Work Text:
Bruce was on his fifth flute of champagne. Or so it looked to the other guests at the gala.
He never got intoxicated during those parties, and not only because he wanted to stay sharp in case the bat signal would show up in the sky.
He would never voluntarily make himself vulnerable in front of all those people. Most of them were harmless, just a bunch of rich people detached from reality. The only thing Bruce was risking with them was gossip getting out, which wasn't even that much of a threat when his whole public persona was built on gossip and tabloid speculations.
Unless that gossip would be harmful to Dick or Alfred, he didn't really care how people talked about him.
People like those weren't really an issue. It was the other, minor kind that always worried him, even if he didn't like to admit it.
Standing at the edge of the ballroom, unbothered for the first time in hours, Bruce swirled the champagne in his flute and observed the guests.
They were all tipsy or worse by now - talking louder, laughing louder, being utterly obnoxious. Even the journalists invited took advantage of free drinks despite being here at work.
The only exception were the waiters moving around the ballroom - carrying even more alcohol to the guests - and Clark.
Bruce spotted him by the buffet, chatting with judge Miller and stuffing his mouth with antipasto. He couldn't get drunk, but he could enjoy food just fine.
Whether he sensed he was being watched or heard Bruce's heart skipping a beat from seeing him, the Kryptonian looked his way across the ballroom and smiled with his whole face.
Bruce lifted his flute of champagne to his lips, faking a sip, and smiled back.
He was glad Clark was here. Whenever he was getting tired of grinning with fake smiles for show, laughing too loud at terrible jokes said by his admirers, and chatting a hundred miles an hour about fake sexual intercourses he had since the last party, looking at Clark was like stepping outside and breathing in fresh air.
With Clark there, the gala was a bit more bearable.
Bruce moved his gaze away from the reporter, scanning the crowd again. The easy, comfortable smile that Clark brought to his face almost turned into a scowl when he saw someone approaching him.
In the end, he forced a different kind of smile on his face - frivolous one, slightly loopy to show the number of drinks he had.
“Brucie!” Helen Ritz walked up to him with her arms spread wide.
Bruce walked into them, letting the woman embrace him. Wrapping his arms on her back in return, he titled his flute down, spilling the whole content onto the floor.
“Whoops!" he exclaimed loudly and dumbly, laughing right after.
Helen laughed as well, swaying them both to the side so they wouldn't step into the spilled champagne.
“How many did you have?" the woman asked with another laugh and pulled away, holding him at arms’ length to take a good look.
“Who’s counting, it's a party!” he replied with a chuckle and looked at the empty flute. He turned it upside down, letting the last drop fall from the edge of the glass. He pouted.
“You poor thing," Helen cooed, cupping his cheek tenderly. Bruce barely suppressed a shiver and the urge to pull away. “You can have mine, I've had enough."
She pushed the flute into his other hand and took the empty one, putting it on the tray of the waitress that walked by them.
Having Helen’s eyes at him, Bruce had no choice but to drink the champagne, tilting his head back to do it in one go and to escape the woman's touch.
The warmth of alcohol ran down his throat, and he felt a brief dizziness from consuming it too quickly on an empty stomach.
Helen cheered. “You never hold back when it comes to drinks,” she pointed out with a sly smile, her hand now on his chest.
She played with the edge of his shirt collar, and he regretted having it open when her long nails touched his bare skin.
Bruce didn't give her the tiniest hint it was bothering him, even when his whole body wanted to jerk away from the unwanted touch.
“Well, I can't let it go to waste, can I?” he responded with a charming grin.
“Just be careful, dear," Helen warned with amusement. "Or it will become a problem. Wouldn't want to see you drinking away your fortune. Who would help the poor children then?”
She pointed to the entrance to the ballroom where the sign with the name of the gala was displayed. Fundraising for school for deaf children. First one to be built in Gotham.
Bruce was rather proud of this project, and even though he didn't care for people's opinion about it, it still hurt a little when they treated it like some silly initiative.
Like Helen did.
She donated already, but only out of courtesy.
“That will never happen," he assured her, dropping the mask of the spoiled rich boy for a moment.
Helen gave him another smile. “You're such a Mama's boy," she said, running her hand on his bare chest. “She would be so proud of you, continuing her work like that."
