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People said that vampires and werewolves didn’t get along. It was more or less true, but not for the reasons people seemed to believe. Vampires weren’t all snobby assholes, werewolves weren’t noisy jerks, there wasn’t exactly some millenia-long supernatural beef. It had a bit to do with the moon, really. Vampires were nocturnal by nature, obviously, and, although the moon transformed werewolves, they tended to be most active, whether in their more wolflike form or human, during the day. It meant that close friendships were sometimes tricky. Furthermore, werewolf blood tended to be a bit, well, tastier than regular human blood, especially around the full moon. These days most vampires got their fill from willing targets, lest they be eating stake for dinner instead, but having a friend who suddenly smelled like a five course meal for a week or so every month was difficult.
Bruce was musing on this at the Justice League watchtower. Clark, while alien, had apparently been bitten by a lone werewolf as a child. Early on in the Justice League’s formation, just a little after he revealed his identity, he had explained as much and the various ways it affected his powers. Clark was standing on the other side of the room, being both Clark and Kal El as he enthusiastically explained his personal journalistic ethics to Arthur.
He did not smell delicious around the full moon.
He smelled delicious all the time . Bruce wasn’t sure if it was his alien heritage or just that Bruce was, loathe though he was to admit it, fond of Kal El, but he smelled like sunshine and salty-sweet ambrosia every fucking time. After a battle when Bruce’s advanced senses could pick up nothing but dirt, stale blood, and dust, Clark still smelled good enough to eat.
But obviously Bruce never would.
Not even a taste.
Not even when Arthur asked a question that made Clark throw his head back and laugh and his pulse was so strong and he smelled like sunshine. Bruce couldn’t have sunshine, metaphorically or literally.
And then Kal looked his way and his pulse kicked up. Bruce sighed internally. That was, of course, the other reason he couldn’t ever taste Superman. The first was that, simply, if he got a taste he wasn’t letting him go, but also, in spite of their solid friendship and well-earned trust, he scared Kal El. Every time Bruce showed off a little too much of his more vampiric traits, Clark’s pupils dilated and his pulse hammered. He never showed a thing, never even hesitated to pat Bruce on the shoulder or smile or linger behind to converse, but Bruce could hear it. If he let his fangs extend, Clark’s breath hitched, if his eyes glowed, Clark’s pulse fluttered. The single time Clark had walked in on him eating a blood bag in the middle of the night, red still staining his lips, Clark’s heart had pounded like a trapped animal.
But they were also friends. Clark trusted him with the weight of his secret identity, and with smaller troubles and problems. They were frequent visitors at one another’s houses, Clark for dinner or an evening in with Bruce, Bruce for takeout (for Clark, of course, though Bruce occasionally picked at anything that didn’t have garlic) and a movie at Clark’s little apartment. Clark was, almost certainly, Bruce’s very best friend.
The conclusion was thus: Clark and Bruce were friends. Clark just happened to have a fear of vampires, that he was able and gracious enough to see past for Bruce. In some ways, it made Bruce feel warm inside, in others, it broke his unbeating heart.
Clark smiled brightly at him across the room, his fangs visible and his dimples showing. He couldn’t keep smiling like that at Bruce or he was going to suck that man like a capri sun, and Bruce didn’t mean his blood.
So it was better if Bruce kept his distance just a little bit. He didn’t stop spending time together, never could, but they always sat at opposite ends of the couch at Clark’s apartment, opposite sides of the watchtower, et cetera.
The plan was fine, Bruce hedged his bets when it came to his self control, and he still had his best friend. Bruce settled in for a stint at the watchtower, but of course, robots decided to attack Star City.
—
Robot after robot landed in the rubble. The League had successfully steered the fighting to the outskirts of Star City, away from the general populace, but the construction site they were currently in was decimated. Green Arrow was down, Lantern had taken a major hit to the head, and Flash had taken a laser blast to the ankle. He wasn’t down for good, but he wasn’t much help either. Diana was busy smashing as many of the damn robots as she could, lassoing three or four at a time and bashing them until their circuitry fried. Black Canary ran past, the robots couldn’t hear, so she’d been lending her not-inconsiderable non-powered aid. She was currently extracting Ollie from the rubble. Bruce turned his head back to the front and lunged, digging gauntleted claws into a robot’s chest and pulling out the sparking mess of circuitry and wiring where a human heart would be.
Dawn was coming. His cowl would protect him from the worst of it, but he was only going to get weaker. He’d tire. They needed to take down the last of the robots soon.
