Archive of Our Own

The first time something shifts between them happens during a moment of weakness for Clark. Lois thinks they are better off as friends. She tells him that, as important as he is to her, he still needs to find the direction in his life that's missing. There's no space for her in a life ruled by deadlines and the constant burden of saving the world. Clark doesn't blame her. A part of him has always known that he never managed to give her what she deserved; not fully, not consistently. Even so, the goodbye hurts. It cuts deeper than he expects. But there's no time to linger on the ache of rejection, because on that same day, Gotham is invaded by alien monsters, and the world doesn't pause to let him mourn.

Batman is there, alongside the GCPD, doing what he always does; holding the city together through sheer will. This time, Batman doesn't greet Clark with a cold or dismissive glance. Those have become rarer lately. Clark offers a brief smile and gets to work.

They make a good team, Clark thinks, when he allows himself to dwell on it. They complement each other in ways that feel almost deliberate. Shadow and light. Words and silence. Idealism and hard-earned realism. Bruce thinks Clark is sentimental, maybe even naïve, but he never bothers to correct him when Clark says something hopeful or kind. He lets it exist between them.

Maybe Clark is wearing Bruce down in the right way, earning the trust of Gotham's bat through persistence alone. The same persistence that started keeping Clark in the Batcave more often than not, sitting beside Bruce as they analyzed data and tracked leads. Back when they were still dating, Clark started telling Lois he's busy; apologizing, asking if they could have dinner at the bistro tomorrow instead.

Tomorrow never came. The ache of the breakup lingers, dull and constant, but it doesn't surprise him.

"You can talk about it, if you want," Bruce says quietly after the fight is over, his voice softer than usual. Clark follows him into the cave without question, like he belongs there.

"I…"

It's rare for Clark to be at a loss for words, especially around Bruce. But the thought of explaining why things with Lois fell apart, of putting shape and sound to that hurt, feels unbearable.

"I'll be fine," Clark says instead. He tries to offer reassurance through a smile that doesn't reach his eyes. The smile feels hollow, unnecessary. He's the one who's hurting. Bruce is only offering space, nothing more.

The smile stays anyway, stiff and false. They both know it.

"I know," Bruce murmurs as he slowly removes the cowl, exposing skin still smudged with black. His expression is tired but open. "But sometimes it helps."

"You should listen to your own advice once in a while, B," Clark replies, and only then does he realize his voice is shaking.

"One day," Bruce says. It sounds like a promise, though Clark isn't sure to whom.

A tear escapes despite his efforts. Clark wipes it away quickly. Bruce doesn't look away. His gaze is steady, sharp at its center, softened by something gentler around the edges. Understanding.

"I'll be fine," Clark repeats, turning his gaze to some indistinct point behind Bruce. Looking directly into Bruce's eyes feels dangerous. There is something there that reflects everything Clark might have had, everything he has lost.

"You will," Bruce answers. The words are simple, almost blunt, but they ease something tight in Clark's chest.

That day changes the space between them. Suddenly, there's more than just Batman and Superman. Clark finds in Bruce a kind of friend he has never had before. Not loud and joking like Jimmy, not playful or teasing like Cat, but someone quiet, contained, and steady.

It's in the shared silence that Clark finds comfort. Bruce doesn't always know what to say; and sometimes he says nothing at all, but he never dismisses Clark's fears or grief. Under Gotham's endless rain, Clark feels understood in a way that goes beyond words. They share the loneliness of double lives, of secrets carried too long, of failure felt deeply when so many lives are at stake.

In the months after his breakup with Lois, Clark mourns the destruction left behind by his battles. He grieves for the people he couldn't save and celebrates the ones who make it home. Bruce, though far less expressive, shares his own victories and losses in subtler ways; in the brightness of his eyes, or in how dim they become.

It's Clark who finally pulls Bruce away from the computers of the cave after the Joker escapes and civilians are killed in the explosion of a fireworks factory.

"Facial recognition is still running," Clark says gently. "Why don't you lie down for a bit and rest? I can watch the monitors."

Bruce doesn't look ready to give in. His eyes are sunken, dark circles carved deep into his face.

"I can keep going."

"I know," Clark says. "But you need rest. I promise I'll wake you if anything happens."

Bruce stands, slowly, as if his body resists the idea of stopping. He pauses in front of Clark. Without warning, he leans forward and rests his forehead against Clark's shoulder. The gesture is quiet, defeated, deeply human. A long breath leaves him, then another.

For a moment, Clark's heart forgets how to beat. He brings up a hand, carefully, and rests it on Bruce's back. He feels the tension in the muscles, the weight of a grief that's not his own but which he understands. The smell of Bruce's armor, leather, and metal surrounds him. Beneath it is the fainter scent of sweat and Bruce's skin. He's aware of the curve of Bruce's spine under his palm. He's never been this close to Bruce, not like this.

They stay like that for a long minute, the silence of the cave wrapping around them like a blanket. For that single, perfect moment, Clark feels the weightlessness of belonging. Not to a place or a cause, but to a person.

The thought startles him so much that he pulls back, almost too quickly. Bruce straightens, the brief intimacy gone, replaced by his usual guardedness.

"Don't push yourself too hard," Clark says, his voice tight. He clears his throat, trying to chase away the unsteady feeling in his chest.

Bruce simply nods and walks away.

The warmth of the contact, the simple awareness of Bruce's body close to his, lingers with Clark for the rest of the night. While Bruce sleeps on the narrow cot in the corner of the cave, dressed only in an undershirt and sweatpants, Clark realizes something about himself.

