be so mature, he could be so— so childish, so juvenile, but the exasperation Bruce felt had no real heat in it. Superman had no chance to be a dork. Bruce could do nothing else but let Clark. Clark’s feet stretched out, head thrown back, and beneath the table, their legs tangled, the warmth from the sound of Clark’s laughter making Bruce heat under the collar, increasing the room’s temperature more than the fire from the hearth ever could.

At first, it had been hard to reconcile the versions of the man in front of him. Clark was like Bruce, except he wasn’t — they both wore masks, but Clark was all of his masks, in the way that Bruce was none of his. Clark Kent was more Clark than Superman, the way Batman was more Bruce than Bruce Wayne. Long before they’d even become friends, Bruce had combed through Superman’s media — all his press coverage, his pictures, grainy footage from civilians on the ground. The impression he’d gotten from them was all the same: Superman was inhuman, in a human way. He was like the stars. He was like the sun. Flint in his eyes but warmth in his smile. Compassionate to his core, but compassion in the detached, aloof way that distinguished it from Clark's empathy. A broad back: you can depend on me. A cape fluttering in the wind, above head: you can’t reach me. He was whittled, cut from slabs of marble, ice-cold but blazing. The masterpiece sculpture in a museum, the angel from a fervent prayer. Kind yet fierce; intimidating yet approachable. Sincere, genuine, amiable. Perfect. Flawless. No chinks in the armour.

And then Bruce had met Clark Kent, journalist. He laughed just as easily. He was sincere, genuine, amiable. But he wasn’t perfect. He was awkward. He was hot-headed. He was a wallflower with large eyes behind ugly glasses who bumped into glass doors and blended too easily into the background — even so, he was sharp, with a sense of humour and an even stronger sense of compassion. He was unfalteringly human.

And the irony was this, wasn’t it? That Bruce could try so hard to push people away, but ended up in a Manor filled with people who seemed to care about him anyway, and Clark, he was— he seemed so social, like someone who’d have people around every corner, but that wasn’t the case — people, they had Clark, but how many people did Clark really have? Clark kept people at arms length. They had that in common, even if Clark didn’t do it on purpose, deliberate the way Bruce was. 

Bruce created walls with a glare; Clark created walls with a smile.

And it wasn’t goddamn fair, that Clark wasn’t receiving the care he should receive, the care he had always offered others without asking for anything in return. Bruce would just have to single-handedly make up for it, then, but— of course he couldn’t. He was just a man. A broken, battered man. He couldn’t give Clark what he deserved, but God — he hoped — he prayed — that Clark might someday find someone who could.

“One more round?” Clark suggested, pulling Bruce back to the present, already resetting the pieces. “Let me play white. I’ll win, just watch.”

Bruce felt his eyes shut, his heart beating steady in his chest and a reluctant smile pulling at his lips.

“Feel free to try.”

After the game — a stalemate this time — the fire had burnt through almost all the coals, sputtering and sparking only occasionally. Bruce had learnt to keep a good track of time with his internal body clock; by now, it was late — past midnight, the sky was dark outside, still blanketed with snow. Clark stood, dusting his pants in a nonchalant manner, and said, “I’m going to put the set back in your office, now, you coming with?”

“Of course,” Bruce snorted. He was irately possessive of his spaces, his office and the Batcave and the whole of Gotham included, and Clark knew that. He also knew Bruce well enough to know that Bruce made concessions for him as well. Damn it.

They strode through the halls of the Manor, up the padded stairs to the oak doors of Bruce’s office. He spent less time here than the Batcave, but the office was a close second. Clark walked in like he owned the place, like he could navigate the area inside and out half-asleep, and gingerly set the chess set back into the drawer where it originally was. Bruce leaned against the doorframe, folding his arms and watching as Clark’s gaze hooked on the novel on his desk, a bookmark neatly slotted between the pages.

“Vonnegut? Really?”

“What about?”

“I would’ve thought you’d read that before.”

“I read less non-fiction than you.”

“It’s a miracle you have time to read anything at all,” Clark laughed, and thumbed through the pages of the book. The motion would be brazen, almost insolent, if it had been anyone else, but with Clark it only seemed right, like it was his right. “Stop loitering there and come in, won’t you?”

“I don’t see any reason for us to stay here,” Bruce said, even as he compliantly walked in, taking his usual seat at his desk, “seeing as you’ve been here a dozen times. Did you like the book?”

“I like that it made me think,” Clark offered; he set the book down and perched on the edge of Bruce’s desk, next to a fountain pen that cost a little too much. “You believe in free will, Bruce?”

Bruce shoved Clark off while contemplating the question. “I don’t make a habit of believing things just because I want to, but — I do. I have to believe it.”

“Ah.”

Understanding brimmed behind Clark’s eyes. Bruce felt compelled to elaborate anyway.

“What we do — what we fight for, every day, what I work so hard for — Clark, it’s because of our choices,” Bruce said. “Not fate, or destiny, or even simple biology. Not purely because forces out of my control stayed my hand. Things could’ve turned out differently at any turn. The mistakes I make—“

Clark’s voice hardened. “Oh, don’t use free will as another reason to blame yourself, Bruce.”

“—I’ve fucked up. That’s on me. But the other things, too — I’m trying, Clark. I try to be better. I choose to try to be better. You know that. The others in the world, the ones we fight — they chose their own path. I choose justice. To call it anything else would be to deny everything I’ve ever done; to call it anything else would be a disrespect.” Bruce pulled at the collar of his dress shirt, waving a vague hand in Clark’s direction. “I mean — just— you. Look at you. You chose to be Superman, Clark. Do you have any idea how amazing that is?”

And Clark’s reaction caught Bruce completely off-guard. Genuine astonishment flooded the ‘o’ of Clark’s mouth, his mouth thinning into a mystified protest.

“Me?” Clark huffed. It was an incredulous sound. “I don’t— Bruce, you’ve got it all wrong, I— it was never a choice, for me. It just— was. I couldn’t be anything else. I was born with these powers. Bruce,” Clark made his way around his table, to Bruce’s shock, and kneeled down beside Bruce’s chair so that they were at eye level, “Bruce. I need you to understand. The amazing one here is you. Your only powers are your wits and your will. And maybe money,” Clark joked, to lighten the mood, because Bruce refused to meet his eyes, and then Clark’s hand was on his chin, tilting Bruce’s face towards him. “Look at me. You chose— you’re human, and yet every day… you chose to be Batman. Don’t you get it? I…”

“Clark,” Bruce murmured softly, bewildered. Clark was wrong. He was— a curl had fallen loose, not Superman’s slicked-back hair but not Clark Kent’s neatly-combed professionalism either, and in one smooth, uncharacteristically impulsive motion Bruce dragged his index finger across Clark’s temple, sweeping the curl back behind his ears. “I’m just a rich kid from the city. I knew who I was. I knew who I had to be. Are you kidding me? Clark, you could’ve taken over the whole damn world.”

“But I would never,” Clark said, adorably indignant, a small blush dusting his cheeks as he touched the side of the ear Bruce had tucked his hair behind.

“I know,” said Bruce. “Clark. I know.”

Clark was still looking slightly upwards at him, hands braced on both sides of the armrest of Bruce’s chair, bracketing him in. This close, Bruce could smell Clark’s aftershave, his shampoo; and it was heady, intoxicating, that that shampoo smelled just like the ones Bruce stocked in the Manor. 

Bruce let his eyes flutter shut, just for a half second, before nudging Clark off and hauling him up.

“You know, if you want to be on your knees for me that much, Kent, I welcome it. Perhaps another time, though.”

It wasn’t said lasciviously, wasn’t paired with him tilting his head back and man spreading, with him tightening a fist into Clark’s hair. It was just a signal that he was done with this conversation — and from the way Clark laughed and obediently stood, he seemed to have heard it loud and clear.

“I just might take you up on that offer. Remember it, Mr Wayne.”

Clark resumed wandering around his office, running his fingers over the spine of books. His eyes glowed as he x-ray vision-ed some of Bruce’s old case files hidden behind the cabinet. Lost in rumination, Bruce swivelled his chair a hundred and eighty degrees, facing the window outside. The heavy snow was still pattering against the window, softer than raindrops, in a flurry of white and ice against glass, barely visible in the black night. There was a chill in the air, not too cold, but just enough to be pleasant.

From behind came a rustle — plastic — that had Bruce turning back around to see what exactly Clark was rummaging around this time. Clark was eyeing the gramophone in the corner of a crystal table with great interest. He had crouched down to reach the lowest part of the shelf. The records carefully wrapped in plastic crinkled as Clark’s hands ruffled through the tucked-away albums. 

“Clark,” said Bruce cautiously, “what are you doing?”

“I’ve always wanted to try your phonograph,” Clark explained, a grin spreading over his face.

Bruce frowned. “I wouldn’t have stopped you.”

“I mean, every time I’ve been in your office, you were always busy. It was hard to interrupt or distract you with music. But now…” Clark continued combing through the records with rather ardent fervour — no doubt cataloguing Bruce’s (and Alfred’s) taste in music — before pulling one out triumphantly. “This! Bruce. Can I give it a try?”

Bruce pinched the bridge of his nose to hide his own grudging smile. It wasn’t like Clark really was some hillbilly with no experience in the city, or with older technology like this, but still.

“Yes, alright. Go ahead, Clark. I don’t mind.”

Permission given, Clark walked over to the gramophone with ill-hidden curiosity. For the next five minutes he visibly struggled to figure out how the gramophone worked. From here, Bruce couldn’t quite place which record Clark had chosen, or what exactly he was fumbling about with. Just as Bruce was about to walk over and lend a hand, Clark affixed the record in place and dropped the needle down successfully. With a soft skrtch, the record began to turn and the machine to whir.

Then,

Piano: melodic, soft. The opening notes, with a slow beat, pervaded the room in warm gentle shades of yellow-red-orange-brown, as the melted-smooth voice of Elvis Presley crooned its first line.

Wise… men… say…

Bruce pursed his lips. “Really, Clark?”

Only fools… rush… in…

Clark shrugged back, his smile etched like stardust peppered over his face.

“But I… can’t… help,” Clark sang; a bright, honeyed tenor, “falling in love… with… you.”

Bruce could feel the air punched out from his lungs. Clark approached him, waltzing with the air as he did so.

Shall… I… stay?

Would it be… a… sin?

“Don’t just sit there, will you?”

If I… can’t… help…

“…falling in love… with… you.” Clark reached the back of Bruce’s desk, wrapping a firm arm around Bruce’s biceps and tugging him upright. “Loosen up. Dance with me.”

“I’ll pass.”

“Come on.”

A hand was sliding around Bruce’s waist, the other wrapped loosely around the fabric at the small of his back. Bruce stood there, limply, until Clark tugged at him just insistently enough for Bruce to automatically fall into a semblance of a waltz. Clark didn’t seem to know what he was doing, but Bruce wasn’t exactly about to correct his posture and hand placement; not when his every instinct screaming to push Clark away warred with pulling him closer.