Superman had been air control for most of the fight, keeping the robots from flying towards the city and rescuing civilians, but the last of the robots must have been grounded because he landed, a few of their propulsion systems crumbling in his fists. He didn’t look well either. One or two of the robots had synthetic red solar lighting, not enough to take Kal down, but a nasty surprise. He had sweat on his forehead for once. Still, the second his boots hit the ground, he charged at a robot. Bruce saw the change although it happened so incredibly quickly. Kal’s head elongated, his teeth growing and his glowing red eyes narrowing until he was in his full werewolf form. Bruce had seen it only a handful of times, Kal generally relying on his Kryptonian powers. As Bruce shot a grapple into a robot’s chest and ripped out some circuitry, he saw Kal from the corner of his eye, leaping with jaws open, clamping teeth around a robotic head, and biting through steel like it was his Ma’s famous sugar cookies. The werewolf whirled, standing on two legs like a man and looking every bit the beast. Crackling leftover electricity danced along his fur and his heat vision melted a robot into a puddle. A paw the size of a trash can lid wiped out two robots and pinned a third. It had already lost a leg and was making simple crawling motions, but these weren’t complex creations, and Clark’s claws took it apart as easily as shredding paper.
Bruce returned his focus to his own foes, seeing one making its way toward Flash, who was busy speed-punching another one. He leapt, feeling air beneath his cape like wings, and rended it with his claws.
“Thanks, Spooky,” Flash said, grinning. There was gravel and a bit of blood in his teeth. The blood smelled good. Bruce realized he’d need to feed after this, because frankly, most metahuman blood was unappetizing. The one time he’d tried Flash’s, drawn with a needle and tasted “for science” as Barry had put it, had left Bruce jittery and tasted like an energy drink mixed with saline. If that sounded good, he really was hungry.
A robot’s still-sparking head landed beside them and Clark pounced again, jaws sinking deep into the one that Bruce had been just about to pierce with a Batarang. Foam flicked from Kal’s jaws, his muzzle snarling. Diana’s sword impaled the last still-moving robot, and the battlefield finally fell still.
Clark rose to his hind legs, shaggy fur covered in dust. Black Canary had Ollie’s arm around her shoulder but he was conscious. Diana pulled Hal to his feet, although he still had his eyes closed. The sunlight peeked over the rubble and Bruce bit back a hiss. It didn’t burn him, not with the cowl and the amount of sunscreen he wore, but he felt his weakening body trying to protect itself, priming to hunt because its reserves were depleted. His fangs were extended further than normal, he knew, and his claws weren’t withdrawing into their sheathes.
“Back to the jet,” Diana said. “And step on it, I need to take a piss and I have gravel in my boot.”
Bruce didn’t smile at Diana’s typical bluntness, although he let out a tired little chuckle. He didn’t want his extended fangs to worry Kal.
He hadn’t transformed back yet, still in his full werewolf form. Bruce knew he was able to look more typically wolf-like, in the same way he could look almost perfectly human, and that sometimes, when it was closer to the full moon, it was easier to stay either in his werewolf or wolfish form. They were three days from full moon, but Bruce also worried Clark was more hurt than he’d let on. Apart from his fangs and the occasional extension of his claws, Clark looked human almost all the time. Bruce never forgot that he was a werewolf, not with the way he smelled, but he imagined other people might. His hands itched to bury themselves in the deep ruff of fur along Clark’s neck and shoulders. He wanted to reach out and touch the massive paws, the velvety looking ears.
Kal caught him staring, his tail quickly tucking between his legs in a way that made Bruce’s heart hurt, he heard Kal’s heart skip a beat and speed up and felt guilty. He was scaring his friend, and he couldn’t help it. He looked away, jaw tightening.
A soft, slightly unpleasant sound and then Diana said, “Well, that will fit in the jet better at least.”
Bruce looked back to see that Clark was a wolf, a regular wolf, now, the last tatters of his red cape still around his shoulders. With that, the group limped their way to the jet, and hopefully soon, the privacy and comfort of the watchtower.
Bruce had never liked steering the jet with his claws fully extended, they curled uncomfortably, but no one else was in a state to do it. Hal would recover soon, but not soon enough to steer, as he was currently throwing up into a bag. Bruce mentally added more sick bags to his list for restocking the jet. Unfortunately, another thing on that list was blood bags. He only had one left. Normally that was fine, but he hadn’t eaten in a while, and the sun exposure and the fight had worn him down, he could do with a bigger meal.
Bruce tried to avoid bigger meals.