It's not an epiphany; nothing sudden or dramatic if he stops to think about it. If Clark is honest, the signs have been there for a while. Still, the realization is unsettling in its own way. He stands after some time and walks closer, stopping just a few centimeters from Bruce; close enough to hear his breathing more clearly. Close enough to see the tension that never fully leaves his face, even in sleep.

Clark wants to reach out. The urge is almost instinctive. He wants to brush Bruce's hair back from his forehead, to trace the lines carved there by worry and responsibility, to smooth them away even if only for a moment. He wants to cup his face gently, to anchor him to something warm and safe. He wants to lean down and kiss him.

He exhales slowly, then turns back and returns to the monitor.

So, it happened. Somewhere along the way, it happened.

The feelings have grown, quietly and persistently, until they now wrap around Clark's heart like a solid beam; something strong and unyielding, not likely to give way anytime soon. Part of him thinks it was inevitable. Not after the way things have unfolded over the past few months--the long nights, the shared silences, the trust built piece by piece. Another part of him wonders how long it has been this way.

Not that it truly matters. It's not as if Clark can do anything about it.

There are reasons for that, and Clark stares at the monitor for hours, turning those reasons over in his mind, examining them from every angle, repeating them until they become easier to accept. He lets them settle slowly, until the weight in his chest becomes something he can bear.

The most important reason is, of course, that Bruce isn't looking for this. Bruce keeps the world at a distance for a reason, and Clark knows that. He has built walls around himself and his heart to protect the mission, to protect Gotham, and to protect whatever part of himself he has left after he puts the cowl on at night. There's no space for this in Bruce's life. Clark knows it. He's known it from the start.

It doesn't mean that it doesn't sting when parts of Brucie Wayne bleed through the performance. A new woman on his arm every week; a smile that looks real, but doesn't quite reach his eyes. Clark knows about the importance of the image, but he can't stop the small, ugly sting of jealousy that coils in his gut when he sees it. He hears about them on the news, sees the pictures online, and each one is a small, sharp stone in his shoe.

"He's back in Arkham," Bruce tells him a few weeks later. His voice carries something lighter than usual, a quiet pride and relief woven into the words, and Clark can't stop himself from smiling at the sound of it.

Clark wonders if Bruce is smiling on the other end of the line. He can't see him, but he imagines it anyway, the subtle curve of Bruce's mouth that rarely appears unless something truly important has been accomplished.

"That's great, B!" Clark makes sure his happiness comes through clearly. The Joker is finally where he belongs. All those weeks of fractured sleep, skipped meals, and relentless tension have finally meant something. Bruce can rest now, if only a little. He deserves that.

"That calls for a celebration," Clark adds, warmth creeping into his voice. "What do you think about coming over for dinner? I'll make lasagna, and I have this really good wine a businessman gave me after an interview a few weeks ago."

"I'd love to," Bruce says, softer now, almost hesitant. There's an apologetic edge to his tone. "But I have a gala tonight. It's been a while since I've attended one. I need to keep up appearances, and…"

"Oh. Of course, I get it," Clark replies, forcing his voice into something light and understanding. He smiles even though Bruce can't see it. "Duty calls, huh, Mr. Wayne?"

"Something like that," Bruce answers, and Clark lets out a small laugh.

Later that night, Clark eats instant noodles and goes to bed earlier than usual.

The next day, he learns that Bruce's companion at the gala was stunning. She's the daughter of a powerful shipping magnate from Gotham, and together they make the front page of the Daily Planet. Clark studies the photograph while sipping coffee that does nothing for him, barely noticing the heat as it slides down his throat. Bruce looks flawless in a black suit and bow tie, a champagne flute in hand, while his date smiles brilliantly at the cameras, diamonds glittering against her skin.

Cat Grant ends the article by noting that they left together, with sources claiming they were seen entering Bruce's penthouse. Clark exhales a quiet breath and smiles to himself, reminded of one more reason he never truly had a chance. Even if the image Bruce presents to the world is only a persona, he's still drawn to women. Clark is too, but he's long accepted that kissing boys in his youth wasn't just curiosity.

Even before they became friends, Bruce was always photographed with women on his arm, and nothing about that has ever changed. Clark tries not to let it matter. He pushes the feeling away. He reminds himself that he's lucky to have Bruce's friendship, and he shouldn't want more. He knows better than that. He keeps the knowledge of those feelings for himself, tucking it away somewhere quiet, where no one can see. He doesn't want to burden their friendship with something that can't be reciprocated.

He's careful after that. He keeps the distance; not physically but emotionally, guarding the space around the ache in his chest. He makes sure he's not too close, not too vulnerable.

"Are you avoiding me?" Bruce asks him one night, after the third evening in a row Clark's made up an excuse for why they can't work a case together.

"What? No, of course not," Clark lies, the words smooth and practiced. "I've just been busy. Perry's been on my case about a story, and you know how that is."

He keeps talking, filling the silence with small details about a city councilman suspected of taking bribes; about the deadline for the next issue of the paper; about a new coffee shop that opened near the Planet. Bruce listens, silent on the other end of the line, and when Clark finally runs out of things to say, Bruce is still there.

"I see," Bruce says, and the quietness of his tone is more unsettling than any argument would've been. "I apologize for keeping you from your work, Clark. Let me know if you need help with anything. I'll be here."

He hangs up. Clark stares at the phone, the silence in the apartment suddenly so loud it presses against his eardrums. A new kind of ache settles behind his breastbone. He has failed at keeping the distance without making it seem like a rejection.

He doesn't want to lose this. He doesn't want to lose Bruce.

The next evening, Clark appears in the Batcave without an invitation. He finds Bruce exactly where he expects him: at the computer, the glow of the screen casting a sickly green light over the planes of his face.