Like a river flows,

Surely to the sea.

Darling, so it goes,

Some things are meant to be.

Bruce’s fingers brushed the hem of Clark’s shirt. Tentatively, he pushed both his hands up to grip either side of Clark’s broad shoulders; he was rewarded with a smile, the blazing arctic blue of Clark’s steady gaze holding Bruce’s own eyes. All the breath had been sucked from the room, never to return.

Bruce should look away. He should— fuck. Fuck.

Take… my… hand…

Clark led them into a slow sway, artless but graceful. Bruce let himself fall. He tipped his head forward, just a bit, to bring him that much closer. Clark met him halfway: their foreheads bumped against each other, and Bruce could count the lower lashes on Clark’s eye, the pretty sweep of them, could feel their noses brushing and Clark’s warm, careful exhales. He could feel the rise and fall of Clark’s sternum. He could— he could steal a kiss, from the slight smile on Clark’s face, he could—

Take my whole… life… too…

What was Bruce doing? Fuck. He couldn’t breathe, he couldn’t— this tightness in his chest, it was yearning, wasn’t it? It was goddamn longing. For what? For what? Bruce closed his eyes when he felt Clark’s hands make their way to his neck, to cup the sides of his face. The touch was unbearably, unbearably warm. “Don’t do this, Clark,” he wanted to say. “Don’t do this to me.”

For I… can’t… help…

Falling in love… with… you.

Nothing else existed in that moment. Just the two of them. Two men, pressed chest to chest, slow dancing in the dark. A tranquil serenity cloaked them like a duvet, and Clark’s earlier humour was gone. His lips were curled only marginally at the corners, the crease of his forehead smooth, his eyes overflowing with something Bruce couldn’t quite read.

Then Clark pulled away slightly to let his head drop down on the crook of Bruce’s shoulder. It was a comforting weight. Clark’s hair tickled his ear — his curls were soft, and Bruce suppressed a brief shudder of desire, entertaining the thought of what it would feel like to run his hands through them, not for sex or to check for injuries but just because. Bruce turned his head towards Clark, just a bit; their jawlines brushed, and Bruce could feel Clark’s stubble against his own.

Like a river flows,

Surely to the sea.

Outside, Bruce could still see the snow through the window. Relentless. Unyielding. The world outside was muted; the vinyl in the room crackled. The dim orange downlights of his office winked down at them, and it had been a long, long time since Bruce’s mind had gone quiet.

Darling, so it goes,

Some things are meant to be.

Maybe Clark would try to dip him. Maybe he should try to dip Clark. But it didn’t seem right to do so now, because Clark would laugh and Bruce would roll his eyes or maybe wink sarcastically and the tension would be broken. Another time, maybe. Another time — another time. With Clark, always. Clark had to be an ‘always’.

Bruce inhaled at the hazy, half-formed thought, a little more sharply than before; sensing the change in breathing pattern, Clark tightened his grip on Bruce’s shirt, tilting his head so that his lips grazed the skin of Bruce’s neck; reassuring.

“Stop thinking,” Clark mumbled roughly. He sounded hoarse.

Take… my… hand…

Take my whole… life… too.

Bruce shut his eyes. They rocked slowly, unhurriedly, not quite on the spot but not travelling far either. Clark was an always. They had changed each other, and they would continue to. Clark had seen him at his lowest. Lost. Vicious, vengeful. Terrible and hypocritical and a liar. But still, he had stayed. And for that, Bruce was— God. It was unthinkable, that he could have this.

“For I,” murmured Clark, along with the music, “can’t help falling in love with you.”

That he could have this. Clark. A future with Clark, but not just that — a realisation was hovering at the edges of his unconscious, and it felt like a dozen blaring alarms warning him off just as much as a siren calling his name. A future with Clark. Not just that. A future where he was Clark’s. Where Clark was his. Where they could be together and, God, Bruce would be happy.

And wasn’t that a strange thought, Bruce thinking about his own happiness? That Clark made him want to be happy — that Clark could make him happy?

And— fuck. That meant—

A strange calm washed over Bruce.

That meant—

For I can’t help

Oh. Oh.

falling in love

Clark.

with

Bruce,

you.

Bruce was in love with him, wasn’t he?

And when it settled like a weighted blanket around Bruce’s shoulder blades, the revelation should have been another burden. Another self-flagellation. Another thing to blame and punish himself for. Except it wasn’t. It wasn’t, because how could loving Clark Kent be anything but an inevitability?

The music had ended. A loaded silence seeped into the air instead, a gravity made tangible. Clark was motionless on the spot, and he must’ve seen something in Bruce’s face, because he looked— concerned. Tense and apprehensive.

“Bruce? Are you— alright?”

Bruce didn’t really register the sound until Clark jerked back abruptly to put some space between them.

“Fine,” Bruce said curtly. “I’m—“ His throat worked. He swallowed, tongue sticking to the roof of his mouth, and tried again. “It’s getting late. You should get some rest. The snow doesn’t look to be clear by tomorrow, so you can stay for as long as you need. I—“ Deep breaths. He had to speak calmly, steadily, ensuring not to stumble over his words, not to speak too fast. “—have some matters to attend to. Now, if you’ll excuse me.”

And before Clark could even get a word in edgewise, Bruce was already doing what he did best: fleeing. Running. Self-sabotaging. So he left as hastily as he could without appearing hurried. He went for subtle, but— he was up against Clark, who could not only notice everything with his enhanced senses, but also knew all of Bruce’s tells, from the most minuscule to his most obvious. There was no reason to even try.

Once he’d safely made it to the cave, where Clark the Boy Scout surely knew not to pry, Bruce let himself sink into his chair, bone-deep weary, lips pressed firmly together. He huffed; a dry thing with no real humour in it.

How long? Just, perhaps. Or maybe this whole time. Maybe he’d just refused to acknowledge it; wrote it off with sex or work or friendship.

Bruce felt old, all of a sudden. Terribly so.

He breathed out, carefully, and buried his face in a hand.

Of all the stupid, idiotic things Bruce had to get himself into…

Damn.

Chapter Text

Clark had been staring at the same blank document for the past few minutes. It was fruitless to try and pull some semblance of focus together; he slammed his laptop shut, crashing his head back onto his chair, only half-aware of the way it practically buckled under the unconscious use of his strength. Clark couldn’t bring himself to bother, right now — he had screwed up so irrevocably, that day. He felt it in his bones.

In the moment, though, it had been bliss. It had been— Clark had allowed himself to hope, that this was okay. That he was pushing the boundaries but not breaking them, toeing the line but not stepping over. He was wrong. 

Bruce was cold again. Clipped, distant. They didn’t have sex. They barely even talked. Diana and the rest of the league seemed to have noticed; most of them had the tact not to ask, considering the two of them weren’t exactly extra hostile to each other. And it wasn’t as if Clark was unused to Bruce’s occasional moods, or his tendency to withdraw whenever Clark broke one of his unspoken rules, but — this was different.

This was different, somehow.

It had been too long, for one. Since the weekend Clark stayed at the Manor because of the snowstorm it had almost been two months. Christmas had been the only time they’d properly had a conversation outside the Justice League; Conner and Tim were overjoyed to spend Christmas with each other at the Manor, with other friends and family filling the place with chatter and warmth.

Bruce had been smiley that day — or, well, as smiley as he could be. The permanent scowl of his had eased; evidently, even he hadn’t been immune to the bright, festive atmosphere.

Clark seized the opportunity to talk to him. If he straight up asked Bruce what the matter was, he’d clam up again. So Clark began light — he talked about their kids and work and shared stories about Ma and how they used to celebrate Christmas. She’d bake pie; insist on decorating the tree together, just like how Clark insisted to decorate the Manor’s tree with Bruce. Throughout the night, Bruce started to relax incrementally; and for a bit, Clark had him back again.

The food had practically been a feast. Everyone was full after that, satiated and lazy. Presents were a lively affair — gifts were exchanged, and it was noisy as they ripped the wrappings open without abandon. Clark had waited, until most of the others had retired for the night or left the Manor, to corner Bruce, who was sitting wordlessly in a chair at the end of the dining table.

“I haven’t given you your present,” Clark had said. Bruce had looked at him impassively.

“Neither have I,” he’d replied.

“You got me something?”

“Don’t sound so surprised. I’m a billionaire, you know.”

“You have a bad habit of just giving me cash on celebrations.”

Except for the time Bruce had given him that damn new strain of rose and named it Krypton, which was downright unfair, really, if he wanted Clark to stop loving him.

“That’s because I know you appreciate it.”

“Well,” Clark had cleared his throat, “that being said,” he thrusted a misshapen, brown package in Bruce’s direction, “here.”

Bruce arched a perfect eyebrow. “What, pray tell, is that?”

“The electromagnetic intefering mineral you were looking for.”

Bruce’s face had gone strikingly blank again.

“You found it?”

“I mean, yes.” Clark had scratched the back of his head, discomfited. Was it not enough? It was tough to shop for a guy who could buy whatever he liked. He didn’t have much experience gift shopping, either. “It wasn’t easy,” he’d added belatedly. “I got it from some really far away planet called Koomalia. The living organisms there have no water, you know? They drink mercury. I’m not even sure how life developed.”

Bruce had let out a breath. “It’s— much appreciated. Take this.”

Clark took the small black box he held out, wrapped, with curiosity. It had been clear Bruce handled gift wrapping the same meticulous way he treated everything else he did. It almost felt like a shame to rip the paper away, but it had been worth it, because lying inside—

Clark’s hand went up to touch his ear, pinching the lobe with his thumb and his index. It brushed over a cool, smooth metal. He tugged the clip-on earring off. It lay flat in his palm as Clark stared, a sheen of blue-grey that reminded Clark distantly of Bruce’s eyes, shaped in the silhouette of the familiar diamond of his house crest. It was— Jesus. Bruce had no idea, did he? This was horribly, terribly cruel, and this time Clark knew Bruce didn’t even mean to do it; in some ways, that was even worse.

It was an earring custom-made out of a rare, extremely rare, Kryptonian metal. Clark had recognised it immediately from description, even though he’d never seen it with his own two eyes before, let alone know how Bruce had even obtained it in the first place.

Clark had looked up, then, the back of his eyes stinging with a harsh viciousness.

“Why?” he’d asked, because he knew the answer wouldn’t be what he’d wanted to hear.

“Kara told me about it,” Bruce had said, sounding clipped, staring at a point past Clark’s shoulder. And then he said something in Kryptonian that had Clark’s heart dropping to his stomach.

“Come again?”

Bruce had frowned. “I’m still studying vocabulary, you understand, but my pronunciation should be correct. Kara told me about it; on your planet, earrings made of a certain metal were traditionally gifts for people who were— close friends. I thought you’d—“

Bruce had stopped, but Clark barely noticed.

