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This thing between them. It’s new. Delicate. Bruce feels like a foal that has barely gained its footing when it comes to being in a relationship with Clark Kent; they’re complete opposites and, on paper, they just don’t make sense together.
They’ve been seeing each other for a month now, and with it came pet-names (Clark), ‘good morning’ texts (also Clark), and plenty of instances where Alfred made breakfast for dinner when he knew Clark was coming to stay the night.
Bruce always hated pet-names, but he’d rather die than admit that when Clark calls him ‘baby’ it makes his spine feel like goo.
Another thing he noticed is that Clark also brought strange little rituals with him. Every morning, Clark hums the Indiana Jones theme as he brushes his teeth. Then, he spends roughly thirty minutes basking in the sun on Bruce’s balcony, eyes closed and shoulders relaxed. After that, he gets dressed, goes downstairs to chat with Alfred, and he waits patiently for Bruce to ‘rise from his crypt’, as Clark had oh-so-lovingly phrased it once.
A new ritual reveals itself one afternoon when Bruce is at the office, picking at some sandwich his assistant brought him per his request, but he found himself losing his appetite at the sight of it. He huffs, frustrated, and decides to go back to his computer when his phone rings. He answers immediately without checking the caller ID.
“Bruce Wayne,” he says. “Who am I speaking with?”
“Wow,” Clark’s voice comes through, amused. Bruce feels the tips of his ears get hot. “So professional. That’s very sexy, y'know.”
He can’t help but smile, and when Clark laughs it only widens his smile. He presses a button on his desk and watches the lock on his door snap into place, and he relaxes back in his chair.
“Hi,” Bruce says, and Clark laughs again.
“Hey, you.” Clark’s voice is so warm, the affection palpable even through the phone. There’s a pause, then Clark’s speaking again. “A… breakfast sandwich from the food cart outside of the Planet, some baby carrots, aaand a banana.”
Bruce blinks and his brows furrow. “What?”
“That’s what I’ve had to eat today,” Clark says like it’s the most obvious thing in the world. “Your turn.”
He’s taken off-guard by Clark’s earnest retelling of his meals. He glances at his own sandwich, neglected save for the two or three bites he took out of it, and he feels something like shame twisting up his stomach.
“Bruce?” Clark says, words now laced with concern. “You there?”
“Yes,” Bruce croaks and clears his throat, shaking his head and pulling the sandwich closer. “Um… I… had… two cups of coffee before leaving the manor this morning.”
“Mmhmm?” Clark hums, encouraging.
“I had another cup when I got to the office,” Bruce continues. Why does this embarrass him so much? He breaks off a piece of his sandwich and pops it into his mouth. It isn’t that bad. “Was stuck in meetings all morning, so I didn’t have anything.”
“Bruce,” Clark’s voice is stern, and Bruce can visualize the knit he must have in his brow, the hardened blue eyes, the crossed arms. It almost makes him laugh.
“But,” Bruce cuts him off gently, pausing to take another bite of the sandwich. He chews, holding the phone away from himself so Clark doesn’t have to hear it, and when he swallows, he speaks again. “I’m eating a classic Italian from the deli nearby.”
“Oh?” God, Clark sounds so excited about that. “Good! I’m glad.”
They make idle chit-chat with each other about work. Clark talks about his parents back home and how he plans on visiting them soon. Bruce tells Clark a story about Alfred that has Clark laughing so hard that Bruce is glad he doesn’t need to breathe the way a human does.
“Okay, well,” Clark says, laughter still in his voice. “I gotta get back to work, my lunch is almost over. I’ll see you for dinner?”
“Yeah,” Bruce says. His sandwich is nearly finished. “Bye, Clark.”
“Bye, baby.”
The next day, Clark calls him at work again.
“Two eggs, two pancakes, some bacon, and now I’ve got some strawberry Greek yogurt,” Clark recounts as soon as the call's accepted, and Bruce hums. “Go.”
“One cup of coffee at the manor,” Bruce starts, counting off on his fingers. His brows knit as he tries to remember. “A cup of Earl Grey when I got to the office–”
“These are drinks so far, Bruce–"
“Shush, I’m getting there,” Bruce chastises, then continues. “So, a cup of coffee, a cup of Earl Grey, and my assistant brought me some chicken masala with rice.”
“Ooo,” Clark coos. “So, you’re eating that now?”