Bruce had been born a vampire, thankfully avoiding all the nasty details that came with being turned. He had very little angst and lingering distress about the fact that he fed on blood. He was not the only vampire in the world or even in Gotham. It was a sort of open secret that many of the old money families in Gotham were, in fact, very old money, and had settled in the darkest, mistiest area they could find without all that pesky sunshine. Some people sold their blood, cleanly taken by trained phlebotomists and not all that different from people who donated plasma for a bit of quick cash. Bruce had heard, even once in a while encountered, people for whom the donation was the payment. So long as it was all done with style, they were wined, dined, and then dined upon, some people forwent payment. Bruce had only tried it once, it felt too intimate, and he had rather gotten the sense that the young man was disappointed that he didn’t wear a red and black opera cape and have a pipe organ.
But a large meal for a vampire, especially one as powerful as Bruce…that could mean death for a human. It was part of the reason Bruce didn’t often drink straight from people. His self-control was ironclad, but instinct had a way of hijacking one’s brain, and if he were very hungry, he didn’t want to take the chance.
He bit into the blood bag, wishing he couldn’t hear Clark’s heartbeat pick up as he did so. Yuck, goat’s blood. Technically it had some nutritional benefit for him, but it was something like the vampire equivalent of kale chips. He needed to stock up on the real deal. There was still coconut water in the minifridge, but in that moment he’d rather bite a clove of garlic. Coconut water worked for some vampires, he knew, would do for him in a pinch, but with Clark smelling like all things delicious and wonderful, he couldn’t bring himself to crack open a can. It was no matter, he could wait until he was back in the Batcave. He had plenty of real blood there.
Even with his claws extended, he maneuvered the jet expertly to dock, and let his tired team exit. He threw away his empty bag on the way out, slightly self consciously as he realized Clark was watching him. He was still wolf-shaped, his tail wagging enthusiastically. It knocked against the wall. Bruce hesitated.
His tail was… wagging . That was decidedly not a fear response. He also looked sort of…fluffy. Dusty and grime covered, but soft nonetheless. Bruce stared at the wolf, Kal sat in the hallway, staring back and panting, his tail thumping on the ground.
“May I–” Bruce said without thinking, one gloved hand already reaching out. He realized too late his claws were still extended, a decidedly scary thing because Clark was scared of–
Clark bumped his head into Bruce’s hand, his tail speeding up like a broken metronome. Bruce rubbed behind his ears, thinking hard.
“I’ve never seen you in your wolf form,” he said. “You normally look human, and for battles if you change you’re the full werewolf.” Clark did the best approximation of a shrug that he seemed able to, canine shoulders not being well shaped for it. Bruce removed his gauntlets and gloves, then rubbed behind Clark’s ears with both hands.
“Is this alright?” he asked. “I don’t want to be condescending.”
Clark rolled onto his back as though for a belly rub.
“Well alright then, who says no to Superman?” Bruce gave his belly a rub, then thumped his hand gently against Clark’s ribs. His tail was still wagging, now beating lightly against Bruce’s shins. He still smelled good. It was a little easier like this to resist, when Clark didn’t have the golden skin of his neck on display, but Bruce was hungry.
Kal’s stomach rumbled and he rolled back over, tail hesitating in its beat for a second.
“There’s food and a solar lamp waiting for you,” Bruce said. “Forgot you were hit with the red sunlight for a moment there.”
Clark gave a huff that, while decidedly doglike, was also very reminiscent of when he was editing a badly-spelled article. It made Bruce smile.
“Yeah, we’ll watch for that in the future. Come along then, Blue, or I’ll put a leash on you.”
Clark snapped his jaws, still wagging.
“Like you’d bite, you’re a big softy, I bet you let kids pull your ears and everything.”
Clark trotted away, turning a bit too quickly. Reading a wolf’s body language was unreliable, but Bruce felt very certain that yes, Clark did let kids pet him and tug on his ears. He couldn’t blame the kids, now that he’d had the chance to pet through that fur, dusty though it was, he wanted to again. He wanted to try it in Clark’s true form, when he was huge and monstrous and still totally safe. Would his ears be as soft? Did his tail still wag? When he stood on his hind legs would Bruce be able to reach his muzzle and look at his fangs?
Bruce shook his head, taking off the cowl and following Clark into the mess hall. He had dust in his hair and, to his chagrin, he’d gotten goat’s blood on his collar. Alfred would tut about it later, even if washing it off the armor wasn’t difficult.
Diana was turning on the sunlamp for Clark, who still seemed disinclined, or perhaps unable, to turn human again. He laid down under the small lamp, for all the world like a friendly dog. A dog who was more than six feet, nose to tail, but nevertheless. Bruce sat away from the sun lamp, aware of his own weariness.