“Thank you,” Clark had choked out, voice tight. Because the word he’d used — krralayh — it was— rather than referring to ‘close friends', was more like— partner. Lover. Spouse. An undeniable romantic connotation of utter devotion that Kara had evidently thought unnecessary to disclose to Bruce, because at this point Clark wasn’t even sure what her impression was of their relationship.

After the presents, just like that, Bruce had shut down again. Clark didn’t see him the rest of the night. Even so, despite everything, it made Clark’s heart swell, thinking about how much Bruce had changed over the years — become more open, less angry. Kinder, to others and to himself.

Or, well. He’d gotten better but was still pulling stunts like these.

Clark had tried calling, texting, but all of Bruce’s responses had been drier than the desert. Other than that, there had been zero contact from him. Clark could feel it nibbling away at his insides, now; a sick, nauseous kind of anxiety, of something deeper that consumed him. Fear.

That Bruce— that he—

Shit.

Did he know? Was this the end of the line for Clark? He had been so careful. Loving Bruce was like breathing, a part of Clark for so long that it was almost like it wasn’t there, sometimes, until it clobbered him over the head with an acute, excruciating intensity.

Clark had always— he had held himself back on so many occasions, he’d barely allowed himself to think it, and even then. Even then.

Clark tipped his head back and twisted a harsh hand into his curls. He closed his fingers around the earring; his fingernails dug into his palm, forming crescent-shaped indents, and he could feel the pressure on his scalp. Rao.

Deep breaths. In, out, in, out. He had to control himself.

Had Bruce realised? Clark wouldn’t put it past him — he was sharp, he knew Clark well, and surely as Bruce Wayne he’d had all sorts of similar experiences. But it wasn’t like Bruce to give Clark a present amidst all that; knowing Bruce, he’d discourage any further advances or displays of affection, whether platonic or not, and he’d have to know giving Clark something like this wasn’t exactly helping things.

Christ. Bruce could never make things easy, could he? This was getting nowhere. Clark half-wished Bruce would just reject him and be done with it completely. Bruce would be too professional to let it affect them in a work capacity — so would Clark. He wouldn’t let it affect them saving the world. It just— it would be hard for it to not affect them, on some level, on a more personal level, and that was the reason Clark had tried so darn hard to keep his unwanted feelings in check. So much for that.

He’d tried getting over Bruce — since they’d just started sleeping together, Clark had obviously failed spectacularly at that. 

Clark was used to keeping his own desires in check. It was all part and parcel of how he’d been raised, how he’d been trained to think; if someone angered him, he could break their neck with a punch, if he wanted cake, he could steal from a store in five seconds. It then followed, naturally, that ever since he was a kid, he’d had to learn how to temper his own wants, instead — his parents had long since taught him to do so.

And, well, this wasn’t exactly about his powers, but the point was that he knew it was vital to put others first. It was just— Clark wasn’t used to having to suppress this particular emotion. He had always loved without abandon. He had always poured his whole heart out, silver trickles of his soul seeping into all that he did. All that he cared about. Love was a strength, he believed, not a weakness; and Bruce had disagreed, vehemently, when Clark had brought it up. “Romantic,” he’d snorted. “Unrealistic.”

But that was who Clark was. So maybe the truth was bound to come out either way. Even if Bruce was avoiding him for some other reason, perhaps all Clark had to do was come clean. It would change things; it would hurt them at first, but maybe it’d be better that way. Bruce might be willing to continue their friendship, albeit uncomfortably at first. Clark just had to reassure him nothing would change. That they were still just friends. Maybe he could downplay it, tell Bruce that it wasn’t that serious — only a crush.

At least then he wouldn’t have to hide it anymore. He wouldn’t have to— Rao. It was all bubbling up now, the feelings Clark had smothered for so long.

Clark pressed the back of his hand to his forehead, swallowing through the lump in his throat. Come to think of it, it was both horribly, horribly masochistic and idiotic to agree to having casual sex with Bruce in the first place. It was a taste of something Clark could never have. It was like cutting himself open with shallow shards of Kryptonite; the initial sting felt addictive, cathartic, but the pain and nausea set in quick. Bruce had felt so close yet as far as he possibly could in those moments.

So— yes. No. There were many ways to lose Bruce, and Clark lived on the constant edge of fear that any one of those ways would manifest. Right. No, he couldn’t tell Bruce about his feelings. There was no guarantee Bruce had actually found him out anyway; Clark had made it this far, he might as well see it through. He’d stop sleeping with Bruce. He’d properly get over him, and then maybe in a few years they could laugh about it over coffee or something.

No matter that Clark didn’t actually want to get over Bruce. It was what Bruce would want. It was— it was best for the League, best for everyone.

Smashing his glasses higher up his nose, Clark reopened his laptop with renewed resolve. Whatever Bruce’s problem was, well, Clark would just have to give him space and trust that he ultimately respected what they’d built enough to eventually come back to explain at least.

Although—

Clark would be seeing Bruce Wayne tomorrow. The Martha Wayne Arts Foundation held an annual New Year’s eve gala — it was a gaudy affair, but Clark could always tell Bruce acted differently during these galas, even as Bruce Wayne — a touch more guarded, restrained; exuberant but not overly obnoxious. Clark suspected it had something to do with the event being held in his mother’s name.

Either way, it wasn’t something Clark usually attended; he kept up with the press, but he’d only gone in person once, a few years back, because Bruce needed help with a case. This year was another exception because evidently, the universe was determined to screw him over — it was rumoured one of the other guests was a hermit, but since she was an avid art collector, she was going to attend Bruce’s gala this year. The woman was linked to an investigative case Lois was working on; most of the press, including even Metropolis’ The Daily Planet, were invited to the gala — knowing this, she’d gone to Perry for permission to attend.

That included her dragging him along as well. Clark had tried to decline, as politely as he could, because seeing Bruce in one of his numerous well-cut suits would not do wonderful things for his heart (even if it was equally terrible seeing him in the Batsuit, or wearing nothing at all, or even just a plain shirt, because that was how pathetic Clark was at this point). Lois had none of it. Though, of course, she had no idea Bruce wasn’t exactly talking to him right now, and probably reckoned she was doing him a favour.

It was only natural Lois, of all people, would know he’d fallen in love with Bruce. Clark suspected she knew even before he himself did. Yet she was only partially right. He had no intention of pursuing anything. It probably seemed clear cut to her — they were friends, they were coworkers, she believed Bruce loved him back — but it wasn’t that simple. It was never that simple. It was— they weren’t just Bruce and Clark; they were Batman and Superman. Kent and Wayne. A father and an alien named ‘Kal-El’. They were… Bruce was Bruce. Clark had gone through countless reconstructions in his head, second guessed every move from him, in the early stages of their friendship. Reading him had come to be second nature, but not for this. Not about this.

Clark shut his laptop again. This was getting ridiculous. What was he, a prepubescent fifteen year old fretting over his crush?

It didn’t help, either, that Clark had a sneaking suspicion that the gala wouldn’t go down without incident. Perhaps it was simply because they’d lost their memories in one and starting sleeping together repeatedly after the other. Even then — Clark’s intuition wasn’t a detective’s instinct like Batman’s, but it was known to be frighteningly on point nevertheless.

And it wasn’t exactly reassuring, but—

What exactly could happen, right?

The large ballroom Bruce had booked was located on the highest floor of the building. It was a high-end building with polished marble floors; the iridescent chandelier lights glittered off the glossy sheen of it. Reflected rainbows danced off bright glinting jewellery — dangling silver earrings and gold necklaces and platinum rings, sapphire cufflinks and copper brooches. Most were well-dressed: the women in sleek evening dresses, the men in dapper suits. The air-conditioning was cool; it didn’t bother Clark, but he could sense the goosebumps on the flesh of the more scantily clad guests.

At the sides were two long buffet tables. Most of the food had been snatched up quickly, but Clark could clock the remaining pastries and cakes from a distance. The smell of red wine from the waiters was pervasive, a vivid sour tang that punched through the air. Underneath was the scent of natural sweat and a cloying mix of too-strong perfume and excessive cologne that typically made Clark take quick, shallow breaths, if he stood in the room too long and his control of his sense of smell slipped. As for the chatter and noise, the clinking of glass and the scrape of fork against plate, of heels and leather shoes against the floor — his hearing was well controlled, and he’d long since learnt to tune those out.

Either way, Clark’s game plan was shattered in about five minutes flat. Sticking to Lois was an epic fail because all she said was, “Even with your meek midwestern charm, I don’t think a man is going to help my case. Now make yourself useful, get quotes, and have fun,” before leaving Clark alone without another word.

So Clark was just left awkwardly standing there. He blended quickly, of course — it wasn’t like Lois had actually brought him here just for moral support, or to set him up with Bruce. There were quite a few Gothamites here that were linked to Metropolis-related political articles. It wasn’t Clark’s usual beat, but he dabbled often enough for Perry to give them the green light to attend the gala on behalf of the Planet.

But. Well. There was still the big elephant in the room — or should he say, the big bat in the room.

Clark studiously avoided seeking out Bruce’s eye contact. Even so, it was habit to do so, and more often than not he found himself scanning the crowd for Bruce Wayne’s presence. It was easy to pick out someone specific with his super senses. Then again, he didn’t need them. This was Bruce Wayne they were talking about. It was a special talent of Bruce’s, the way he could make the very mood of the room shift just by walking into it, whether as Batman or Bruce Wayne or even neither. With Brucie, one just had to find the source of the rowdiest, most raucous commotion, and there he was.

Bruce was very pointedly avoiding his gaze back. There would come a split second where, out of the corner of his eye, Clark could’ve sworn he was looking — but whenever he chanced a glance over Bruce was preoccupied with making passive-aggressive remarks or flirting with someone else. It was funny, really; that for Clark, Clark Kent was so inconspicuous no one would ever connect him with Superman, where as for Bruce it was the exact opposite.

As always, Bruce was toned down today. During this particular gala. But— Clark bit his lip, viciously enough to leave a brief mark, when he saw Bruce stand a bit too close to another woman, laugh a little too warmly.

It wasn’t real — Rao, he knew it wasn’t real — yet the headspace Clark was in currently was enough for him to teeter on the edge of a free-fall spiral.

At the side of the ballroom were displayed artworks Clark spent most of his time admiring. What would Bruce have to say about them? He could probably name their influences, offer riveting interpretations and context. There were paintings, portraits. Realism and impressionism, abstract art and those that were more renaissance-style. Sculptures, as well — glass shapes and figures made from ceramic. Soon enough, though, Clark had to actually get to work; Perry would kill him if he came back from the gala empty-handed.

On and on the evening went, the clock ticking away at seconds, minutes, Clark present merely physically and not much else. It wasn’t like him to be so disengaged while working for an article. He wasn’t— he had to pull himself together. At the very least, Clark already had the general outline of an article in his head. He’d scheduled follow-up interviews with one or two who actually seemed to have something promising to say. In his hands he clutched a notebook, half-heartedly scribbling down quotes, mapping out the general leanings of the more influential figures in the room along with their relationships to each other; but his mind was elsewhere, was next to the one man in the room he hadn’t approached.