"Hi." He smiles. He's determined to be better.

Bruce turns in the chair. For a moment, Clark expects something cold or angry to slip into his eyes, but Bruce's expression remains soft.

"You're here," he says. Clark can't help but notice the small upward turn of Bruce's mouth. "I thought you were busy."

"For you, I can always make time." The words are light, and he makes sure the sincerity shines through. Bruce seems to understand that it's meant as an apology, and he accepts it without comment.

Suddenly, he realizes he's been acting like a child, running away from a problem that only exists in his head. Bruce doesn't deserve that. Their friendship deserves more than that. He's so selfish, sometimes. He needs to stop.

"Come here," Bruce says, patting the empty chair next to him. "I've found something. You're going to want to see this."

And just like that, they're back to normal. The weeks of carefully constructed distance dissolve, and Clark feels something close to relief settle over him. He can do this.

They work together, Clark smiles at Bruce more, Bruce looks back at Clark more. Sometimes Bruce places his hand on Clark's shoulder when they're examining the same screen, and Clark's breath catches. He solemnly ignores it.

It's not so hard, after all. He gets used to it. The ache is still there, but he makes a home for it. He builds a nest for it in the space around his heart, lines it with platitudes and the knowledge that this friendship is worth more than a foolish, one-sided crush.

He pays no mind to the gossips and rumors that swirl around Brucie Wayne. The headlines blur together; a collage of beautiful faces and glittering gowns that have nothing to do with him.

Bruce says it's a front. Just rumors, nothing more, even though Clark never voices what runs through his mind.

"It's none of my business, Bruce," he says quickly when Bruce once again appears on the Daily Planet. This time, he's photographed beside a socialite from Star City. "I mean, I get it."

"What?" Bruce asks, thoughtful. "What do you get, Clark?"

"You're single, rich, and influential. It's easy for people to be drawn to you," Clark explains, taking a sip of the coffee Alfred had served them a while earlier.

"I see," Bruce replies.

Clark wonders if that's the answer Bruce was hoping for, or if it's the one he himself was afraid of hearing. He doesn't push further, though, and the subject quietly dies between them. A part of him wants to ask what Bruce meant by that simple response; wants to peel back the layers and understand what sits beneath the surface. But he knows better. He reminds himself that it's not his place.

He goes back to the list he's built in his head over time; the careful catalog of reasons why Bruce Wayne is completely out of reach. Each reason is familiar, well worn, almost comforting in its predictability. In that sense, Bruce's calm "I see" becomes easier to accept, easier to swallow, even if it leaves a hollow feeling behind.

Weeks later, the world needs saving again. This time, Guy shows up to help. Clark appreciates the backup, even if he finds Guy's nonstop talking a little overwhelming. Somewhere along the way, Clark has grown used to Bruce's quiet presence, to the measured silences and unspoken understanding. Guy Gardner is the exact opposite of all of that, loud and brash in every possible way.

"I thought you were off planet," Clark says once the fight is over. The citizens of the small island smile at them, speaking rapidly in their own language as they gesture with gratitude.

"Got back last night. Still dealing with jet lag, to be honest," Guy complains, stretching his shoulders. "But I can't let Jordan think he runs the whole damn show, you know how it is."

"I can imagine," Clark replies with a small smile, watching the scowl cross Guy's face at the mention of his fellow Lantern.

"Speaking of Jordan," Guy continues, lowering his voice just enough to sound conspiratorial, "I heard he grabbed a piece of Batsy's ass. Can you believe that shit? Here I was thinking the big bad Bat had a goddamn stick shoved so far up his ass it'd never come out, when really he was just a guy who needed a daddy." He winks.

The smile freezes on Clark's face. He feels a sudden chill that has nothing to do with the evening breeze. For a second, the world narrows to the words hanging in the air between them, and an unexpected, ugly jealousy claws its way up his throat. He forces it down with difficulty, swallowing hard against the tightness in his chest.

"I mean, I get it," Guy adds with a laugh, oblivious to Clark's internal struggle. "I'm not into dudes, but if I were, Batman would probably be my type too. All dark and broody. I bet he's a wild one in the sack."

Clark's jaw tightens. He knows, logically, that Guy is just being Guy, running his mouth without thinking about the impact of his words. He knows he should just let it go, laugh it off, and move on. But for some reason, he can't. The image of Hal Jordan's hands on Bruce flashes through his mind, unwelcome and vivid.

"I... didn't know he was into men," Clark says, and the words come out more clipped than he intended.

"Jordan? Yeah, he swings both ways. Batsy? Who knows," Guy shrugs. "I heard he made a move on Jordan, but Jordan's the one who grabbed a handful. So take that as you will." He winks again. "Why? Are you interested, Smallville? I bet Hal would be interested in a team-up, if you know what I mean."

"I'm not," Clark says, a little too quickly, a little too sharply. "And you shouldn't talk about people like that. Especially Bruce."

Guy's smile fades. He looks at Clark, really looks at him, and something in his expression shifts. "Whoa, okay. Didn't mean to step on your toes, farm boy. Just making conversation."

"It's fine," Clark says, forcing a smile that feels more like a grimace. "I'm just tired."

"Right," Guy replies, the word dragging out. He studies Clark for a moment longer, a thoughtful look on his face. "Look, all I know is what I overheard from Kilowog, who happens to be Jordan's favorite whining post these days. I don't know what's true and what's just a pile of Lantern bullshit. So don't get your panties in a twist."

Clark nods, not trusting himself to speak. He needs to get away from here, from Guy and the thoughts racing through his head.