Bruce put the empty flute on the nearest surface. He smiled back politely and took her hand off him, grasping it between his palms. He would rather hold it than let it continue touching him.
“Thank you for donating," Bruce spoke with gratitude, squeezing her hand gently.
“Of course, it was a pleasure," she replied, slipping her hand from his hold to hug him again. Even with Helen wearing high heels, Bruce needed to lean down to make the contact easier for her.
Her perfume reached his nose, sweet and flowery. The smell wasn't intense, yet Bruce felt himself suffocate from it.
“No matter how many times I see you, I can't believe how nicely you grew out," Helen confessed, her palm slowly running down his strong back. “I remember when you were so tiny and pudgy, clinging to your mother's skirt."
Bruce fought back a bile that raised to his throat when Helen squeezed his ass so briefly it almost didn't happen. But Bruce felt every microsecond of that firm touch, and his Batman training wanted him to grab the violating hand and snap the bone.
When Helen pulled back from the hug, there was a big, satisfied smile on her face.
Smiling back was a torture.
“Very nicely grown indeed," she purred and walked away to her friends.
The sound of her heels clicking on the marble floor echoed in Bruce's ears for a while longer after she left. Even the live band couldn't make him not hear it.
Helen was the second kind of guest that came to these parties, and which never failed to make Bruce's skin crawl.
People that felt entitled to his body for various reasons.
Because they knew him.
Because they knew his parents.
Because he was a playboy.
Because he slept with them once.
Because he flirted.
Because he smiled.
Because he was drunk.
Sometimes they voiced those reasons, sometimes they didn't, but they didn't need to. Bruce was good at reading people. He could see in their eyes why they were touching him or making propositions.
The latter he could refuse, the former, not so much. He sealed his fate years ago when he first decided to be a dumb bimbo of a man for the public eye.
Alfred told him it would come back to bite him in the ass eventually, and he was right. Like always. And didn't shy away from mentioning it to Bruce.
It wasn't out of smugness. If anything, Alfred was angry whenever the unwanted advantages happened. But just like Bruce, he couldn't really do anything about it without causing a scene.
Brucie Wayne lived off scandals, but the news about Wayne Family butler beating people at the gala wasn't the kind of scandal even Brucie Wayne wanted tied to his name.
It was fine though. Bruce could handle all that, he was used to it. As much as he could at least, ever since the first time someone's touch lingered for too long. He chose this life, and nothing beyond touching or groping ever happened anyway.
It was fine.
Snatching the flute of champagne from the passing waiter's tray, Bruce downed it all in one go again, this time to wash the sour taste from his mouth and numb the twisting feeling in his stomach.
Letting out a loud sigh, he looked towards Clark and wasn't surprised when he found the other man already watching him, the concern on his face visible even from afar.
There was a question in his eyes too. A couple of them.
Are you all right? Do you need help?
Bruce shook his head slightly, just for someone with a super vision to see.
It was fine. It was his party, he couldn't leave first. He just needed to hold on for at least an hour longer, when first guests would start to slip out, and then he could go home.
Forget the touch, the comments and rub the flowery perfume off his skin.
Clark, of course, wasn't reassured. He wasn't someone easily fooled, and Bruce couldn't hide everything from him like he hid from anyone else.
His heartbeat was quite telling. So was the sweat on his skin or his elevated breathing. But Clark let it go for now because he trusted Bruce.
With a nod, the Kryptonian turned his attention back to the person he was speaking to, but Bruce knew part of it was still on him.
It always was, and it calmed his upset stomach better than the champagne.
Bruce moved to another part of the ballroom, closer to the door so he could see when the first guests would start leaving so he could leave as well.
Usually, he could handle those galas for far longer and go on patrol after, but today it tired him out more than usual.
At least the peak of the attention was already behind him, and staying by the door, partially hidden by one of the big palms positioned on either side of the entrance, helped Bruce avoid attention.
Not all of it, some people still managed to spot him and start a conversation. Four started with a jokingly asked question if he was hiding from someone.
“From you, but you found me after all!" he responded to each of them the same, making his companions laugh every time.
After another person left his side, Bruce was sure at least an hour passed on meaningless conversations and gossiping about Gotham's high society. But when he looked at his watch, it only showed half an hour.
Bruce leaned against the wall behind him, lightly thumping his head against it. Posing himself as a drunk, he looked around once more, trying to deduce if anyone was ready to leave already.