These sort of functions were always dizzying. You’d be talking to a group one moment, and the next second you were being introduced to five new faces. Today was no different, so Clark should’ve realised it was futile to even try to avoid the host — the rotation was fast-paced enough that when Bruce was ushered into the conversation, Clark only had a breath’s warning to mentally brace himself.

“Brucie! Come,” one of the men, one of Bruce’s shareholders, practically manhandled Bruce over with an arm around his shoulders, using a sort of casual forcefulness that made Clark bristle, “join us. It’s all about art and stuff today, eh, happy new year? Thank you for the invitation.” He leered, much to Clark’s consternation. “It’s always a good time with you.”

“I live to serve,” drawled Bruce, looking like a billion dollars with his hair slicked back and the smoothened lines of his crow’s feet visible. (Clark ached.) When his shareholder pulled him closer, Bruce stumbled forward with a salacious wink; the champagne in his glass sloshed, spilling slightly over the rim and down his fingers. “Oopsies.” Unceremoniously, he wiped his hands on his designer, supremely costly suit, making Clark and almost everyone else in the circle wince.

“That aside,” Bruce’s shareholder said, barely even blinking an eye — he was probably used to Bruce’s antics, “this is Marissa Crysler, my plus one today. She’s a lawyer from one of our firms. I’m sure you know the rest here — there’s Brenton, Merly…” He paused slightly upon reaching Clark, gaze lingering on his press pass. “Uh, and— Clerk? Here. From…”

He trailed off, so Clark finished for him, very dryly, “The Daily Planet, sir.”

“Clerk,” Bruce echoed, and, for extra damage to Clark’s already battered, torn, bleeding-and-bandaged heart, the corners of his lips went touched with mirth. Just for a brief, flickering second, before it was back to a blithe gaiety. It had probably been at most a week, but— it felt like an eternity since Clark had last seen that particular expression, and he was so distracted with a near-paralysing wave of emotion that he almost didn’t realise Bruce had reached out a hand for him to shake. “I do believe we’ve met once or twice, yes.”

Clark took the hand. Bruce’s grip was cool, slack. Callous. Impersonal. It was like shaking hands with a stranger. It stung, with a dreadful, cruel, ruthless ferocity.

As if burned, Clark dropped Bruce’s hand a second too early to be natural. Bruce didn’t miss a beat, letting go quickly in turn — but Clark highly doubted it escaped his notice.

He still didn’t look at Clark, though he did pause for a second before breezily asking the group as a whole, “How are you all liking the drinks today, hm?”

Somebody else said something in reply, but Clark didn’t hear it. Instead, he breathed in deeply. He could smell Bruce from here, because under his godawful cologne was a familiar musk; almost unconsciously, he found himself tuning into Bruce’s heartbeat, the steady thump of it, settling Clark down far more than anything had the whole evening. 

The sound of Marissa Crysler’s titters brought him back to reality. The group was laughing at something Bruce had said, probably something distasteful, and she was giggling along with hem; she had her hand on Bruce’s shoulder, delicately manicured nails visible as they wrapped around his biceps. Clark could see the glassy pink shine of them, the liquid white hearts and sequin-studded glimmer. Her hair was dark, short. Her lips were soft with blood red lipstick.

She seemed like a good person. When Clark was speaking to her earlier, she’d been sharp, but not unkind; she had a good sense of humour and was clearly knowledgeable when speaking about her work as a lawyer.

Bruce deserved someone like her. He should get married to a nice woman that supported his lifestyle, someone he could come home to everyday. Someone who wasn’t like Clark — someone who was human, who had a stable life, who knew how to take care of his kids; someone he could love back without baggage.

But Clark could learn to love him as he deserved, couldn’t he? Clark would give his heart, if only Bruce asked. Clark would give him the world.

“So, Clerk,” Bruce’s shareholder — Johnson, was it? — remarked suddenly, “Metropolis, eh? Our twin city.” Clark blinked, unceremoniously pulled out of his musings. “Here, in Gotham, it’s not often we get outside visitors. How’s it like there?”

“It’s— good,” Clark Kent replied, rather blandly. “Metropolis is a lovely city. You should visit sometime, if you can.”

Johnson looked predictably bored with the uninspired answer. Marissa, however, leaned in.

“Oh! I’ve been planning to go visit Metropolis on vacation. Do you have any recommendations for where to go?”

Clark offered her a sincere smile.

“Of course. The war memorials are a good place to start. We have a few well-built parks as well — they’ve been designed in a very eco-friendly way that allows varying forms of sustainability.”

“I’ve been to Metropolis a couple times,” quipped another man, Brenton Mackinly. “I went to watch the Metropolis Monarchs and the Gotham Goliaths duke it out in the Metropolis stadium. Brucie, you watch baseball, don’t you? Have you ever been?”

Clark blinked, because Bruce had brought him to those very games, and hastily glanced over to gauge Bruce’s reaction. He was supporting his weight on Marissa slightly, eyes heavy-lidded, clearly off-balance; his words were slurred, but Clark could read the glisten of lucidity clear as day behind his gaze. “I’ve been,” Bruce said, lightly.

“Alone?” asked Johnson.

A split second pause. “With my son, and—“ Bruce didn’t look over, didn’t skip a beat, “—a friend.”

There was a round of wolf-whistles around the group at the word ‘friend’. Clark very determinedly willed the heat away from his cheeks. When Bruce said a friend, he meant a friend, but when Brucie said it — well, they both realised the assumed connotations would be different.

And Bruce only— he just smirked, showing a flash of dimple, and licked his lips, a slow dart of his tongue over his lower lip. Clark wrenched his eyes away, heart hammering, because he had to have known Clark would be watching his response.

Clark and Dick both loved watching baseball. When Dick was smaller, Bruce was angstier, and the League founded not too long ago, Bruce would bring him to these games together — only at Dick’s insistence. It had been awkward the first few times; Clark and Bruce hadn’t yet quite figured out how to spend time together on a more personal level. Bruce had been standoffish and anti-social, Clark pushy and frustrated and on the verge on giving up.

Dick had been an effective buffer for them, though. He was young at that time. He ate hot dogs and got ketchup on his mouth, cheered without abandon every time the Goliaths scored a point. Clark would relax, allowing himself to get swept up in the flow of the game; and then he’d observe Bruce. Outwardly, he was as stoic as ever, and yet Clark could hear his elevated heartbeat and catch how his mouth twitched every time someone ran a homerun.

Seeing how invested Bruce got in the game despite trying to hide it, Bruce had felt a little closer, then. A little more like someone Clark could become friends with; like someone Clark could come to like.

Someone Clark could come to like, huh? Back in the increasingly stifling ballroom, the clock ticked steadily towards midnight. Bruce was soon enough whisked away again by other socialites, leaving with a wink and an inappropriate comment without so much as a second glance in Clark’s direction. Clark watched him go, but—

“Oh—“

And then Clark was stumbling, reflexively rolling with the impact of a body slamming into his. A waiter, young and horrified, was staring at him, and there was champagne soaking Clark’s suit.

“Shit,” the waiter blurted, flinching. As if he expected Clark to blow up at him, he hurriedly dipped into a bow. “I’m so sorry, sir, I—“

“It’s alright,” Clark said kindly. At least glass hadn’t broken; people could have been hurt. “Be more careful next time.”

Clark was grateful for the excuse to get away, anyway. The men’s bathroom was empty, and he half-heartedly dabbed at his suit with a couple of towels, resisting the urge to just dry it with his powers because he couldn’t risk anyone who witnessed the debacle questioning it.

There was nobody around, so Clark allowed himself to brace himself with hands on either side of the sink. He sucked in a harsh breath and held it. Then he let it out. Again: he inhaled deeply, exhaled. His sigh echoed. When he looked up, he was greeted with a face in the mirror, masked by the frame of his glasses, in a suit that just didn’t fit. All alone; an alien masquerading as a human, as a hero. He tried to help people. There were days it just didn’t feel like enough. On those days, though, there was the League. There was Bruce. And Bruce—

Bruce was clearly capable of love; he loved deeply and fiercely. It just so happened he didn’t love Clark that way. That was just how the chips fell, where the cards lay.

Clark wasn’t that way. Clark was so in love with him that the ache in his chest moulded itself into a sharp point, driving itself through his heart. He was so in love that if there was even a glimmer that Bruce could love him back, that their friendship could survive it, Clark would take it in a heartbeat.

All the rationalisations he’d made to himself about their work, their lives, their ideologies — they were excuses, weren’t they, really? Screw that. They could work it out. Clark knew they could. As long as they loved each other, they would; and Bruce would disagree, call him overly romantic, but Clark knew they would.

Clark just— shit.

Clark just needed a reason.

He just needed one goddamn reason to believe, and he would shut his eyes and take the leap of faith. He had never shied away from danger and uncertainty; on the contrary, he’d only ever shown a propensity for shoving himself into the fire, so to speak.

But there was no point thinking about this. It was only going to hurt himself more.

Splashing water on his face, Clark relished the sensation that told him to pull himself together. And so the glitz and glamour and chatter returned in full force as Clark walked back out into the ballroom — only to immediately be accosted with Lois, in her high-heeled, blazing glory.

“Clark. What the hell happened?”

“An accident,” Clark explained, glancing down at his suit. It was less soaked but the dark wet patch was still visible. “A waiter bumped into me. It’s fine, I went to dry myself—”

“Not that,” Lois interrupted; Clark blinked, nonplussed. “I mean with you and Wayne. Is that why you’ve been acting like someone pissed in your coffee these past couple days? No — more than that. Weeks, maybe.”

It had been that bad, for people to notice? But— then again, this was Lois, so. Rao. Clark toyed with the end of his press pass, the landyard tangling with the emotions in his chest.

“I don’t… aren’t you supposed to be with your interviewee? I saw her hidden in a corner just now. She was staring at the artworks really hard.”

“She went home already. I didn’t manage to get much, but at least I convinced her to give me a call.” Lois flicked his forehead. “And don’t try to change the subject. The both of you aren’t doing your whole ‘exchanging secret glances’ thing; not to mention he barely looked at you when your group was talking earlier, and I don’t mean it as in he looked at you a normal amount, but that he was definitely avoiding your gaze. It’s not like him to be so obvious about something.”

“That could mean anything, Lois.”

“Or,” she offered, “it means that there’s trouble in paradise. Come on — I could sense the tension from here, and not even the sexy kind.”

“Lois,” Clark hissed, strangled. He hadn’t even told her he’d been sleeping with Bruce. He hadn’t told her Bruce had stopped, either, but she had sensed another change anyway, damn it.

Lois just frowned, shaking her head. “Whatever it is, have you tried talking to him about it?”

Clark rolled his eyes so hard he could feel his eyeballs shaking loose. “I don’t think he’s particularly inclined towards ‘talking’,” Clark muttered, so acerbically that Lois’ eyebrows shot to her hairline.