“Yes, Clark, I’m eating it now.”
“Good,” Clark breathes into the phone, relieved. Bruce can hear his smile. “It’s lunchtime, after all.”
Clark calls him the following day at 12 o'clock sharp.
“A vanilla protein shake, half of a peanut butter and jelly sandwich from Jimmy, and Perry treated the office to lunch. I got birria tacos,” Clark says.
Bruce swallows his bite of the leftover pasta Clark cooked him the night before. “Coffee, a toasted bagel with strawberry cream cheese, and the pasta from last night.”
“It’s lunchtime,” Clark says with a quiet laugh. Bruce smiles.
The ritual has come into their home life, as well. Whether it’s Bruce at Clark’s apartment in Metropolis, or Clark is visiting the manor with Krypto, they always share a kiss by the door, look into each other’s eyes, and tell one another what they had to eat that day.
By the time they’re five months into their relationship, Bruce finds himself eagerly awaiting that phone call each day. At first, it was a welcome distraction to hear Clark’s voice during his mundane workday, but now he's fully embraced this ritual of Clark’s. It’s so simple – a phone call, a run-down on their meals of the day, and a ‘see you tonight’. They’ve even graduated to the occasional video call, when the two of them can swing it. Bruce’s chest always gives such harsh pangs when he accepts the calls and Clark’s gorgeous, smiling face takes up his entire phone screen.
It's a patrol night. Bruce returns to the manor a little after midnight; even Gordon told him that it’s tame in Gotham ever since Bruce’s last rampage where most of the city’s crime-lords and masterminds found themselves behind bars at Arkham, bodies and egos bruised by the Bat. He huffs as he removes the cowl and situates himself at the computer, ready to look and see if there’s anyone he missed while rounding up Gotham’s sleaziest, when his phone rings.
He answers when he sees Clark’s name and photo light up the screen.
“Clark?”
“Hey, you,” Clark breathes, like he’s relieved that Bruce actually answered. “I’m in New Zealand right now.”
“Why, are you walking the trail to Mordor?” Bruce jokes. It lands because Clark laughs. “Why are you in New Zealand, Clark?”
“Gosh, get this– there was a cult,” Clark says conspiratorially, like he’s dishing out the latest gossip. Maybe he’s spending more time with Cat. “And they were some real meanie paninis–” Bruce snorts at Clark’s word-choice. “But, I handled it.”
“Good,” Bruce tells him, looking through some case files on his computer. Come to think of it, he doesn’t think he had Black Mask accounted for, so perhaps it’s time to investigate it more–
“An apple,” Clark’s voice cuts through, “two slices of cheese pizza, some celery, and a spoon of peanut butter.”
Bruce couldn’t stop his smile if he tried. “A cup of Earl Grey, Alfred’s French toast–” Clark hums in pleasure at that, very familiar with Alfred’s elaborate breakfasts. “And another classic Italian while I was at the office.”
“No dinner yet?” Clark asks.
“Patrol night.”
Another hum, this time it’s in understanding. “Well, it’s lunchtime here in New Zealand.”
“It is indeed,” Bruce replies, turning away from his computer. He’s still in the suit, the black paint around his eyes smearing and running down his face from sweat. Clark probably looks pristine. He wishes he could see him.
“And…” Clark trails off. Bruce hears him take a deep breath and let it out slowly. “And I love you.”
Bruce’s breath catches.
“Bruce?” Clark says, then sighs. “Gosh, I shouldn’t have said that, I’m sorry, just–just forget I even said anything–"
“I love you, too.”
The monitor is flooded with images of Superman flying through the blue skies of Auckland. He had turned back around to the computer to search up Clark's latest bout of heroics, and Bruce watches as he smiles and laughs with a group of children on the local news, as the residents celebrate his victory over whatever cult was giving them trouble. Bruce reaches out and trails a finger along the divot of one of Clark’s dimples; he loves kissing them when he and Clark are together because it never fails to make Clark turn completely scarlet.
And, of course, Clark looks stunning.
“Oh,” Clark says, then he laughs, bashful and wonderful and so Clark. “Oh, Bruce, I’m—”
“Come home when you can,” Bruce tells him, and he feels like there are hearts appearing and popping around his head as he watches cellphone footage of Clark soaring above Auckland, stopping so he can touch down and hold a woman’s baby. “I’ll order takeout. I can have a late dinner, you can have a late lunch.”