Everyone was still having fun - talking, dancing, replacing empty flutes and glasses with full ones.
This gala was going to be longer than usual, it seemed. Maybe avoiding social life for a while was a bad idea. Everyone was still thirsty for Brucie after a month of absence, and they were gossiping about the reason behind it even now, with him in the same room.
Everyone asked him about it at least twice, and the only answer they got from him was a mysterious smile and a cheeky “I don't kiss and tell."
The main doors remained closed for hours by now, since Bruce made his great entrance, fashionably late. That's why he was caught by surprise when he heard them open.
He tensed, his first instinct telling him it was the beginning of a hostage situation, but one quick look at Clark put him at ease.
The Kryptonian would've heard a commotion made by a group of armed goons making their way inside the building.
The guest being hours late to the party turned out to be Bart Thompson, the son of the famous Gotham lawyer - Gerald Thompson. A thorn in Batman's side, because the man made it possible for so many mafia members to walk free after Batman handed them to the police.
His son, on the other hand, was Bruce's personal thorn, because he was determined to bed the Prince of Gotham.
Bruce was tempted in the past to give in and hopefully had Bart leave him alone. But the man seemed like someone who would only be encouraged to continue his pursuit for more.
That, and Bruce still had enough self-respect left to not lower himself to such a level.
Bruce stood completely still, only his eyes moving, following Bart stepping inside and looking around.
For a moment it seemed he would miss Bruce, but the hope was short-lived when the man's eyes zeroed in on him, and a big grin split his face in half.
“Brucie,” he greeted, already lowering his voice to a seductive tone as he came closer. "It's been too long."
Not long enough, Bruce thought, his muscles feeling like they were made of stone because of how hard it was to make them shape a smile.
“It really was,” he replied, watching Bart lean against the wall right next to him, standing so close Bruce was able to feel the warmth of his body.
One of his feet shifted on its own, positioned in a way to quickly move him away from Bart.
"You're late, Bart," he teased the man. “The party started almost three hours ago."
“Aww, did you miss me, Brucie?" Bart asked, putting his hand on Bruce's shoulder.
Bruce almost twitched from the contact.
“Always," he told Bart, keeping his smile from faltering and turning into a scowl.
His answer pleased Bart, and Bruce wanted to cut his own tongue off.
The other man's eyes, already with a possessive glint, went up and down Bruce's body, admiring him, already devouring. They stayed longer on his chest before moving higher, to meet Bruce's.
“You look marvelous as always," Bart complimented him, glancing down briefly again.
Bruce liked to dress up well. Not for others but for himself. He rarely felt comfortable and like himself in anything that wasn't a Batsuit, so any normal clothes that made him feel good were precious to him.
The shirt he wore today - white one, with puffed out sleeves, fancy cuffs and a long cut through the middle to show more of his chest, was one of the few clothing that didn't feel alien against his skin.
After today, he wanted to burn it.
“Thank you, Bart,” he said, the words barely slipping through his tight throat. He let his gaze follow Bart's body in return, but without the same, hungry interest. "You don't look too shabby either."
Bart was dressed in a suit - black, personally tailored and fancy, but nothing special. Not something that would catch Bruce's attention.
Bruce was never a fan of such a look on other people, having grown up around it all his life. He preferred something much more casual.
Something people wore in Kansas.
Bart smiled with satisfaction.
“I've had it made the moment I heard you were throwing a party again,” he informed, patting the lapel of his suit jacket. “Only the best for you."
“You’re making me blush," Bruce chuckled.
Bart's smile grew bigger.
“So, what have you been doing for the past month?” he questioned. "I know you haven't left Gotham. You went to work every day like a good little CEO.”
"I needed to rest from partying a little," Bruce replied and rolled his eyes. "My butler's been nagging me to slow down.”
"You know you can just fire him, right?” Bart pointed out.
"But where I'll find another butler that can make toasts the way I like it?” he asked in a slightly whining tone while cringing internally.
Bart laughed. "True," he agreed, shifting closer to Bruce, their shoulders brushing. “So, you not gonna tell me?”
Bruce leaned harder against the wall behind him, wishing it could swallow him whole. "I like my secrets," he answered with a bat of his eyelashes, highlighted with mascara. “Make things more interesting.”