“Oookay. Well. Why not?”

“He keeps escaping. He finds excuses to leave, or just gives these clipped responses, or just doesn’t reply as himself but instead some persona that he darn well knows isn’t going to fool me.”

"Well, here's your chance, isn't it?" pointed out Lois. "You're in the same space as him. Just corner him and sort out whatever you both need to."

"It's not as simple as that," Clark snapped. Then he let out an apologetic breath, instantly regretful for the misplaced frustration. "Sorry. I'm sorry. I just—" I just miss him. "Even if I speak to him, I'm not really speaking to him, you know? Not unless he wants me to."

Lois shook her head, her emerald earrings catching the light as she moved. Her eyeliner was dark, her pant suit form-fitted and drawing attention to her poise, a kind of self-assured confidence that lured people in. She was headstrong but patient, blunt but kind. Even after all the bullshit Clark had put her through, she still cared about him. He didn't deserve her. He didn't deserve many people in his life.

“Listen,” said Lois. “It’s okay. Don't worry about it, Clark." There was a shine to her eyes that Clark hadn't seen for a while, a kind of knowing that had only appeared the first time she asked him: You're in love with Bruce, aren't you? "How about this. If there won't be a two-way conversation happening anytime soon, just have it one way."

Clark tipped his head to the side. "Conversation implies communication from both parties.”

It was Lois' turn to roll her eyes. He was purposefully being difficult; she could tell. Playing dumb, twisting words into semantics… he’d truly spent too much time around Bruce. “What I mean is, just march up to him and scold him. Isn't that what you do all the time?"

That was— true. "It's different," Clark protested weakly. "I don't— it isn't about his boundaries, then. I’ve known Bruce for years; I've worked with him, I've talked to him, I've seen him at work, with his kids, with Alfred." Seen him in bed, between Clark's thighs; above, straddling Clark's lap. "There's just... I respect him, and I respect the space he needs. I've spent so long earning his trust, you know? I can’t—“ Clark bit his lip. “I don't want to mess it all up.”

"And you won't," replied Lois, with a startling confidence. "You know how I know that? Because I have eyes.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“It means, Clark, that I’m a third-party observer. I’m removed from the situation, I’m unbiased, and that is why I’m certain that once you both get your dramatic heads out of your asses I will be proven right. So I'm telling you, if he's not going to be real with you, don't change yourself or tiptoe around it. Just fucking go up to him and air your grievances like you’re Avatar Aang.”

"In the middle of the ballroom?"

Lois seemed to contemplate assault, never mind that it would probably hurt her fist more than it hurt Clark. "Obviously not, unless you want to be headline news tomorrow. Look, just try it, alright? Be genuine with him, and maybe he'll be genuine with you. He's one angsty, emo, constipated sonuvabitch, but we both know he's far from heartless. You won't mess it up."

"I messed us up," Clark said, very quietly, and Lois pinched her brows.

"Fuck’s sake, Clark,” she said, and she for a second she sounded rueful. “We weren't messed up; we're both better off this way and you know it. And besides,” her face smoothened out to a mischievous amusement, "I heard he gives very good head."

Clark groaned. "Oh my god, Lois."

"Go get 'em, tiger. Happy new year.” She flashed him a grin and raised her hand in farewell. “I’m going to try the buffet."

And there was still that doubt in Clark, that hesitation, but— Lois was convincing. She had a point. Much like Bruce, she had an ability to cut straight into a no-nonsense solution — Clark needed that push, and she had given Clark that last burst of resolve.

Christ, he was so grateful for Lois. Clark stopped her before she could walk away.

“I— thank you, Lois.” He cast around for words. “You always— I just—"

"I get it," she said, patting his shoulder commiseratingly, and then she was gone.

It was five minutes to midnight. Clark barely spared a glance at the clock; he was preoccupied instead with figuring out where the hell Bruce had disappeared off to, because sometime between Clark going to the bathroom and speaking with Lois, Bruce had vanished. A quick deployment of his x-ray vision allowed Clark to figure it out quickly — strangely, Bruce had left the crowd and exited the ballroom, instead standing alone on the balcony opposite.

What the hell was he doing there? He wasn’t quite expressionless, but his body language wasn’t Brucie’s either. It was more like— he had a pensive look on his face, leaning towards troubled, as if he didn’t know how to handle something, or one he had when he wasn’t in control and was trying to devise one of ten contingency plans. Crap, had something gone wrong? Clark wasted no time slipping out the ornate ballroom doors and into the corridor connected to the balcony.

The air-conditioning was replaced with sharp, icy wind, brushing against his cheeks as he stepped carefully behind Bruce. Bruce heard him coming; Clark had deliberately made sure he could do so.

“Bruce.”

Bruce turned. His lips were curled into a half-smirk. Behind, the low lights of Gotham’s buildings below framed him, the two of them standing high over the city. His hair was windswept; it looked good on him. His suit was no longer perfectly pressed, having purposefully been wrinkled throughout the night, but the set of his shoulders and the tilt of the chin had him sharp and poised. He was alluring. He was beautiful. It took Clark’s breath away, just like the moment he had seen Bruce on the balcony without his memories — even now, every time he looked at Bruce, it was like seeing him for the first time.

“Are you okay?” Clark asked, because anything else could wait.

“Kent.” That word, his last name, soured Clark’s mood instantly. “What brings you here?”

“I wanted to talk to you.”

“Oh, we can do more than just talk.”

“Bruce,” Clark warned, “I’m not in the mood.”

Bruce’s smirk dropped. “Neither am I. Look, I’m fine.”

“Fine,” repeated Clark, skeptical. Bruce’s definition of ‘fine’ was dubious. He once got hit by a car and said he was ‘fine’. He once got stabbed and shot and said he was ‘fine’.

“It’s the new year,” Bruce said coolly. “I’m getting old. Can’t fault me for doing a little reflection, can you?.”

“Out here?”

“I was about to head in before a certain reporter decided to meddle.”

Clark could feel an angry red creeping into his cheeks. “That’s it.” Clark rounded on him.  What the hell was Bruce’s problem? “I’ve had enough. What did I do wrong?”

There was a pause, then, and something unreadable flickered over Bruce’s stoic facade.

“Excuse me?”

“What did I do? What boundary did I overstep for you to go all,” Clark waved his hands in the air, teeth gritted so tight the veins on his jaw were visible, “on me?”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” said Bruce, but Clark could tell it was bullshit; he could tell from the slant of Bruce’s mouth, the tension in his shoulders and the wariness around his eyes.

Clark made one last ditch attempt, his nerves frazzling, his temper fraying, a desperate sort of fury building behind his chest. “Bruce. Please.”

And Bruce— Bruce melted at the ‘please’, a little, caved with a hand over his face and a huff.

“Fuck. Look — it’s not you. You haven’t done anything. Or, rather, you— well.” So it wasn’t about Clark being in love with him, then. So what in tarnation was it?

“Well what?”

“I just have to get my things in order. Nothing’s wrong.”

And the bubbling anger reached its boiling point. “Great,” Clark said. “Okay. This isn’t working.” What had Lois said? She’d said to force his own words through anyway. If that meant screaming at a brick wall, so be it. “The last time you stopped talking to me, properly, we had that big argument over that prostitution ring and Krustov’s casino. All those times I was willing to wait. And now I’ve waited, and waited, but I’m done. At least then I knew where I stood; what I had done right, or wrong. ‘I just have to get my things in order’? Bruce, are you even hearing yourself? Am I supposed to know what that means? I know you well, Bruce, but I’m not a mind reader. I thought you were past this whole ‘lone wolf’, I-need-to-deal-with-everything-on-my-own crap. Jesus Christ.” Clark took a shuddering breath, more to steady himself than anything. “I miss you. I want my best friend back. When was the last time we confided in each other? The last time I ate with you? Had a proper conversation with you? I—“

“Missed me,” Bruce growled suddenly, bewilderingly, “or missed fucking me? Hm?”

What the everloving hell was he on about? “Don’t. Don’t,” snarled Clark. “Do not try to push me away with bullshit we both know is false. We’ve known each other for so long. It was never about that. We were never about that.”

“What is it about, then, Clark?”

Clark couldn’t believe what he was hearing. “What is it about?” He held up his hands, palms up, incredulous to the point of momentary speechlessness. “What is it… Bruce, you can’t be serious. You’re my partner. You’re my goddamn one and only. You’re— it’s you, your friendship. What do you expect me to say? That I can just cut someone off so easily?” Clark spat the last words out. “I’m not you, Bruce.”

Bruce flinched, but Clark was pissed, and he could tell Bruce was also pissed for some reason, which just made him more furious.

Yet Bruce didn’t back down, only further spouting more nonsense. “This is for your own good, Clark,” Bruce claimed, as if he were the epitome of reason and logic when really he probably should be decked in the face now.

Clark laughed, but it was a harsh, sad sound, his words coming out scathing. “Sure. Alright, Bruce. Make this about me. Make yourself into a martyr. By all means, resume your very vague comments and tell me absolutely nothing. You started acting like this soon after the night we got snowed in at the Manor, but—“

And Bruce’s face did a complicated twist, almost involuntarily, that had Clark cutting off abruptly. For a moment, they looked at each other. Bruce met his gaze steadily, but the twitch in his hands betrayed him.

What was that?

“That night,” Clark repeated slowly. Bruce stared back, impassive. “What about it? I did nothing. I—“ Clark thought about it, bitterness rising up with the acid bile in his throat. “Christ. The dancing? Was that it?”

Bruce didn’t react, didn’t change his expression; but Clark could hear the sudden uptick of his heartbeat, a rare stutter that had Clark pinching the bridge of his nose.

It felt as though Clark was going to throw up. No way. No darn way.

“Oh my God. For the love of— wow. I thought we were over this. I thought—“ Clark laughed, again, and Bruce seemed to wince minutely at the sound, “I thought you’d learnt to trust me. To be vulnerable around me. I don’t get it. What changed? Is this about the sex? Because if I had known it would just push you away, I wouldn’t have agreed in the first place. Out of all people, Bruce, I thought you would treat it casually. Every time I think I know you, that I’ve won your trust, you do this.” He wanted to step forward, wanted to throttle Bruce. He wanted to punch him in the face and scream and scream and scream. Clark’s chest felt split open, his heart carved out into a platter. “Yet I keep coming back, you know? Lord help me, I still do.”

“But why?” Bruce bit out suddenly, vicious, before Clark could continue. In the cold, his harsh breaths misted into fog. “I’ve never asked you to. Years ago, I only ever kept you at a distance. Even after that I’ve put you through the wringer countless times. You’ve seen how ugly I can be. Time after time, for fuck’s sake, Clark.”