Clark wasn’t frightened of him, though. That was…good. It was good. It felt good. It was also confusing. Bruce needed answers, more data. Why did Clark’s heart beat quickly, if he wasn’t afraid? Vampires were poor fodder for werewolves, and Clark didn’t even really eat anyway, so surely Bruce couldn’t be as tempting to Clark as he was to Bruce. Unless…
Bruce needed blood and the dimness of the Batcave. Possibly a nap. Obviously his brain was overtaxed. He rose from the seat he’d taken in the mess hall, checking briefly on everyone, especially Ollie. Dinah and Oliver had denied Bruce’s offer to simply drop them off in Star City center so that they could go home, apparently Dinah felt he’d recover better in the League headquarters and they’d avoid press. Bruce patted his old friend's shoulder and used a little of his advanced senses to reassure himself that, yes, Oliver would recover just fine. Dinah gave him a warm nod and he smiled at her.
“Looking a little fangy there, Bruce,” she said. “Get a meal in you, maybe have some sun.” She winked, the joke was old and made Bruce smile, but he couldn’t help but think of how Clark smelled like sunshine.
Over by the sunlamp, Clark stretched, catching Bruce’s eye. With a sound that, while not unbearable, was a little unpleasant given Bruce’s supernatural hearing, he transformed. Then Superman was lounging under the lamp. He pressed the off button, stood up, and stretched.
“You do look a little pale, Bruce, paler than usual, I mean. Let me walk you home?”
Not for the first time, Bruce cursed Clark’s midwestern good manners. “I’m fine.”
“Please, Bruce, I’d feel better for it.”
Clark was dusty, but otherwise looked his perfect self, hair curled, eyes sparkling, and Bruce was feeling a little bit weak to it.
“Fine.”
Clark offered his arm on the way to the zeta tubes.
“I’m hungry, not dying,” Bruce grumbled. He was hungry , and Clark smelled so terribly perfect.
“Hungry, why didn’t you say?” Clark said, just as Bruce stepped into the zeta tube. “You should drink from me.”
The split second that the zeta tube provided was not nearly long enough. That morning, well, more accurately last night, Bruce had been convinced that Clark was frightened of vampires, but now?
“Really Bruce,” Clark was saying, only a step behind. “I’ve got plenty of blood to spare.”
“You were under the effects of red solar radiation not an hour ago.”
“And I’m fine. C’mon Bruce, isn’t it better if you eat when it’s fresh?”
Clark was so close and he smelled so good.
“Unless…would I taste bad? All that sunshine, do you think it would be like Wally?”
“The sunshine in your blood can’t harm me,” Bruce said, simply. He was certain, much too certain, that Clark would taste perfect.
“You know,” Clark said shyly. “Until you petted me today, I thought you weren’t very fond of werewolves.”
Bruce frowned, pausing as he removed his armor. “You’re my best friend, Clark,” he said simply.
“Sure, I mean, we’re the best of friends. You’re my best friend, too. I thought you just weren’t very fond of…that side of me, I suppose.”
“Why?”
“I’m not totally sure. The way you stare when I smile big enough to show my fangs, maybe. And sometimes you don’t seem to want to be close to me, I sort of wondered if werewolves…do we smell bad?”
“You smell delicious.”
Shit. Shit shit shit . Bruce blamed it on being hungry because he had not meant to say that.
“Really?”
God, Bruce could basically see the man’s tail wagging, even in human form. Then, horrifyingly, understanding seemed to dawn on Clark.
“Is that why you’re always at arms reach? Because you want a snack? Why didn’t you just say so Bruce? You’re my best friend. Heck, I’m midwestern, if Ma found out you were hungry and I was withholding food from you she’d tan my hide!”
“I don’t drink from people.”
“Because you could take too much, I know,” Clark said, waving one still-gloved hand. “But I’m not people, I’m me. You can’t take too much. Bruce, I’m basically a magical buffet!”
Clark was flushed with his excitement, his heartbeat fast and tempting.
“No,” Bruce said. He couldn’t ever stop at just a drink from Clark, couldn’t bear to place his lips above his friend’s collarbone and drink without leaving behind a kiss, a caress, some whispered affection in his ear.
“Please, Bruce, I’m curious too.”
Bruce felt his fangs extend even further at just the thought. Clark had wondered about this, wanted this. He wanted Bruce—no. He wanted Bruce to be happy and well fed because that’s the kind of friend Kal was. It didn’t mean…
“I want it, Bruce,” nearly a whine, with a skip-hop to Clark’s heartbeat that echoed in Bruce’s enhanced ears.