It's not that the thought of Bruce being with a man bothers him. That's not it at all. It's the knowledge that Bruce likes men, but not Clark. That he could be with a man, but he doesn't want to be with him. That Bruce isn't interested, and all this time, Clark has been telling himself it's because Bruce only likes women, but that's not it, is it?

It's just him. He's the one Bruce doesn't want.

"I have to go," Clark says, already rising into the air. "There's something I need to take care of."

"Right," Guy calls after him, his voice growing distant. "See ya around, Clark."

The quiet of his apartment is a relief. Wrapped in the stillness, Clark finally allows himself to release a long, heavy breath and sit with what he's just heard. Not that he needs to replay it. Guy's words were blunt, vivid, and impossible to misinterpret. Even so, his mind circles them, turning each sentence over, examining it from every angle as if repetition might somehow dull their impact.

His jaw tightens. A sharp heat blooms behind his eyes; not tears, but the unmistakable warning of his heat vision stirring in response to emotion he'd rather not acknowledge. He closes his eyes and focuses on his breathing, drawing air deep into his lungs and letting it out again. Over and over. Gradually, the tension eases, the burning recedes, and the apartment remains intact.

It's not Hal's fault, he tells himself firmly. Nor is it Bruce's. No one's done anything wrong.

Clark hasn't truly harbored illusions for a long time now; not real ones, not the kind that survive honest scrutiny. He knows that. He's known it for months. Still, the ache settles in his chest, persistent and unwelcome; a quiet reminder that understanding something doesn't make it hurt any less.

The sting lingers like a bruise pressed too often. Once more, Clark's mental list rises to the surface, and he crosses out the item he once believed to be true: that Bruce wasn't interested in men. Now the list feels useless, too incomplete, too vulnerable to being shattered by things Clark never allowed himself to even think of, before.

Bruce is not interested in him. Bruce likes men, but not Clark. It's so simple, so obvious. The list is pointless. It's all pointless.

"Is something wrong? You're being unusually quiet," Bruce says a few days later, turning away from the computer to look at him.

Clark offers a small smile and shakes his head; a gesture meant to dismiss the concern before it can take root. "Nothing's wrong. I'm just worried about a deadline at the Planet."

The lie sounds thin even to him. It hangs in the air, fragile and unconvincing, and Bruce's silence answers more clearly than words ever could. Clark doesn't need superhearing to know he's failed. He feels it in the way the room seems to still, in the absence of the steady rhythm Bruce usually carries.

"It's okay if you don't want to talk," Bruce says at last, his voice low as he turns back to the monitor. "Just… don't lie to me. Please."

There's something exposed in the way he says it. Not accusing, not angry, just honest. The softness of it cracks something open in Clark's chest. Bruce wears control like a second skin, but Clark can see past it. The tension sits heavy in his shoulders, his jaw clenched so tight it must ache. He looks composed, but he's braced, waiting.

"Did you sleep with Hal?"

The question slips out before Clark can catch it. For a heartbeat, everything inside him freezes. His heart leaps into his throat, loud enough that he's sure Bruce can hear it. He catches a faint hitch in Bruce's own rhythm, a brief falter that betrays surprise before it smooths itself away.

Bruce doesn't turn around.

"Does that bother you?" he asks quietly, eyes fixed on the Batcomputer screens. The choice is deliberate. Strategic. It gives Clark space, and it shields Bruce at the same time.

"No. Of course not," Clark answers too quickly. "I just…" He stops, words tangling uselessly on his tongue. There are too many things he could say and none of them feel safe.

He exhales, wishing for a courage that suddenly feels very far away.

"Did he ask you, or did you make the first move?" he asks.

He feels Bruce's attention settle on him then, his gaze steady and unwavering as if he's suddenly become a focal point in the universe. There's nothing Clark wants to see in his eyes right now, so he stares at a point on the wall behind the Batcomputer, aware of the distance that separates them and suddenly unable to bring himself to move across it.

"Why?" Bruce asks, careful, like he's stepping carefully through a minefield.

"I... just wondered."

There's a long, weighted silence before Bruce answers, "I did."

Clark lets out a small breath that's not quite a laugh, not quite anything else. The world feels tilted somehow. Not upside down, just askew in a way he can't put his finger on. It's as if he's missed a stair on a staircase he never knew he was climbing, and now his stomach is lurching uncomfortably.

"I don't mean to pry," Clark says, even though he is prying, and he's aware of how awkward he sounds. "I'm sorry if you'd rather I didn't know."

Bruce is quiet for a long time. It's not that the silence feels charged; it's more like Bruce is weighing something. Choosing his words carefully. The lack of eye contact makes it easier. Clark is not sure he can take seeing anything other than vague disinterest on Bruce's face right now.

"Why would I prefer that?" Bruce asks, a note of defensiveness threading through his voice. "Does the fact that he's a man bother you, Clark?"

Clark shakes his head immediately, almost too fast. "No! No, of course not. God, no. I'm sorry if that came out wrong, or if it sounded offensive. It's just… I was curious. That's all."

The silence that follows feels deliberate. Bruce doesn't rush to fill it, doesn't even seem inclined to acknowledge it. The cave hums softly around them, monitors glowing, machinery breathing with a steady rhythm that only makes the quiet between them more noticeable. Seconds stretch, until Clark feels that familiar itch beneath his skin, the need to speak before the moment collapses under its own weight.

"You're always so reserved," Clark says at last, choosing his words with care. "So private about your life, when it's not related to the persona. Hearing something like that from Guy caught me off guard. That's all I meant."