“Ugly?” Clark practically snorted the word. As it stood, he could tell no one was within earshot, and they were battling to be heard as the wind roared around their ears. “You’re being stupid, B. To think they call you the World’s Greatest Detective. I’ve only ever thought of you as beautiful. You’re sharp, skilled, brave, loving, funny. How many dumb questions have you asked today? ‘Why’,” Clark echoed, mockingly. Dumbass. “Do I need a reason? You’re my friend. I love spending time with you.” Clark advanced — slowly, dangerously — into his space. Bruce didn’t lean away, but he did go rigid; he was close enough that Clark could feel his body heat, close enough to both kiss and kill in one breath. “I once met you and I will never meet anyone else like you again. If I could carve out my soul and keep it in your chest, I would. If I could show you how I see you, I would. Bruce, you’re the strongest man I know. And yet!” Clark sharply threw up his hands. Whoever said Bruce had common sense clearly didn’t know what they were talking about. “You! Are! Absolutely infuriating!”

Clark punctuated each word with a jab to Bruce’s chest. Bruce swallowed, throat working, and sighed.

“Kent. Clark. I think you need to calm—“

“Shut up,” hissed Clark. “Don’t you dare ask me to calm down. Just shut up and let me talk if you aren’t going to say anything of use.”

Bruce started to open his mouth, then promptly closed it. He looked, uncharacteristically, lost. Whatever. Good. It was about to be a new year and Clark was standing on the balcony shouting because of him.

“You,” snapped Clark, now speaking so fast his words stumbled against each other, “are the most infuriating, incorrigible, stubborn bastard on the planet. In the universe. I don’t know how Alfred deals with you. You’re someone I admire. You’re someone I respect from the bottom of my heart, so much so that it makes me want to fall to my knees, sometimes, to worship you like the god some people think I am. But! You win the world record for most annoying man. Congratulations! You’re kind but you’re mean. You feel deeply yet repress it all. Your kids all love you but you worry you’re a bad father. You think you’re always right. You hold your company together and do good with your money, you hold your city together and keep everyone safe, you fight together with us in the league and battle extraterrestrial, bullshit magical people while being human — yet it took you years to properly accept a team and learn to let others help. To listen to others. Seriously! You are one ego-centric, proud, insecure prick. Impossible. I have terrible taste. I cannot believe I love you. My best friend goes around beating up criminals in an animal mask, risking his life without a second thought, but never his heart, because somehow he thinks his life is less important. Did I mention his crippling self-destructiveness that stems from his inability to love himself and be vulnerable? Because it’s there!”

Bruce went very, very still.

“What,” he said, “did you just say?”

“You heard right,” Clark declared, firmly shoving at his chest. Bruce fell against the balcony railing without resistance. He looked as though Clark had just punched him. “You’re a prick! An absolutely shitty asshole. But, hey, sure! If you want to cut me out of your life and never speak properly to me again, so be it. If all the time we spent together, the missions we’ve worked, the things we’ve said, have been jackshit to you, fine.”

“Clark,” said Bruce, “say that again.”

“Oh? You want to hear more of exactly what I think you are?” Clark’s eyes burned, his vision practically glowing red; shit, he had to close them for a moment before his heat vision could spiral out of control. “Great progress, Bruce! I’m pretty sure you analyse enough of your flaws, though, self-blaming humongous asshole that you are—”

And over him, in the background: “TEN,” came a deafening cheer from the crowd in the ballroom. The countdown towards midnight had started.

“— and I know you’re not heartless, Lois knows that, everyone knows that, so why you insist on acting like you are baffles me to no end—”

“That’s not what I’m talking about, Clark.”

“—so at this point— ugh, Christ, you know what? Maybe you are heartless. I have no idea how else you’d be able to—“

“Clark.”

“NINE! EIGHT! SEVEN!”

“—write everything we’ve been off like that—“

“Clark.”

“—I don’t understand. I don’t understand why you can’t see me the way I see you. I don’t—“

“Please—“

“—understand why you refuse to be honest with me suddenly—“

“—Clark, listen.”

“SIX! FIVE! FOUR!”

“—but I suppose I can understand that in the end, even a friendship was asking too much. You are the most insufferable man I’ve ever met. Have I mentioned that?”

“Clark,” said Bruce, and Clark had never heard him sound like this before. He sounded raw, flayed open; his voice was rough, almost a croak. “You're in love with me?”

“THREE!”

Shit.

“TWO!”

The fight drained out of Clark, fury replaced with fear, and he was left with the realisation that if he didn’t take it back now, his relationship with Bruce would never be the same. “Bruce,” he said, “I—“

“ONE!”

Bruce kissed him. Fireworks exploded in the distance; it was a shower of red and golden sparks, and it lit the balcony aglow. Their lips slotted together, Bruce’s hand tangled in Clark’s hair, and it wasn’t filthy, wasn’t intentional, just— passionate. Slow and reverent and careful. Devout, almost. It was the kind of chaste kiss Bruce had always shied away from, because—

Because—

Christ. Bruce had never kissed him like this before.

Finally surging into motion, Clark clutched the back of Bruce’s neck and inhaled sharply, pressing his lips to Bruce’s one, two, three times, and Bruce didn’t push him away, just tightened his fingers in Clark’s hair like he was trying to root Clark to the spot, make sure he never flew away.

They broke apart, Bruce’s chest heaving as he caught his breath. For a suspended moment, they just stood there, heads in each other’s hands. Beyond, the night sky burst into colour again with another shower of sparks from the fireworks; a nonstop crackle of celebration ushering in the new year.

It was an illumination that accompanied a dawning realisation. Through the adrenaline, his heart beating in his ears, Clark felt that revelation creeping up on him, like the sun rising from the horizon to the heights of the sky and painting the sky a brilliant, hopeful orange.

And maybe, just maybe, he began to understand exactly why Bruce had never kissed him like this. Because Clark would’ve realised.

Clark breathed out, “Bruce.” His vision swam; his heart was about to leap out his throat. He could scarcely fathom it. He could barely bring himself to hope. And yet. And yet. “Bruce, you—?”

“Fuck,” was all Bruce said, emphatically. He broke away from Clark’s grip, face clinically and deliberately blank as he adjusted his tie and tried to side-step Clark to exit the balcony. He was trying to do damage control, Clark could tell, but the damage had been done. “Look, son, don’t take this the wrong way—“

“What other way can I take it?” Clark blocked his way, forcing Bruce to meet his eyes. “No. No. You don’t get to run away. We are having this conversation now. I confess and you kiss me? What am I supposed to think?”

“There’s nothing to talk about. It was a mistake.” Bruce shouldered past him, plastering on a winning smile that was so plastic Clark wanted to kiss it away. “I’m going back to the ballroom. Happy New Year, Clark.”

And he was gone before Clark could say another word. It was too late, though — Clark could feel a smile blooming on his face, spreading so wide it almost hurt his cheeks. All his anger had dissolved. In its place was an incandescent blooming. He— he got it now, he got it, the pieces falling into place, the reasons for Bruce’s behaviour, the odds and ends Clark hadn’t understood; and it was okay, everything was okay, since a familiar feeling was back, and Clark was feeling more like himself than he had in a while because the ire from before had slid away to be replaced with pure, unblemished hope.

That last reaction was expected from Bruce, but everything else — ha. Happy New Year to Clark indeed.

(Clark had asked for a reason earlier. He’d only ever been asking for a reason.

And, well.

Here it was, wasn’t it?)

That settled it. Bruce was never, ever, ever going to a party of any sort with Clark again.

What had he always thought? There were no contingency plans in the face of the whirlwind that was Clark Kent. He was proven right, again, by the fact that despite all the strategies and excuses he’d been prepared to execute, he hadn’t developed a single one for the sheer impossibility that Clark loved him back.

Except— it couldn’t be possible. It couldn’t be. And even if it was — fuck.

Bruce spent the rest of the first hours of the New Year being the picture perfect host. The only reason he hadn’t wrapped this whole gala up, then up and left, or used one of Bruce Wayne’s dozen excuses to leave, was the fact that this whole thing was for his mother’s foundation. Still, he could see Clark beaming from the corner of his eyes, and it was fucking bullshit because he should not be this happy. Not about Bruce, not about this.

Bruce could take someone back. A woman. Fuck her, and Clark might just leave him alone. But then Clark’s face, golden firework lights illuminating the angles of his features as Bruce kissed him, would just pop into his head again, and god damn it, Bruce was a weak, weak man.

So much for self-control.

After things began to wrap up, Bruce was very careful to always be around someone who didn’t know his identity — he could see Clark dither, try to approach him, but he managed to duck into the limo back to the Manor successfully without confrontation. Dick, Tim, and Barbara had all attended the gala tonight but left around one; Alfred was back at the Manor, retiring early for the night.

It was a short-lived relief, either way. Bruce would bet Wayne Enterprises on the sole fact that Clark would be waiting for him on the porch of the Manor. No, probably inside; he wouldn’t risk being spotted and questioned.

Bruce spent the whole car ride working his mind overdrive. Denial wouldn’t work, not anymore. Not on Clark. He prepared the arguments for his case, the facts and the reasons and the logic, but— shit. As the limo pulled into the driveway, Bruce’s breaths went shallow. Fuck. Fuck. The more he thought about it, the worse it got. He was shaking, just barely. He barely spared a word of thanks and a quick tip to the driver before slamming the limo shut and marching out the driveway and pulling the door open and big surprise, because—

“Bruce,” Clark said, already waiting for him in those hideous glasses and even worse suit. And Bruce’s name, he— he said it with such open fondness that it shocked Bruce into stopping dead in his tracks, the door shutting automatically behind him. It wasn’t something unfamiliar, it was just… fuck his whole life. 

“Clark,” tried Bruce, then stopped.

He was calm; he had to be calm. Emotionless. Rational and clear-headed, factual.

“Bruce,” Clark replied, brightly, walking forward to pull him out of the doorway and into the wider living room, one of many in the Manor. “So. I didn’t get to say this earlier, properly, because I didn’t get it yet, but now I do. Either way—“

Bruce closed his eyes. “Don’t do this, Clark.”

“—I love you. I’m in love with you and your whole schtick. Whatever you’ve got going on in there,” Clark prodded his forehead, and if it were anyone else Bruce would’ve had them pinned to the floor in ten seconds straight, “I’m in awe. Enchanted. Enraptured. Enthralled. Okay?”

“No, you’re not,” Bruce said, flatly, pushing Clark’s hand away.

Clark blinked at him. Evidently, whatever he had been expecting Bruce to say, that wasn’t it. “Pardon?”

“You’re not in love with me, Clark.”

“Oh, I’m sorry. I wasn’t aware that you became an empath—“

“You’re not,” snapped Bruce, pacing away to put some godforsaken distance between them, “in love with me. Okay? I’m sorry.”

“For what?” Clark sounded equally annoyed and bewildered.

“For agreeing to have casual sex with you in the first place. We made it clear, I suppose, but I should’ve known it wasn’t something that you had the capacity to do. Not you. I should’ve known you’d conflate sex and— and feelings—“

Clark bristled.