"You're already plenty interesting, Bruce.” Bart pushed himself away from the wall and stepped in front of him. “Didn't get me bored yet.”
Bruce’s breathing picked up from the proximity of Bart's body, but he forced it to calm down, to not show weakness. He knew how the other man would interpret that.
But no matter how hard he was focusing, Bruce's lungs felt like there was a rope around them, and it tightened like a snake with every inhale.
Bruce wetted his lips carefully, to not make it look sexual, but Bart followed the movement with interest anyway, his pupils dilating.
“I admire your persistence,” Bruce said, voice just barely steady.
Bart placed one hand on the wall next to Bruce's head, trapping him further. “How about you reward me for it?" he asked, sensual.
Bruce's heart began to race, and he felt cold sweat covering the back of his neck. Breathing got even harder to do, his whole chest feeling like one of Gotham's gargoyles was sitting on it.
“I can't leave my own party, Bart," he told the other man, throat so dry it almost didn't make a sound.
“Sure you can. Wouldn't be the first,” Bart insisted, placing another hand on the wall, stepping even closer, their chests touching. "Come on, Bruce. How many times are we going to play this game?"
This wasn't a game. Not for Bruce. The game would mean fun. This wasn't it.
“I rather like it,” he whispered, unable to speak louder, his tongue too heavy for his mouth.
He watched Bart's hand moving, observed it as if it was going to strike him, but Bart only brushed it against Bruce's cheek - slow and tender.
Bruce shivered involuntarily, stomach raising all the way up to his throat. Part of him wanted to throw up, right on Bart, hopefully making him so disgusted he would leave him the hell alone for good.
“I can make you feel so good,” Bart promised, voice low and dripping with lust. "Gonna beg me for more."
Bruce put all his weight against the wall in a fruitless attempt to get away, and not to sway right into Bart because of how dizzy he became from the lack of air.
He couldn't breathe. He took the air in with every inhale, but it was leaving so quickly he couldn't breathe.
Bart took his silence as permission to go further. He leaned in, Bruce already felt his breath on his lips when suddenly it wasn't there anymore, Bart's body jerked to the side when someone bumped into him.
The whole air around them shifted with the scent of ozone.
“Excuse me, Mr. Wayne?” Clark's bright, friendly face appeared in his line of vision. "Oh my god, I've been trying to catch you all evening!” he exclaimed with a huge grin, while his eyes held all the concern in the world.
"I hope I'm not interrupting. Am I interrupting? Sorry if I'm interrupting,” he babbled like a fool. "My boss will kill me if I come back without a few questions asked,” he explained to Bart, now a few steps away from Bruce, and gave him a brief glance before he returned his eyes to Bruce. “Just a minute of your time, Mr. Wayne, honest!"
Bart scoffed and gaped at the reporter, unable to retake his previous position in front of Bruce. Clark took it, but at a more socially acceptable distance.
“We've been talking,” Bart hissed at the Kryptonian.
Bruce saw Clark's jaw clench in a brief display of irritation before a mask of shame slipped in just as he turned to face Bart.
“Oh golly, I'm so sorry. Bad timing?” he apologized with a nervous fix of his glasses. He reached out, grabbing Bart's hand in a hold that, by the look of grimace on the other man's face, looked far from gentle. "Clark Kent, Daily Planet," Clark introduced himself and shook Bart's hand enthusiastically. “Are you someone famous, perhaps? I could get an interview from you too!"
Bart became even more dumbfounded, clearly not used to interacting with someone like Clark.
Swallowing the lump the size of a melon that blocked his throat, Bruce stepped towards Clark, fighting to stay composed while the phantom of Bart's touch lingered on his cheek. He avoided looking at the other man to not break apart.
He cleared his throat and Clark looked at him instantly. “Mr. Kent, stop pestering my guest,” he asked the reporter. "You have five minutes."
“You don't have to go with him, Bruce," Bart protested in annoyance.
The smile Bruce forced on his face almost made him cry. “Just five minutes and then I'll be back,” he promised, the words needling his throat. “Wait for me?"
Bart glanced at Clark, still there with that dumb grin. “Sure," he agreed, uncertain.
Bruce pointed at the main door. “Mr. Kent, shall we?”
"Oh, yes!" Clark replied enthusiastically, following Bruce like an eager puppy. “Lead the way, Mr. Wayne!”