Bruce looks thoughtful, his expression closing in on itself as he stares at the screens in front of him. He doesn't respond right away. When he finally turns to face Clark, his eyes are sharp, searching, as if he's trying to decide how much truth to offer.

"Are you upset because I didn't tell you I had a one-night thing with someone?" he asks calmly. "Or is it because it was Jordan?"

Clark opens his mouth to answer, but nothing comes out. The truth crowds his chest, messy and inconvenient. He considers saying it plainly. He considers admitting that it has nothing to do with Hal Jordan specifically, or with any name attached to the story. It's the fact itself that hurts. The fact that Bruce spent the night with someone, and that someone was not him.

Someone else saw Bruce unguarded, stripped of his armor and his control. Someone else saw the flush in his skin, heard the way he moans when he's touched the right way. Someone else was close enough to hear his breath hitch, to feel his hands, to be the one Bruce asked for more. All of that intimacy, given to someone who isn't Clark.

It feels selfish. Petty. Painfully human. And no matter how hard Clark tells himself that he has no right to feel this way, the feeling refuses to loosen its grip.

"We're friends," he says instead, the words slipping out before he has time to stop them. It's meant as a statement of fact, maybe even a boundary, but it lands between them with an edge that makes it sound like an accusation.

"Yes," Bruce replies. He doesn't elaborate. He doesn't soften it.

"Just like Hal."

"No, Clark," Bruce says quietly. His voice drops so low it almost blends into the background noise of the cave. "There's a big difference between him and you."

"Well, then the difference is that you want Hal," Clark says, forcing a lightness into his tone. He tries to smile, tries to make it sound like a joke, like something that doesn't matter. But the bitterness rises anyway, thick in his throat, making each word feel heavier than the last.

He thinks it might be better to let the silence take over again. Another second, and he might say things he can never take back. Things like how deeply he wants Bruce, how instinctive and overwhelming that want feels. How he would drop to his knees on the cold stone floor of the cave without hesitation and ask Bruce to marry him if the moment allowed it.

It's a foolish thought, reckless and impulsive, but it exists all the same. Pretending those desires are not there doesn't make them weaker. It doesn't make the longing disappear.

Clark is, ultimately, a romantic. He's the kind of person who loves deeply, wholly, with no limits or restrictions. He's loved before, and each experience has been different. But none of them prepared him for this. For the quiet intensity of a love that doesn't demand to be spoken aloud, that doesn't need grand gestures or public declarations. A love meant to be silent and kept; a secret he's meant to carry.

It's a love that's becoming harder to hide. He can feel the shape of it pressing against his ribs, a constant reminder of what he can't have.

"Do I?" Bruce asks, cutting through the spiraling thoughts in Clark's head.

Clark looks away, focusing on a stalactite hanging from the ceiling. He feels exposed under Bruce's steady gaze, as if the man can see right through him, past the forced smile and the practiced nonchalance, down to the raw, aching truth of it all.

"I can't blame you," Clark says quietly. "He's a hero. He's handsome. He has that whole... reckless pilot charm. I get it."

The silence that follows feels heavier than before. He risks a glance at Bruce and sees him shaking his head slowly.

"Is that what you think this is about, Clark?" Bruce asks. "Me wanting Jordan?"

"Isn't it?"

"No," Bruce says, and the word is so final it lands like a stone dropped into deep water. "It was convenient. He was there, and for a moment, it was easy. That's all."

So am I, he wants to say. I am here. I have always been here.

He can't bring himself to say the words.

Instead, he just nods and hopes Bruce doesn't see how much it hurts.

"Your world and mine are completely different," Bruce says, his tone shifting into something analytical, distant. "They always have been. Maybe it's hard for you to understand, but I have to compartmentalize. There's Batman, there's Brucie Wayne, and there's... me. The person in the middle. The one no one sees. The one no one can ever know. Jordan was never a threat to that balance. He was a distraction that existed outside of everything else."

"What if..." Clark starts, but the words get stuck. What if you didn't have to be so alone?

"What if what, Clark?" Bruce presses, and he's looking at Clark again with an unnerving intensity that feels like he's being x-rayed, not with vision but with pure focus.

What if you saw me as more than a friend? What if you let me in? What if we tried?

Instead, he says, "What if you found someone who could understand all the parts of you? Someone who didn't need you to hide any of it?"

Bruce smiles a small, sad smile that doesn't reach his eyes. "I'd never force that on anyone."

"You wouldn't be forcing it," Clark insists, his voice gaining strength. He feels a surge of something that feels dangerously like hope. "Some people... some people would want to know the real you. They'd be honored."

Bruce is quiet for a long moment, his expression unreadable.

"You think so?" he finally asks, his voice almost a whisper.

"I know so," Clark says, and for the first time in months, he feels like they're talking about the same thing. That the unspoken thing between them isn't just in his head.

Clark closes his eyes, letting the small flame of hope burn for just a second longer. He can feel it; a fragile warmth blooming in his chest. He imagines what it would be like to reach out, to bridge the remaining gap between them, to finally say the words he's been holding back for so long.

It would be easy. Easy, and even expected of him. Lois used to say that Clark's ability to hold on to hope in the dark was what made him special; what made him rare in its quiet, stubborn tenderness. Sometimes he wonders if that same spark would be welcome in someone who has spent a lifetime bracing for disappointment, someone trained to expect the worst from everyone and everything. As Bruce himself said, their worlds are different. They were shaped by different hands, molded by different fears, scarred by different kinds of pain.

And yet, against every reasonable expectation, they built something here.