“—but you’re confused, Clark. I— apologise. I shouldn’t have put you in the situation, not for my own selfish desires—“

“Not selfish,” Clark interrupted fiercely. “Never selfish. I wanted it too, Bruce, damn it, don’t you see? It isn’t like that.” Clark shook his head, vehemently. He sounded desperate, suddenly, for Bruce to understand. Then he straightened and faced Bruce, voice pleading but strong like steel. “We lost our memories, that day, the day that started it all — but it wasn’t so simple. I lost my head, but my heart— Bruce, my heart—“ Clark sped up to him in a blur, closing the distance again with his eyes shining, and he’d grabbed Bruce’s hand with his own and placed it over his beating heart, “—my heart was found. I didn’t remember, but my soul did. It remembered you. My longing, my yearning for you. Don’t you see?”

Bruce’s throat worked, and Clark’s eyes were a devastating, shimmering blue. He heard what Clark was saying. What he meant. But— surely, it couldn’t be, because— because. He would have noticed, right? And— how? It was Bruce, of all people.

How could it be?

“That long?” Bruce made himself ask.

Clark smiled. It was a destructive smile; the lead-in to Bruce’s ruin.

“Longer,” Clark said. “Much longer.”

“Christ,” said Bruce, and he stepped away again, wrenching his hand away and pacing the floor. “Why?”

“Stupid questions again,” snorted Clark. He ran a hand through his formerly slicked-back hair; his gel had fallen out of place, but his curls weren’t coiffed and windswept as they always became after Superman flew for too long, they were just messy. It was just— Clark. “Do you want an itemised list? I don’t like quantifying these kinds of things, but if you want, I could. Would you prefer alphabetical order, or perhaps—“

“No,” Bruce said sharply. God. “I don’t want it.”

Clark rolled his eyes, but it was with amusement. “Of course you don’t, you self-depreciating—“

“Don’t laugh, Clark, it’s not funny,” hissed Bruce. Clark sobered, at that, but didn’t lose his good humour.

“Why? You love me back. That’s more than I could ever ask for.”

“But—“

“But this, but that. That’s fine. You’re the one in love with me and my butt.” Clark looked pleased, never mind that no self-respecting journalist with linguistic prowess would never make such a lame joke. “Anyway, I saw this coming from miles away, your protests. Bring them on, drama queen.”

Bruce stopped his pacing and rounded on him.

“Take this seriously,” Bruce snarled.

“I am taking it seriously,” said Clark, finally dropping his smile. “Why aren’t you taking me seriously? This is real, Bruce. I want you. I want a life with you. I want—“

“Stop. Stop. Don’t—“ Bruce held up a hand to prevent Clark from approaching. “Fuck! Clark, stop saying these things.”

“Why not?” Clark said, stubborn. “I don’t get it. What’s stopping you?”

“Well, for one, the League—“

“Come on. They wouldn’t mind; Dinah and Ollie are already together, to give an example. I’m pretty sure Hal’s bi, and Diana doesn’t really have a concept of sexuality. Perhaps it’d trip them up at first, but—“

“It’s not that,” Bruce said harshly, rubbing a hand over his face. Clark was smart. He should know these things. He was just— thoughtless, sometimes. Romantic and idealistic. Bruce knew the members would be accepting — happy for them, even — but it wasn’t that simple. “We aren’t just members, Clark. We’re the League’s leaders. We have a responsibility to our members — hell, the whole world. Do you not see the damning conflict of interest here? We risk our lives. We make high-stake decisions that mean life and death. We have to be focused on the mission, always, and on the welfare of our people. That includes being prepared to make sacrifices.”

“Okay,” Clark agreed grimly, “but even then, I would still love you. Your ‘conflict of interest’,” he did air quotes, which looked ludicrous, “would be present anyway. It has been, for a while.”

And hearing that admission come so easily from Clark’s mouth — again — it made Bruce’s chest tighten, unfailingly. But it was true; whether or not they were dating, Bruce had already worried over Clark too much. He’d helped him at the expense of their objective more than once; he’d let his bad moods during their fights affect his concentration.

Cupid was cruel. But that wasn’t the only thing. “It’s different. We— our relationship, it’s— when it doesn’t work out—“

“If,” Clark corrected.

“If it doesn’t work out, it’ll distract us.”

“Please,” said Clark, “as if we’re that unprofessional. Sure, you think I’m an overly-emotional bleeding heart, but you know we both take our work seriously. And how about you, by the way?”

Bruce paused. Clark had said it breezily, but the set in his mouth betrayed his curiosity.

“How about me, what?” he asked brusquely; but he already knew the answer. He’d asked himself the same question when he realised.

“How long have you loved me?”

Bruce didn’t answer for a stretch. Clark waited, patiently, until: “I don’t know.”

“You don’t know?” echoed Clark. He was beginning to look amused again.

“I don’t know,” snapped Bruce, exasperated. “I didn’t realise until recently.”

“What, the dance? I’ll be sure to thank Elvis Presley next time.”

“I didn’t say—“

“Give me some credit here. It’s obvious enough after your whole mini freak-out.”

“As I was saying,” Bruce growled. “It would be highly inadvisable for us to — what, enter a relationship? Is that what you’re proposing? It would be wildly unprofessional, to say the least. We—“

“Oh, like it wasn’t ‘wildly unprofessional’ that time we fucked in the Watchtower bathroom?”

And it was the use of the curse word that had Bruce reeling, just a moment. He was momentarily fascinated. He didn’t think he’d heard Clark use ‘fuck’ before; much less with that raised eyebrow and wry twist of his mouth. Bruce abruptly wanted — searingly, undeniably — to toss Clark against the wall and fall to his knees and make Clark say it again.

He was staring. Turning away, so he didn’t have to look at Clark, Bruce sighed. “Clark,” he said, exhausted all of a sudden. “You were the one who gave me the Kryptonite ring, weren’t you?”

That seemed to shut Clark up, at least; he likely grasped Bruce’s meaning instantly.

A few seconds ticked by.

Then: “Yes.”

“And you know the implications of that? What that means?”

“Yes.”

“So how,” hissed Bruce, whirling on him once again, “could you even propose such a thing? We promised each other, Clark. That if you ever went bad — that if I ever went bad — we would do the right thing if it came to it. We would find a way, and if we couldn’t, we’d do what we told each other we’d do.”

Clark seemed to sit on that for another moment, but— “Please. As if you haven’t given the others a dozen contingency plans already.” It was true, and Clark knew Bruce knew that. “You’re not alone, Bruce. We aren’t alone — not anymore. I gave you that ring, sure, because I wanted you to do it, if you could, and I still believe you could; and even if you can’t, that’s alright.”

“Romantic entanglements are messy, nevertheless,” Bruce gritted out.

Clark shrugged. “I’m okay with messy. What about our lives isn’t?”

“Being able to hide as Batman and Superman only is one thing,” continued Bruce. “Our civilian identities are another. You’ll have to deal with everything Bruce Wayne entails, and I’ll have to revamp my image slightly. You’ll be in the press, the tabloids, not as a byline but as a subject. You and your life will be scrutinised, dissected; everything you hate, including everything that’s dangerous for you as Superman.”

“And we’ll figure it out,” said Clark. “Together.”

He made it sound so— so easy, so obvious, and shit, this man was going to be the death of him. Bruce took no comfort in divinity but Clark had him praying anyway. Christ. Bruce shrugged off his suit jacket, draping it over the armchair nearby. He stood there, for a moment, before decidedly collapsing onto the armchair, no longer bothering with the whole pretence of calmness. Clark followed closely behind him. He was like some lost puppy, nipping at Bruce’s heels, as he began to approach the armchair but clearly thought better of it. And so Bruce was left leaning his head back, staring up at the ceiling, and then straight ahead, blankly into thin air, without looking at Clark.

“I’m broken, Clark,” he said, finally.

Clark just looked at him.

“I have this anger, always,” continued Bruce, when it became evident Clark wasn’t going to speak. “I throw tantrums, I get withdrawn. I punch things, drown myself in violence and alcohol and sex. I’m not as obsessed with vengeance as I once was, but I’m bad enough. I need control over every aspect of my life and I’m insufferable when I don’t have it. Id est, all the time.” Bruce tipped his head back, staring at the ceiling once more. He flexed his hand, curling it slightly and placing the back of it on his forehead, huffing mirthlessly. “I’m not like you, Clark. Even my body’s breaking down. I’m battered, worn, I have scars all over. I’m getting old. My joints creak, my back and knees and old wounds ache, I— fuck.” He was babbling, rambling, and it wasn’t like him. Trust Clark to push a man to his limits.

But Clark only continued staring, steadily, so Bruce went on. “I’m a liar. Everything I am is built on lies upon lies. I have— nightmares, of everything I’ve seen, everything I’ve done and almost done. And so I have this anger that never gives me reprieve, that pushes people away. It never seems to work on you, but— Jesus, one day it will, and I don’t think I’ll be able to survive that day when it comes.”

He paused, catching his breath before exhaling sharply, and it came out uneven.

“You done?” asked Clark, and Bruce stood, hardly able to bear it any longer.

“Yes. Christ, I need a drink.” He shouldered past Clark further into the Manor where the kitchen was. Then, Bruce added, “See? Case in point.”

“Okay,” said Clark, in a tone that was an artificial sort of conversational, not far behind him. “My turn, then. How many times have I told you that everything you just said is nonsense? Come on, Bruce. I’ve known you for how long? You think I don’t know all this about you?”

Bruce reached the kitchen and rummaged around the cupboards noisily, before successfully pulling out a crystal decanter filled with bourbon.  Clark stopped right behind him. “So you’re a moody, temperamental asshole,” said Clark. “I knew that. So you indulge in some vices. Hell, with what you’ve been through, who can blame you? It’s a miracle you’re still functioning. Not,” he clarified hastily, “that I approve. I’ve told you a billion times. In moderation, okay?”

Fuck moderation, Bruce thought scathingly as he poured a straight half-glass of bourbon into an empty glass and began chugging. The alcohol burned down his throat. God, it was strong.

“What else? Your body’s pain? Are you kidding me, Bruce? You’re talking to the wrong person, here; I can’t even begin to fathom what you have to endure.” Clark hesitated, then inched forward to Bruce’s side. Bruce was facing the counter, hand on his golden glass of bourbon. “I’m sorry I can’t understand. You’re stronger than I am, you know?”

“Jesus,” said Bruce, shaking his head and downing another gulp of alcohol. He set the glass down on the table hard enough for it to ring. “Don’t apologise.”

“Besides,” murmured Clark, reaching out a hand; brushing the sides of Bruce’s crow’s feet, the most tender touch Bruce had allowed since he stepped foot in the Manor, “I like you a little older. Aged like fine wine, and all that.”

Bruce shut his eyes, and opened them, and poured more bourbon into his glass.