Clark continued to chatter about nonsense, until the double door closed behind them. He suddenly stopped mid-sentence and straightened up to full height - not following anymore but marching next to Bruce like a guardian.
Bruce led them to the closest restroom, and the moment he crossed the threshold, he rushed to one of the sinks, gripping the edge hard and finally allowing himself to decompress.
The dam broke and everything rushed at him at once. He felt crushed - by the walls that seemed to close, by the loud, pitching noise ringing in his ears. The clothes on his body felt like a second skin, glued to it with cold and sticky sweat.
His heart beat fast and wild, thundering inside his chest with the intensity of a war drum. It felt like he was going to die any second now, fear clawing at his throat that produced the most pathetic, pitiful whining sound imaginable.
Clenching his eyes shut, he bent over the sink as if physically hurt, panting loud and trying to stop the panic from progressing. From actually killing him.
Through the rush of blood in his ears, he heard Clark walking closer and Bruce tensed without meaning too.
“Don’t touch me!” he snapped through clenched teeth.
Any touch right now, even a safe and comforting one, would only send him into a further spiral, and he wasn’t sure he would be able to come out of this one on his own, without the help of meds dozed for a horse.
He could still feel Bart’s hand on him, touching him. Bruce dug nails into his cheek to stop the sensation.
“I’m not,” Clark replied softly. In the reflection in a mirror, Bruce saw him keeping his distance and his hands in the air, nonthreatening. “I won’t,” he promised and looked around.
Trying to control his elevated breathing, Bruce barely noticed Clark leaving the restroom. He wasn’t gone long, but in that time, Bruce managed to slow down his body and not pass out. He didn’t flinch this time when Clark got closer, placing a glass of water next to him.
“We should get you home,” the Kryptonian said, leaning with his hip against the other sink, arms crossed.
Bruce let go of the edge of the countertop and took the glass carefully, noticing how his hand was shaking. No matter how hard he tried, he couldn’t make it stop trembling.
He took a small sip of the cold water and let out a sigh. “I told Bart I would be back.”
Clark rolled his eyes. “Fuck Bart.”
The deadpan delivery of those words pulled a surprising snort out of Bruce.
“Language, boy scout,” he scolded the Kryptonian.
“Nice to hear you’re getting better,” Clark said with a smile that didn't quite reach his eyes. "Seriously, Bruce, let’s go home. The party's over.”
Bruce wanted to. He really did. Not because of Bart, but because he was just so damn tired. But if he left now, after being seen with Clark…
“They will think we slept together," he pointed out.
He could handle such gossip, but Clark was a respected reporter. Being seen as one of Brucie Wayne's conquests wouldn't look good on his resume.
“Well, they wouldn't be wrong," Clark responded cheekily.
Bruce dropped his gaze to the floor, smiling.
The reason he didn't mingle with Gotham elite for the past month was because he was too busy spending the best month of his life with Clark.
They only started dating recently, but Bruce already knew it was the best relationship he ever was in. Not that there were many of them. Genuine ones at that.
Clark was as genuine as anyone could be - charming, honest, caring, loyal and without any hidden motives. He wasn't after money, fame or thrill.
He was just after Bruce. And after Batman. There was really no difference to him.
“I thought we didn't want to tell people yet," Bruce reminded, still worried what his reputation would do to Clark's.
“Maybe when we do, Bart will finally get the memo," Clark pointed out with a sly smirk, but it quickly got replaced by a tender expression. “Really, Bruce, I don't mind if people know about us. We can talk about this more tomorrow, but if we leave now and people will talk, let them."
He saw Clark's hand twitch, probably wanting to reach out and grab Bruce's, but he stopped himself.
Bruce's heart squeezed, and after such a lengthy battle to keep it calm, it began to race again.
“You'll be swarmed by your own kind," Bruce noticed. "At least at the beginning.”
He wouldn’t wish noisy paparazzi on anyone.
Clark shrugged. "A small price to pay for keeping you safe from creeps.”
Bruce's throat tightened, and this time fear had nothing to do with it.
“You can drive," he told Clark, words coming out with a struggle and a little shaky. He tossed the other man the keys to his car.
Clark caught them easily, a huge grin on his face. “What car did you take?” he asked eagerly, opening the restroom door and holding it that way for Bruce to step outside.
"Maserati.”