Bruce locked eyes with Clark, who sat, cheekily, in the chair in front of the Batcomputer. Less cheekily, his blush was creeping down his neck, under the collar of his suit. If Bruce sunk his fangs into Clark’s neck he could taste that blush, could trace it with his tongue.
“I know you need it, Bruce,” Clark whispered. “You’ve got a couple blood bags in the fridge” –damn the alien’s x-ray vision– “but I know they’re not as fresh as you need. Let me help, I want to help you.”
Bruce prowled towards Clark. He had the advantage, if Clark were prey, that is, standing over his friend. “I could always go out and find someone willing,” he said, it came out as more of a thoughtful hiss.
“Haven’t you?” Clark asked, then he tilted his head back, so unlike the wolf instincts that Bruce knew Clark had, baring his throat to a predator. His eyes were half-lidded because of the angle, pupils blown wide and breathing steady. “Please just drink from me, Bruce. It’s okay, I promise, it’ll be good. I want you to drink from me. Please Bruce, you know you need it, it’ll be so good for you.”
The litany was music to Bruce’s ears, and he felt his self-control snap.
Bending over Clark in the chair, bathed in the blue light of the Batcomputer’s many screens, he struck like a viper. One hand curled under Clark’s perfect jaw, fingers wrapping around, claws scraping lightly at the nape of his neck. His fangs were sharp, the magic that kept him undying and undead piercing Clark’s skin in a way that simple steel couldn’t. Clark let out a tiny gasp, but not of pain, and Bruce didn’t pull away, clamping his teeth fully against the column of Clark’s neck.
Sunlight burst on his tongue. It was like drinking liquid gold, and it was so warm . He always forgot the warmth, never felt it on his own, never had it from a bag of old blood in a refrigerator. At first taking in small sips, then deeper, longer drags of blood, Bruce imagined it like hot chocolate, or champagne, the bubbly, sparkling feeling filling him all the way up, warming him from the inside out. Clark wasn’t just warm, he felt hot, fever hot , and it was so good. His arm was around Bruce’s waist, holding him in the awkward, hunched position as if Bruce would pull away. He wouldn’t, he wanted this forever. He could feel, for the first time in a long time, his undead heart begin a slow beat, the fresh blood filling his system. It was a strange, almost alien feeling, but he didn’t let it stop him from drinking. This was a mistake, because he couldn’t ever let this go, was going to need to taste Clark forever, wanted to feel this warm, this happy and strong, this alive forever.
He’d already drank more than he could safely take from a human, but Clark’s heart still sounded strong, although maybe a little fast. He was fine, Bruce could drink more and he’d be okay. Bruce could be full.
He never felt truly full.
As if reading his mind, Clark’s other hand came up to curl around Bruce’s wrist where he held his jaw. “I’ve got plenty, darlin’, drink up.”
The permission was almost as good as the taste. Bruce dragged Clark forward, out of the chair some so he sprawled inelegantly, but so did Bruce, fighting to get physically closer, even though there wasn’t any space left between them. It ended with both of them on the floor, Bruce pulling back for a split second to sink his teeth in at a slightly different angle. This time Clark did make a sharp little noise, part pain, but mostly approval.
Bruce was aware he had his claws digging into Clark’s arms, pinning him down with all of his supernatural strength, he didn’t care. How could he care? Clark was here and willing and tasted like all things good.
Bruce finally began to slow down, taking longer, slower drafts rather than the frantic pace of before. He let his claws recede, patting apologetically at where he’d scratched Clark’s arms. He felt sated, but not sluggish. He was full and bursting with energy.
One final sip, then he removed his fangs, tongue flicking out without his permission to steal the last few drops of blood. Then he sat back, pulling Clark upright with him.
He wasn’t Superman right then, or even Kal El. He looked slightly sleepy, but his smile was real and genuine.
“I can hear your heartbeat,” Clark said, quiet awe in his voice. He pulled off one glove and reached his hand up, gently brushing his thumb across Bruce’s cheekbone. “And you’re blushing .”
The fresh, warm blood in Bruce’s veins felt hot in his cheeks, but he managed to speak without his voice shaking. “I thought you were scared of vampires until today.”
“Scared of you? Never.”
“Of vampires. I make your heart beat so quickly, and your pupils dilate.”
“And here I thought you were some great detective,” Clark scoffed gently. “What kind of werewolf would be frightened of a vampire? Besides, you didn’t ever think there might be another reason?”
“I do now.”
“Your heartbeat is fast, too.”
“It is.”
“Then…?”
Bruce kissed him, leaving his hand on Clark’s jaw in a shadow of their earlier position. Both of their lips were warm.