“Come on,” said Clark, softly, still in a murmur. His touch was gentle, slipping from Bruce’s cheek to his jaw and tilting it so Bruce was meeting his gaze. And yet the point of contact burned, pulled the fire from Bruce’s heart to his throat. “Look at me, B. Sure, you’re a liar; a darn good one at that. You’re built of lies, maybe. But there’s people, out there, who know your truth, few as they are. Alfred and Dick would certainly agree with me. I’m just one of them. And oh,” Clark’s hand moved down to the nape of Bruce’s neck, then his collarbone, and Bruce was stiff and unmoving and it felt like if he so much as breathed everything was going to shatter, “am I in love with this truth.”

Bruce couldn’t bear it, this intimacy. He twisted his body so he could tip more bourbon down his throat, before he did something stupid like kiss Clark or something stupider like agree to whatever Clark asked. Clark rarely asked, anyway.

Yet Clark was relentless. “Sure, you need control. But hey, if you had control over me, where would be the fun in that? I mean, would I be able to do this?” And Clark pushed the glass out of Bruce’s hands, slid it across the countertop, and captured his lips in a kiss.

Bruce probably tasted like bourbon, probably still smelled faintly of the cologne he had sprayed in preparation for the gala hours ago. He gripped Clark’s shoulder, instinctively, planning to push him away, but— fuck, this man was irresistible, wasn’t he? Bruce knocked his own shoulder into Clark’s, using the momentum to pin Clark to the counter with his hips, and—

Bruce broke away, sharply, abruptly. “I can never,” he said, low and helpless, “win with you.”

Clark’s adam apple bobbed as he swallowed, looking thoughtful, as though he were picking his next words carefully. “Your anger — it’s not who you are, B. But this is it, isn’t it? The crux of it. You think I’ll up and leave just like that, eventually, if I get to be with you? That one day you’ll push me away and this time I won’t come back. Well,” and Clark sounded sure, more sure than Bruce had ever heard him, and that was saying much for someone with so much passion and conviction, “it won’t. It won’t work on me. Not just because I love you. But because I know you.”

Bruce kept still, for a moment, unable to speak or even blink. But then he moved away from Clark and polished off the bourbon left in the glass, starting to pour some more, except— Clark grabbed his wrist, before he could.

“Kal,” said Bruce. “Clark.” His voice sounded raw even to his own ears. “It’s a risk. A huge one.”

Clark let go of his wrist, but Bruce didn’t make to take the crystal decanter again.

“We take risks everyday,” he said. And despite everything, there was a small smile on his face. “This particular risk, though, is far better than any I’ve ever had to take.” The smile flickered. “Hell — I’m scared too, Bruce. That one day, you’ll be the one pushing me away and never coming back. And—“

It flared up in Bruce, the bitterness and panic again all at once. “See? Fuck, Clark,” he laughed, “I’m shitty for even making you have to think that, I—“

“—I’m not excusing your behaviour,” Clark raised his voice pointedly, “but you’ve gotten better. I’ve seen it with my own eyes, through the years. You’ve shown you’re willing to try, to change, if it’s for the people you care about. And you know what my Kryptonian symbol stands for, don’t you, Bruce? What we both believe in?”

Bruce shut his eyes.

“Hope,” he said.

And across Clark’s face, a wider smile bloomed, radiant, and joyful, and it took Bruce’s breath away, the way Clark’s grin was full of—

“Hope,” agreed Clark. “A belief that it’ll work out. That we will work out. And I’m hoping that this time, whatever fear you have — whatever doubts, paranoia, whatever ten thousand things you come up with that could go wrong — will be nothing in the face of love. I mean. Since you love me. And all that.” Bizarrely, Clark’s face went an adorable, light pink. Out of all the things he said, this was where he drew the line? “So. Um. Yeah. Give me a chance?”

Bruce clenched his jaw, adjusting the cuffs of his dress shirt sleeve. Superman was asking him for a chance? This was all wrong. Bruce should be the one begging, the one pleading for a chance. And he could deny it, try to push it away, but Bruce felt it, then: the warmth buried forcibly under layers of suffocation.

That hope.

“What,” said Bruce slowly, “would that entail, exactly?”

And— it was worth it. Everything was worth it for the look on Clark’s face, like the sun first rising after a long, dreary winter. Like Bruce had just given him the world.

“Us finally sleeping in the same bed, for starters,” Clark said, giddily. “Waking up together for once. Kissing you whenever I want. Touching you however I want. I could— move into the Manor. Although I suppose I’m here, most of the time, anyway. We could go on dates, like— like to the orchestra, or to comedy shows or… wait. I suppose we already do that. We could be all domestic! I’d cook for you, talk to your kids, have game nights, watch movies, even though, uh, we’ve already done all of those things. Um—“ Clark began to laugh, a hysterical kind of bubbling laughter that was contagious. “Bruce. I hate to break it to you, but maybe we’ve kind of been a little married alread—”

“Hell YEAH you have!” came Steph’s voice bursting into the kitchen out of one hundred percent nowhere; and to Bruce’s absolute horror, the kitchen was flooded with complaining people in the blink of an eye.

“Fuck, Bruce, couldn’t y’all have gotten your shit together like months earlier—“

“—language, Jason—“

“—you sound just like Alfred—“

“—Cass! I was closer than you at least—“

“—well, we both lost either way—“

“—ugh, there goes my money—“

“—screw the money, it was sickening having to watch this—“

“—hello? Tell me about it, I was there since the start—“

“—well, technically that’s Dick, and Alfred if you’re being even more technical—“

“—so much for World’s Best Detective, huh—“

This was unbelievable. This whole situation was— absurd. “Enough,” Bruce snapped loudly, commanding everyone’s attention with a sharp rap of his knuckles against the counter. He swept a glance across the room, incredulous. “Were… were you all betting on this?”

Silence.

Then, Babs ratted with a “Jason started it,” which set the whole kitchen into another flurry of accusations and protests. Clark looked as though the ground could engulf him whole at any second and he would welcome it.

“Did—“ Clark’s voice cracked, a bit, but he’d raised his voice to be heard over the ruckus, which quietened everyone momentarily again. “Uh. Did all of y’all know?”

“Are you kidding me? The whole world knows except the two of you,” snorted Tim, hopping onto a counter. “Dude. You weren’t exactly subtle.”

“I’m traumatised,” Duke shivered; everyone else looked as though they very much agreed. “You are loud, Clark, did you know that? I have not ever wanted to hear the Man of Steel—“

“Bruce is equally bad, I once walked into the entrance of the Batcave where the soundproofing started and noped the heck out because he talks so much during—“

A chorus of noisy groans and objections hurriedly filled the air before anyone could finish their sentence, and when Bruce looked over, Clark’s hands were around his neck, his face a mortified scarlet red up to the tip of his ears. “Oh my God, I am so sorry—“

Damien huffed theatrically from a corner, his arms folded. “You should be sorry that you both let Alfred win the bet.”

“Why are you all here in the first place?” Bruce demanded before he could totally lose his shit.

“Dunno. Invited everyone over for New Year’s game night, Alfred’s setting up the consoles, we called our friends to help with our respective patrols. Supes can fly off at any time, too.”

“Gotham ain’t going to collapse in one night, Batman,” said Jason mockingly with a midwestern accent, a clear parody of one of Bruce’s and Clark’s many repeated arguments.

“But I’m dark and paranoid and don’t need your help,” hissed Steph back with a twinkle in her eye; her voice was pitched obnoxiously low. “We fight like an old married couple and I’m hopelessly down bad for you but stay out of my city.”

This prompted a whole new bout of laughter, and overlapping discussions about the new year were reignited, initial conversation threads lost. And Bruce just— he could only stand there, wordlessly, against the counter with Clark just an arm’s breadth away and an empty glass of bourbon abandoned, watching everyone with something full and inexplicable welling up behind his ribcage.

“I didn’t bet, you know,” muttered Dick, as he slipped to Bruce’s side amidst the chaos. He was speaking quietly — hushed — but his cheeks were flushed with a kind of happiness Bruce had always tried to put on his face. “I mean, of course I knew about it, the betting. I would’ve joined too if it were anything else; but not for this. I couldn’t.”

Bruce turned to him: his boy that was now a man. His first son.

“Because?”

“Because it’s true,” said Dick, and he smiled a little, “that I’ve been there since the beginning. That means I’ve seen everything. I’ve seen the two of you fight, make up, go through hell and back together; I know how much you both have lost because of love and because of the world. I’ve been here long enough to remember the times it wasn’t like this, when it wouldn’t have worked out, when both of you would’ve just taken all your love and pain and suffering and let it burn the both of you inside out. But things are different now, and— well, that’s because you’ve allowed them to be different. I’m proud of you, Bruce,” Dick told him, softly, like he was saying, I’m proud of you, Dad, and for a moment Bruce had to battle back the knot in his throat in order to give a steady reply.

“You’ve grown into a fine young man,” Bruce rasped. “My son.”

Dick’s eyes went bright and shiny for a suspicious second before he slapped Bruce on the back, turning to Clark who was politely looking away and pretending he couldn’t hear every word of the conversation.

“And I’m glad it’s you, Supes,” Dick announced, now sounding cheery. “Best dads ever.”

Before either could respond to that, he was gone, back into the fold and leaping into conversation as if he never left. The kitchen was pandemonium — a disorganised mayhem with laughter and gripes and playful slaps — with Alfred entering the kitchen halfway in dismay about the mess in his kitchen. His arrival set off another round of groans at loss of money, and it was a new year, and the lights were shining bright over their heads. 

This felt right. Was it okay? He glanced to his left, a little; Clark’s eyes were already trained on him, slightly misty, that same shade of blue that haunted Bruce’s dreams.

Bruce met his gaze, fearlessly this time; he didn’t look away, and Clark smiled. A tiny but devastating thing. And Bruce, he— fuck, he could only smile back — a subtle flicker, but one still noticeable. It was okay. This was okay. This felt right, Bruce realised, this sense of belonging. This felt like home.

Clark stirred awake, wading through molasses to the lucidity of a Kryptonian’s morning. But it was slow, and lazy, and there was a warm body next to him; an arm, slung over his chest. Legs tangled with his, a knee pressed flush to his thigh and an ankle at his shin.

And he turned his head, slightly. He was greeted with Bruce’s face, so close that Clark could feel his warmth, Bruce’s eyes shut and mouth parted in sleep; his scars and bruises and cuts and scrapes were visible, the swell and dips of his muscles familiar. It felt like a dream. Early morning light from the curtain, soft and arresting, oozed into the room. It caressed the lower half of Bruce’s face, shadow melting into a surreal, hazy blur of gold.

Clark reached out. His hand was shaking, trembling, but he paid it no mind, as he touched Bruce’s face. Feather-light — not enough that he knew Bruce would wake. Just enough so he knew it was real.

It was the first time he’d woken up to Bruce still in the same bed, but it certainly wouldn’t be the last. And when they inevitably had a chance again — because Clark knew they would — he and Bruce would be slow dancing in the dark until morning came.