"Nice! Haven't rode that one yet!”
Maybe Clark was getting something materialistic out of this relationship after all - getting to ride sports cars. That though, Bruce was willing to give.
He smiled at Clark's excitement. "Just don't crash it, farm boy. It has more power than a beat-up tractor.”
"Oh, har har,” Clark responded with a fake offence, letting the door close behind them and following Bruce to the private parking lot.
Clark drove them to Wayne Manor, letting the purr of the engine fill the silence. Bruce was grateful for that. There was nothing to talk about. Not about Bart, not about anything.
They were welcomed by silence and dark rooms. Dick went to bed a long time ago, and Bruce told Alfred to not wait for him, and so the butler was asleep as well.
Another thing to be glad for. Alfred was a personification of professionalism and had mastered the art of poker face, but even he, when things would get personal, couldn't hide his emotions.
Bruce didn't want to put the pain and sadness in the butler's eyes.
“Want something to eat?" Clark asked while they entered the Manor from the garage. “I could make something. Or pour cereal and milk into two bowls."
“I'm not hungry," Bruce replied, his stomach twisting at the sheer idea of eating, even though he probably should. He hadn't had a meal since breakfast. “I'm just gonna take a shower and go to bed."
He was tempted to put on the suit and beat a few criminals, but as much as he wanted to, he felt too exhausted. And for once, he wasn't going to ignore what his body was telling him.
“Okay." Clark smiled at him. “I'm gonna grab us something to drink tho."
Bruce nodded and headed towards the stairs, climbing them one step at the time. He expected Clark to catch up to him at some point, but Bruce managed to reach the master bedroom and there was still no sight of his boyfriend.
He assumed that was Clark's way of giving him space. Bruce wasn't sure if he was grateful or would rather have him here.
The clothes Bruce took off himself landed on the floor, in the corner, to be taken care of later. If he was going to keep them at all, he still hasn't decided.
Wearing them again to a date with Clark could potentially connect nicer memories to them, but he didn't think it was worth it.
Stepping naked into the shower, Bruce turned it on, and he was hit with a curtain of cold water. He didn't even flinch, he just stood there, body getting numb until the temperature changed.
Cold turned into a steaming hot, and once more, Bruce just let it fall over him, turning his skin burning red, with dozens upon dozens of white spots marking where a blade or a bullet got him.
Bart's hands didn't leave a permanent mark, but he could still feel them. Just like some of the scars that still ached sometimes as if they were a fresh wound again.
Bruce placed his hands on the shower wall and hung his head low, shaking despite the burn of water.
He hated being this vulnerable. That anyone, less someone like Bart, was able to render him to such a panicked state. Bruce fought enemies that could destroy Earth, and a pompous, entitled rich boy was who defeated him.
He shouldn’t have needed Clark’s help to get out of that situation. He should’ve done it himself. Tell Bart to move away or even punch him. He just couldn’t.
Normally he wasn’t even reacting like that to those advances. Sometimes it just got too much. The touching, the comments, the objectification.
On an average day, Bruce already didn’t even feel like a human. This behavior towards him wasn’t making it any better.
A soft knock on the bathroom door snapped Bruce out of his thoughts.
“Got you some clothes!" Clark's voice carried over from the other side and through the sound of rushing water. “Can I come in?!"
“You don't have to ask," Bruce responded to him.
“Can I or not?!" Clark stubbornly repeated.
Bruce rolled his eyes. “Yes," he replied, looking over his shoulder at the door.
The glass walls of the shower were fogged, he only saw the faint silhouette of Clark as he entered, walking straight to the counter to place the clothes.
“Phew! You have a sauna in here," his boyfriend chuckled. “I got you some sweatpants and a hoodie, that okay?"
Just what he needed.
"It is, thank you.” Bruce hesitated. "Are you going to join?”
Clark turned, facing the shower. "Do you want me to?” he asked, a little curious, a little eager.
Back at the gala, right after dealing with Bart, Bruce would've snapped even Alfred's hand if the butler touched him.
Right now, he felt the opposite. He felt like he was going to fall apart if someone safe wouldn't touch him soon.
“Yes," he answered, quietly.
Clark joined in without even stripping and he went right under the water. His suit jacket and tie were off, but all the rest was still on. His white shirt instantly clung to his toned body, hair stuck to his forehead and glasses got covered in steam.