It started small, almost imperceptible. A shared understanding, a careful proximity that neither of them named out loud. Over time, that fragile thing grew, slowly and unevenly, but persistently; like a premature baby, frail and unlikely to survive, that somehow does. It grows stronger, steadier, until one day it stands tall and undeniable. Friendship. Trust. Something earned, not given.

Clark wonders if it's worth risking all of that for a maybe. If he's truly willing to put everything on the line, knowing that if his hope proves misplaced, he could shatter what they have so painstakingly built. Hope has always been his strength, but it has also been his greatest vulnerability.

Then, Bruce stands.

He turns away from the monitors and comes to a stop directly in front of Clark. There are a few centimeters between them, a height difference Clark has always found strangely endearing. Bruce has to lift his chin slightly to meet Clark's eyes, and when he does, Clark notices something that is rarely there. Beneath the familiar cold blue, something flickers. A small flame. An amber warmth that aches in its intensity, painful and beautiful all at once. It's everything Clark wants to see, burning quietly amid the machinery, the sterile glow of screens, and the dark circles beneath Bruce's eyes.

"I don't want you to be with Hal," Clark hears himself say. Once the words start, they refuse to stop. "Even if it's just sex, I hate the idea of you being with someone who isn't me. I… God, Bruce, I hate it."

Bruce doesn't respond immediately. When he does, his voice is carefully controlled, but there's  a vulnerability threaded through it that Clark has learned to recognize. "Do you want to sleep with me?" he asks. "Is that what you're trying to say?"

Instead of waiting for an answer, Bruce steps closer. Close enough that their foreheads could touch if either of them leaned forward even a fraction. Clark can feel the steady rhythm of Bruce's breathing, the soft brush of air against his skin. He smells rain clinging to him; Gotham rain, sharp and metallic, mixed with the clean bite of mint from the tea Bruce has been drinking. A hand comes up to the back of Clark's neck, firm but restrained, grounding and electric all at once.

For a moment, Clark wants to give in. He wants to lean down and take Bruce's mouth, to close the distance and let instinct do the rest. God, it would be so easy, and it's everything he wants. But he forces himself to stay still, even as the restraint burns in his chest.

He hates the idea of Bruce thinking that Clark is just another person who wants Bruce Wayne as a distraction; as a warm body to lose himself in for a night. He hates the thought that Bruce might believe sex is the limit of what he is allowed to want, or what he deserves. That anything deeper, anything softer, is optional. Disposable.

"That's… not what I'm trying to say," Clark manages, his throat tight. The words feel clumsy on his tongue, inadequate for the surge of emotion crowding him.

"Then what is it?" Bruce asks, a puzzled frown creasing the space between his eyebrows. It breaks Clark's heart for a moment, to see such genuine confusion. As if the idea that someone could want him for anything more than a night is completely foreign to him. The realization that, for all of Bruce's intelligence, he's so beautifully oblivious in this.

"It's not about sex. It's… you." Clark's gaze drops to Bruce's lips, then back up to his eyes. He forces himself to hold that clear blue stare, a little unnerved by how intently Bruce is watching him. "I want everything, B. The sex, the quiet moments, the arguments, the sleepless nights. The whole exhausting, ridiculous, amazing package. Not just one part of it."

He can feel the slight tension in Bruce's grip, the way it tightens fractionally for a second. Then he lets go, taking a small step back, and Clark feels the loss of that contact like a physical ache. He wonders for a terrifying second if he's misread everything. That maybe he has spoken too soon, that perhaps the flicker of warmth in Bruce's eyes was just the reflection of the monitors, a mirage of his own desperate hoping.

"I'm a difficult person to love, Clark," Bruce says quietly, turning away from him to stare at some indistinct point across the cave. He's building a wall with that single sentence. Clark can feel it rise between them, made of stone and old grief. "I don't recommend it." He makes a small, humorless sound, as if that entire statement were some kind of punchline he's only just now understanding.

"Who asked for a recommendation?" Clark's reply comes out sharper than he intended, raw and a little too honest. "I'm a big boy, Bruce. I can make my own decisions."

"And when the novelty wears off?" Bruce asks, turning to face him again. The warmth is gone from his eyes now, replaced by something colder, more familiar. The look he gets when he's analyzing a threat, assessing a weakness. He's looking for an angle. A way to end this conversation. "When you realize I'm always going to put Gotham first? That I will always push you away when things get hard, not because I want to, but because I have to? Are you going to stick around for that too?"

"I did as a friend. What makes you think I'd do any differently as something more?" Clark counters. His voice is softer this time, gentler, because he's starting to understand. He's starting to see the real shape of Bruce's fear. "And it's not a novelty, Bruce. That's the whole point. I've been here. And this feeling? This want? It's not new. It's been growing for months. Right here. Under your nose."

Bruce's expression shifts again. The defensive coolness softens into something more bewildered, raw in its uncertainty. The Batman mask cracks, and underneath is just a man who is completely and utterly lost.

"A relationship with me is a liability. For you, and for the mission," Bruce says, but the words lack their earlier conviction. He sounds like he's trying to convince himself as much as he's trying to convince Clark.

"Is it? Or is that just another excuse to keep everyone at arm's length?" Clark asks, stepping forward again, closing the distance that Bruce created. He doesn't reach out, not yet, but he wants to. "A liability?" A small, genuine smile touches Clark's lips. "You think that's what you are to me? Bruce, the people I love are my greatest strength. You should know that. After all this time, you should know that."

"The people you love," Bruce repeats softly, the words barely audible. "Am I... one of those people?"

The question hangs in the air, fragile and vulnerable, and it's the most honest thing Bruce has said all night. The most honest thing he's ever said. The entire history of their friendship, every shared silence, every battle fought back-to-back, every night spent in the quiet hum of the Batcave, comes down to this single, aching question.

