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Clark was tired, that much he knew. As soon as he was within an hour of returning to Earth, all he could think about was collapsing into bed, face down, never to be heard from again. Something about the Psion's social statutes in particular really just drains Clark. He likes to think he's a pretty patient guy, but he may have reached his limit, and the Psions seemed to be pushing him on purpose. If they were easier to reach Bruce might have been able to send something out to them. And of course Clark always wishes the Lanterns could do something to make it all easier. Anyway, Clark was tired, and now apparently was whining. This was important work that he proved to be uniquely qualified for, and that in and of itself was rewarding.
It was nearing four in the morning by the time he arrived in Metropolis, and he was relieved to soon be getting some sunlight. Since he wanted to go straight to bed without stopping at the watchtower to change, he used superspeed to enter through his bedroom window. He thought about slipping into Wayne Manor instead; thought about warm, strong arms wrapping him up and holding him. He closed his window behind him and stood in the center of his room. He looked at his bed, and down at his suit, and at his dresser, and sighed.
“How long have you been wearing that suit?”
Clark turned on his heel. “Good grief, Bruce, how do you do that!? You’re not wearing any stealth gear and I am notoriously incapable of having a heart attack.”
Bruce was sitting cloaked in shadows in the corner of the room, somehow managing to make Clark’s second-hand stained ottoman look like a position of power. To anyone else, Bruce might have looked unimpressed, bored even. But Clark knew the slight but proud tilt to his brow in an instant. Bastard. Clark took a deep breath and pinched the bridge of his nose.
“Bruce. Sweet potatoe pie. As much as I love our usual banter and tit for tat, and as much as I’ve missed you and want nothing more than to spend time with you in any and all possible ways, I’m exhausted and if you’re not going to help me undress for bed then I’m just gonna do it myself.”
Bruce's whole demeanor softened, and Clark’s heart swelled in his chest despite his impossible but recent near-heart attack.
He stayed extremely still as Bruce stood and approached him. He let his eyes flutter shut as Bruce got his fingers under the suit and started to remove it. He sighed as Bruce left chaste kisses along his shoulders, his chest, his thighs, welcoming home each new patch of skin he revealed.
Bruce stood from where Clark’s suit lay at his feet and walked past him to his dresser and opened the drawer where Clark keeps all his comfy clothes. Clark felt a wave of affection watching Bruce exist in his space with so much familiarity.
Bruce pulled out two pairs of clothes and put them on the bed, and then started removing his own shirt. Clark watched rapt as the tight material pulled and stretched around broad muscles revealing pale scars. Watched the way Bruce’s arms flexed as he pulled the shirt off over his head. Watched as those smart fingers quickly and nimbly unfastened belt and pants, let them fall around his ankles.
Bruce cleared his throat, and Clark looked up to see Bruce smirking at him, an amused glint in his eye.
“No, Clark. You’re clearly too tired. Rest first.”
“But Bruce–”
“No, Clark, you won’t break me. Not this time. Now come over here and let me dress you.”
Clark grumbled to himself as he trudged over to Bruce and bowed his head to allow easier access for Bruce to get the shirt over his head.
“What was that? Lift your arms for me.”
“Nothing,” Clark said, even as he obeyed and raised his arms above his head.
“Clark. Did you really just call me a ‘spoil-sport’?”
“Maybe.”
Bruce snorted. Even as irritable as Clark felt, he thought it was the cutest sound he'd ever heard. Bruce put his own shirt on, and then stepped into his own pair of sleep pants before helping Clark into his, and Clark did not let out a whine. He did not.
Bruce lead Clark from behind to stand at the edge of the bed, kissed him on the shoulder and rubbed his hands up and down Clark’s arms. “I’ll follow your lead.”
Clark pulled down the covers and crawled into the bed and honest to God moaned when his head hit the pillow. Facing the wall, he turned his head to look at Bruce, who looked… Rao, he looked like a sap. He looked how Clark feels most of the time. He - the Batman - looked soft.
Clark shifted so he could offer his hand to Bruce, who took it as he climbed into bed behind Clark. Clark adjusted them both under the soft covers so that Bruce was effectively spooning him, his chest pressed to Clark's back. Clark pulled Bruce’s hand to his mouth to kiss it and said, “You’re basically just a handful of blueberries, ya know that?”
“What? Kal, that one doesn’t make any sense at all.”
“Sure it does. You’re all dark and ominous looking, but you’re really just soft and sweet and gentle and squishable. Like blueberries.”
“Kal, I break bones. I stalk in the night. I evade the law to do so.” He said this like he was concerned for Clark's mental well-being.
“Yeah, that’s the dark and ominous bit. Proves my point, really.”
“Kal.”
“Yeah?”
“I missed you.”
Clark turned to face him, but Bruce was looking down at his own toes wiggling under the sheets. Clark stretched to kiss him on the cheek, and stayed when Bruce caught him by the back of the head. “I missed you, too. Now come on, lay down so I can get some shut eye. I feel like I haven’t slept in a month.”
Bruce huffed a laugh as he settled behind Clark again. “That’s because you haven’t.”
“Ugh, don’t get me started.”
Bruce chuckled and kissed him once on the back of his head, once behind his ear. Clark pulled him closer.
“I love you, B. Thanks for being here when I got home.”
Bruce pulled tighter to bring his own body closer. “I love you, too, Kal. That’s why I wanted to be here. Now shut up and close your eyes.”
Clark smiled as he felt any remaining traces of stress leave his body and sleep start to claim him. Maybe he’ll just never leave the planet again.