He instantly got rid of the last piece, tossing the glasses out carelessly with a boyish smile.
“You look ridiculous," Bruce pointed out without a real bite.
Clark's smile only grew. “Thank you." Reaching behind Bruce, he grabbed a bottle of shampoo. “Can I wash your hair?" he asked.
Always asking, never assuming.
“Please," Bruce breathed out the reply.
With another smile, Clark poured the shampoo onto his hand and put the bottle away before rubbing both of his palms and bringing them to Bruce's hair.
The first sensation of Clark's fingers sinking into his locks and massaging the shampoo in had Bruce let out a deep sigh. The tension of the evening left along with it, slipping out of him with every move of Clark's hands on his head.
This was everything he needed right now. The familiar touch, the quiet comfort. The safety of another person.
The vulnerability that didn't feel threatening but just good.
Instead of letting the wall support him, Bruce leaned back into Clark's broad chest. Let him wash his hair and then the rest of his body. Scrubbing away the sweat, the grime of the city, the sweetness of perfume and all the unwanted touch.
When the water washed it all down and Clark turned the shower off, Bruce felt lighter by a few pounds, his mind finally at peace.
Clark opened the shower door and stepped out first, dripping water all over from his soaked clothes. When Bruce joined him outside, the steam rolling out after them both, there was already a big fluffy towel waiting for him in Clark's hands.
The towel got placed onto his head, and Clark's hands returned to it to now dry Bruce's hair, then shoulders, then torso. Everything.
Bruce couldn't remember when the last time was he let someone take care of him like that, without a bleeding hole in his body that needed stitching. He forgot how nice it felt.
He closed his eyes without thinking about it and just let himself enjoy the care. He had no idea how long it would last. This thing with Clark. He needed to take as much of it while he could.
“All dry," Clark announced, giving Bruce's hair one last ruffle, making it unnecessarily messy.
Bruce's eyes opened and the first thing he saw was Clark's signature, Superman smile. He only helped Bruce wash and get dry, yet he acted like he just defeated some cosmic monster wreaking havoc in Metropolis.
The corner of Bruce's mouth twitched. “Now get yourself dry before you flood the whole bathroom.”
Clark looked down at himself, still dripping water everywhere. He didn't even seem to move, only the air around him did, and suddenly his clothes were dry again.
"Show off,” Bruce snorted and walked around grinning Clark to get his own clothes.
He dressed slowly, welcoming the softness of the fabric against his oversensitive skin. Clark changed too in the meantime, replacing the dress shirt and pants into his own pair of sweats and a comfy hoody from his uni years.
Dressed like that, they both got into Bruce's bed, laying on their sides, facing each other under a comforter.
Clark put his hand between them, and after only a moment of hesitation, Bruce reached out for it, lacing their fingers together.
He watched their palms resting there, enjoying the feeling of Clark's warm, spotless hand in his callused one.
It felt nice.
Bruce started to brush his thumb on the smooth skin. “How do you feel about being my plus one during the next gala?" he asked.
If Clark was saying he was ready to face the vultures working for the press, so was Bruce.
The galas would still be exhausting, draining him of little social energy he had daily to spare. He would still have to play the part of a dumb billionaire, but the worst part of it would cease to exist.
No one would dare to even brush their hand against his shoulder if there was a 6 '3 giant of a man hanging from the other one.
He didn't need protection from Clark. He could handle himself, even if tonight's seemed otherwise. He's been doing it for years. But his boyfriend's presence would be greatly appreciated from now on.
And enjoyed.
The big smile that appeared on Clark's face at the question didn't surprise Bruce at all.
“I would love to," he replied, squeezing Bruce's palm gently. He looked smug. “Bart ain't gonna like it tho."
“Fuck Bart," Bruce said, with the same deadpan delivery as Clark earlier.
Chuckling, his boyfriend shifted closer, till their foreheads rested together and legs tangled. Clark's arms wrapped around him gently and Bruce instantly melted into the embrace.
“You're safe, Bruce," Clark whispered, his big grin turning into something softer, something loving that made Bruce's chest squeeze. “You're safe," he said again and closed his eyes.
Bruce followed his example, not realizing how much he needed to hear this all evening. But now that he did, he could finally rest.
And rest he did, falling asleep soundly in Clark's arms.