Clark's breath catches. He feels the heat behind his eyes again, but this time it has nothing to do with his powers. It's a rush of overwhelming affection, so potent it almost buckles his knees.

"Yes," Clark says, and the word is everything. A confession. A promise. An anchor dropped in the middle of a storm. "You're one of those people I'd do anything for. One of the people I'd go to hell and back for."

Something in Bruce's face crumbles. The walls, the defenses, the meticulously constructed armor he wears like a second skin, all of it seems to fall away. He looks stripped bare, exposed in a way Clark has never seen before. Not as Batman, not as Brucie Wayne, but as the broken, beautiful man who lives in the space between those two roles.

"Clark..." he breathes, and it's a sound of surrender. A plea, or maybe a prayer.

Then, as if a dam has finally broken, Bruce closes the remaining distance between them. He surges forward, and it's not a kiss born of gentle affection or tentative curiosity. It's a kiss of desperation, a collision of unspoken feelings and held-back desires.

This is not a kiss meant for a faceless body, not something offered to a presence that exists only to satisfy desire. Clark knows that the moment he draws Bruce closer, closing the distance until there's no space left between them. The intimacy feels almost solid, like something he could reach out and hold in his hands. For a fleeting instant, an absurd thought crosses his mind. He wonders if Bruce would protest if Clark lifted them both from the ground just like this. If Bruce would instinctively tighten his grip around his waist and let Clark carry that kiss upward, into the open sky, closer to the stars that watch from impossibly far away.

He wonders, too, if Bruce would trust him with that kind of surrender. The question lingers just long enough to make his chest ache. For a single heartbeat, Clark feels himself truly leaving the ground. Panic flashes through him as he thinks he's lost control of his powers and that they're already airborne. But no. Their feet are still firmly planted on solid ground. The world hasn't shifted beneath them. Maybe it's only his heart that has lifted, drifting loose from his body like that of a hopelessly smitten teenager. The realization is embarrassing and comforting all at once.

And it's all right, because Bruce's heart is doing the same. Clark can hear it; can feel it, hammering loudly between them. It's wild and unrestrained, beating too fast, like a storm gathering strength. It's not the steady, controlled rhythm Bruce presents to the world. It's something raw, something unguarded, something meant to be hidden.

A breath, or maybe a soft moan, becomes trapped between their lips, suspended there like a secret neither of them is ready to release. Clark wants to memorize it; to replay it endlessly in his mind like a broken record that never reaches its end. It's a sound meant for him alone. For Clark, and no one else. The thought sends another wave of heat through him, followed by an odd, possessive satisfaction that is so strong it's almost terrifying.

He tightens his grip on the back of Bruce's neck, not wanting him to have a single second to reconsider what he's started. Bruce responds by pressing even closer, digging his fingers into Clark's shoulders in a way that's almost painful, but Clark doesn't want him to stop. Their tongues meet, and it's clumsy and desperate at first, like two people speaking different languages who are trying to communicate something essential with a newfound, shared vocabulary.

The kiss deepens, becoming more deliberate, more exploratory. Each new touch reveals something about Bruce. Clark learns the shape of Bruce's teeth, the texture of the roof of his mouth. He learns that when Bruce is truly lost in sensation, he makes a quiet, choked sound in the back of his throat that Clark feels more than hears, vibration traveling from their mouths down to the base of his own spine.

There's an urgency in the way Bruce's hands move from Clark's shoulders to his hair, fingers tangling in the dark strands, holding him in place. It's not a kiss that will lead to sex, although Clark has no doubt that they could end up there, tangled and breathless on the floor of the cave. It's a kiss of discovery instead. A kiss of surrender.

Clark doesn't know for how long they stay like that, locked in that single, perfect moment. It could be seconds, or it could be an eternity. Clark wishes it could be an eternity. Wishes they could just stay here, in the quiet hum of the Batcave, and never face the world outside.

But it's Clark who breaks the kiss, tilting his head back just enough to look at Bruce. He keeps one hand on the back of Bruce's neck, grounding them both. He smiles as he finds Bruce's gaze, his chest feeling strangely full when Bruce returns it, blue eyes darkened with emotion. Bruce looks different, and Clark knows that he must look different, too.

"Hi," Clark says, the word soft; a small introduction to something vast and unknown between them. He feels drunk on the taste of Bruce's lips, on the nearness of him, on the sheer, unbridled hope that's blooming in his chest.

A ghost of a smile touches Bruce's lips. "Hi," he answers, his voice rough and unfamiliar. A stranger's voice, almost, if Clark didn't know it so well. "I had a list of reasons why this was a bad idea, you know."

Clark chuckles, the sound warm and intimate as it fills the quiet space around them, lingering between the hum of machines and the soft echo of the cave.

"Did you?" he asks softly.

Bruce nods, the motion small, almost shy, and closes his eyes when Clark presses a gentle kiss to his temple. The touch is careful, reverent, as if Clark is afraid that too much pressure might break something fragile between them.

"I had a list too," Clark admits. "A list of reasons why we could never be more than friends."

"I hate that list," Bruce says after a beat, and Clark cannot help the laugh that escapes him, fuller this time, bright with relief.

"So do I," Clark says easily. "I think it's time we make a new one."

Bruce tilts his head, one eyebrow lifting in quiet curiosity. "Oh?"

"Yeah," Clark answers, his tone steady despite the way his heart is racing in his chest. "A list of reasons why this is a good idea. Why it makes sense. Why it feels right."

Bruce is quiet for a moment, as if he's weighing those words with the same care he gives to everything else in his life. Then he speaks, his voice barely above a whisper, familiar and vulnerable in a way Clark has rarely heard before.

"My best friend is the person I love. It's a good way to start that list."

The words are simple. They are not dramatic or grand. And yet, they land with the force of something monumental. Clark feels that familiar sting behind his eyes, heat gathering there, threatening to spill over. His smile trembles, far too emotional for someone who has just realized that love has found him again, quietly and unexpectedly.

Bruce doesn't seem bothered by it. If anything, his expression softens further. He reaches up, his hand warm against Clark's cheek, thumb brushing gently along his jaw. Then he leans in and presses a soft, unhurried kiss to Clark's lips. It's not rushed or hungry. It's careful, affectionate, full of meaning.

"Would you like to go on a date with me, Bruce?" Clark asks when they part, not stopping to question how old-fashioned it sounds. He doesn't care.

Bruce blinks, clearly caught off guard, and then a faint, unmistakable blush spreads across his pale face. He looks away for half a second, as if steadying himself, before meeting Clark's eyes again, a small, genuine smile curving his lips.

"For the record," Bruce says quietly, his voice steady even as that blush lingers, "I'd like that. I'd like it a lot."

There's something almost reverent in the way he says it; as if agreeing to a date is not a trivial thing, but a decision that deserves intention and care. Clark's chest tightens in a way that's not painful at all.

"Good," Clark replies, unable to stop the softness from creeping into his voice. "Because I was already thinking about where to take you."

Bruce's eyes gleam, and a soft smile curves his lips. There's no spoken answer; not exactly, but Clark doesn't feel like he needs one. The understanding is there. It feels as though Bruce doesn't truly care about destinations; about where they might end up, because the place itself is secondary. What matters is the shared intention, the simple fact of going together. And Clark thinks that might be the most important thing of all.

There are few places left in the world that could genuinely surprise someone like Bruce. His life has been filled with extremes, with wonder and horror in equal measure. Still, Clark can think of a handful. There is a small bakery near his apartment that sells the best croissants he's ever tasted; flaky and warm, the kind that leave crumbs on your fingers no matter how careful you are. They could sit by the window, sharing food and quiet smiles while the sun sinks low, and Clark would lace his fingers with Bruce's, watching the orange and gold light soften the sharp lines of his face.

There's the open stretch of Kansas, fields rolling endlessly beneath a sky so wide it makes your chest ache. A picnic there, with the wind tugging gently at their clothes, would feel like an offering of something deeply personal, an invitation into Clark's roots.

There are candlelit dinners they've technically already shared; meals eaten in silence or routine, that would suddenly feel entirely new, simply because the meaning behind them has changed.

And one day, there would be something else. They would look at the Earth from above, suspended in the vast quiet of space. Bruce would need a specially designed suit, something carefully engineered and obsessively tested, but Clark knows without a doubt that Bruce would do it. That moment would be worth every hour of work.

You see, B?, Clark would say softly, holding him close as the planet turns below them. This is the world we protect.

And from up there, the world would look impossibly fragile. Blue and white and alive. Clark imagines Bruce going very still in his arms, the way he does when something reaches him too deeply for words. He wouldn't fill the silence with facts or strategies or quiet commentary. He would simply look, really look, and let himself feel it.

Clark would tighten his hold just a little, not out of fear, but out of reverence; as if this moment could slip away if he didn't anchor it somehow. He would feel Bruce's breath steady against him; feel the subtle shift of weight that means trust. Complete, unguarded trust. The kind Bruce offers rarely, and never lightly.

Down there is everything, Clark would think. Every corner of the city Bruce's bled for. Every alley he's haunted. Every person he's saved without ever being thanked. From this distance, the pain and the noise fade, and what remains is purpose. Not duty sharpened into a weapon, but something gentler. Something shared.

Bruce would probably say something quiet then. Not poetic, not overtly emotional. Maybe just, "It's quieter than I expected." And Clark would smile, because of course he would notice that first. The absence of chaos. The rare peace.

They would descend eventually. They always do. Back to gravity, to streets and schedules and the endless work of being who they are. But Clark knows that something would stay with them. A reminder that even with the weight of the world on their shoulders, they can still choose moments like this. Still choose each other.

And later, much later, when they are back on solid ground, when Bruce's hand finds Clark's without thinking, Clark will understand that this is what flying really means. Not height or speed or distance, but the quiet certainty that neither of them has to face the vastness alone.

But that's for later. A different chapter. A different kind of light.

For now, their lips touch. Bruce leans into the kiss, a subtle shift of weight that's as much a question as an answer. Clark feels a surge of something too big to name; a wave of affection that is at once gentle and overwhelming, a feeling that washes away months of careful restraint and quiet longing, replacing them with something solid and true. This. This is it.

Bruce pulls back after a long moment, breaking the kiss but not the closeness. His forehead comes to rest against Clark's shoulder. He stays that way for a long minute, breathing deeply, as if he's steadying himself after a long fall. When he finally looks up, an unexpected laugh escapes him; a quiet, breathy sound that is more surprise than amusement. Clark smiles, feeling the warmth of it spread through him like a sunbeam.

"I need to sit down," Bruce admits, and there's no shame in it, just a raw, unvarnished honesty that makes Clark's chest ache. He sounds like he's just run a marathon, fought an army, and solved an impossible puzzle all at once.

"Okay," Clark says softly, not moving. "Are you okay?"

"Yes." Bruce answers quietly. "I'm more than okay."

Clark smiles. "Good."

It is. Clark wishes he could wrap himself up in the sound of that word and keep it forever.

He will, he thinks. They will.