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The manor is dead silent when he slowly makes his way up the stairs and past the old grandfather clock in the eastern hallway. Alfred must have long since gone to sleep. There is only a trace of the smell of tea and ashes from the burnt wood in the fireplace lingering in the air. The rooms are dark but after all these years of living in the night, he rarely bothers with the lights anymore as he moves up the floors silently. Through the shuttered windows the moonlight peeks through just enough to transform the shadows and give them an eerie edge. Like this, it almost feels like only ghosts live in this house these days. A part of him thinks that this is how it should have been in the first place since-
He shakes his head. If he starts dwelling in the past this late, he’s guaranteed a restless night filled with nightmares. And even he knows he cannot afford to lose any more sleep. He’s had a hectic week, filled with board meetings for the setting up of the new food program during the day and all the while he spent almost every single night hunting down the remnants of Two-Face’s gang. He was sure he had finally caught most of them and hopefully with him locked up in Arkham, anyone he missed would decide to lay low for the foreseeable future.
The wooden floors creak softly as he limps up the last set of stairs. His bad knee is bothering him again as it always does when the weather starts getting colder. And, as if that weren’t enough, he landed badly at some point tonight as well. He makes a mental note to try and get Alfred to make him that salve of his that works wonders.
He’s reached the top floor by now and he pauses in front of the last door. It’s dead silent but, as he twists the doorknob of his bedroom door, he knows that he’s not alone. He keeps his breathing in check and steps inside, ready for anything.
Clark is waiting for him there.
He is sitting in the velvet armchair by the window and he’s holding the book he’s been trying to finish for the last month in his hand. The lamp on the bedside table is the only light in the room. It softly kisses a part of his cheek, giving it a golden glow and accentuating the sharp line of his jaw. It’s not dark enough to conceal the cheeky glint in his eyes.
Bruce raises an eyebrow as he closes the door behind him. “Enjoying yourself?” he says dryly.
Clark’s lips twitch and he makes a small gesture with the book. “You were taking too long, so I thought I’d find something to pass the time. I see why it’s taking you so long to finish this though. It’s way too predictable.”
“That is not why I’m reading it.” Bruce moves towards the ensuite bathroom on the opposite side of Clark, carefully keeping his back to him in order to hide the helpless twitch of his lips. He washes his hands in the sink, making sure to run through his mental exercises and trying to wrestle back control of his body. He only returns to his room when he knows his face is perfectly impassive.
Clark hasn’t moved, other than to place the book back on the table where he found it. He is staring at Bruce expectantly.
They have reached a place of almost easy camaraderie in their relationship these last few months. Clark has become pretty good at interpreting Bruce’s grunts and carrying out almost entirely one-sided conversations and has taken to appearing on patrol sometimes to keep Bruce company. Bruce is sure he has never once indicated that he feels anything other than neutral about those visits. Nevertheless, Clark has become increasingly bolder, even appearing in the cave while Bruce is doing maintenance or working his way through surveillance tapes. Bruce has gotten used to working with his voice as background noise. But Clark in his bedroom is an entirely new development.
Bruce isn’t sure where to sit so he remains standing, his hands relaxed to his sides. “Why are you here” he says, too flat.
Clark dimples at him, already too accustomed to his manner to be offended. Bruce used to strike fear in the hearts of men with the slightest change of inflection.
Apparently not this man.
“You didn’t come to movie night.” Barry’s newest idea of team bonding seemingly involved monthly movie nights in the Watchtower. Bruce had only agreed to come to stop his insistent hounding, never intending to make true of his words. He should have known better than to equip the Watchtower with a projector and sound system better than most movie theaters. In his defense however, he had intended to use it for debriefings. But the League rather resembled a group of teenagers when confronted by new equipment.
“I was busy.”
“I’m sure the criminals of Gotham can wait for one night.”
“Justice doesn’t wait.”
“I can’t believe you said that with a straight face.” Bruce’s mouth twitches again involuntarily before he can stop it.Clark’s eyes are the brightest thing in the semi lit room.
“Clark.” And under normal circumstances Bruce wouldn’t even bother with explanations. He is who he is and he does what needs to be done. But Clark expecting things from him, looking at him with those eyes, speaking lightly but he is obviously bothered or he wouldn’t have come here to confront him, makes him want to explain himself.
He hesitates. Clark shakes his head and gives him a small smile.
“No, I know. Gotham is more important. It’s just that it would have been better with you there.” Clark says this and looks away from him. And Bruce hears what he doesn’t say. Between the two of them suddenly sits the awareness of the moment.
It isn’t exactly new. Bruce has noticed Clark looking at him with interest and he knows it’s probably more than friendship that Clark has in mind when he comes looking for him. But he also knows that Clark just got out of a serious relationship with a woman and has never expressed interest in a man before. And Bruce Wayne is certainly an attractive option if someone wants to explore their sexuality, known as he is for his non discriminative tendencies.
In his weakest moments Bruce almost convinces himself that he can be that for Clark. He can give him an outlet to explore his curiosity or whatever it is and keep things between them simple and easy for as long as Clark wants him.
It’s just that Bruce is more than Bruce Wayne and he doesn’t know if he can come back from that unscathed anymore.
He changes tactics.
“Clark. The League’s function is to assist with worldwide threats, not to be a social club. If you want us to cuddle and talk about our feelings, you’re going to have to find someone more available.”
He doesn’t know what exactly is that gives him away, he only knows that he’s made a mistake by the way Clark’s face suddenly changes from fond exasperation to intense focus. His eyes, a dark blue today, flick down momentarily and then find his and pin him where he stands.
His face relaxes after a fraction of a second and he flashes him a smirk but he can’t completely hide the way he swallows.
“I didn’t realize cuddling was on the table. You should have said so, I’d be here more often. But since I am here already, why don’t we give it a try?”
And as he talks he moves, faster than Bruce’s painstakingly honed instincts can track him, and then he’s lounging in his bed with his hands behind his head and smirking at him.
Bruce tries to look annoyed and fails spectacularly. Clark Kent. In his bed.
“Well, what are you waiting for?” Clark says jokingly and he lifts one arm to beckon him over.
The smug bastard looks very pleased with himself. And Bruce-
He’s tired.
He’s aching everywhere and he hasn’t had a decent night’s sleep in who knows how long and he has no patience to hold back his feelings this time.
He pushes forward suddenly, catching a glimpse of Clark freezing in surprise and then he’s deposited himself on the bed. Right on top of Clark.
His cheek is pressed firmly to Clark’s stiff chest. Bruce closes his eyes, willing himself not to be embarrassed. Clark did ask for it. “Alright” he says. His forced nonchalance is obvious to him, but maybe Clark won’t notice. Maybe the throbbing of his heart is as loud as Bruce’s right now.
“Um” Clark stammers. And Bruce suddenly realizes what he’s done.
Just as he makes to move, face burning with humiliation, strong arms close around his back. “Wait, no.” Clark says. “I want to.”
Clark exhales slowly and Bruce can actually feel the tremor in it. “It’s okay”. He says half in disbelief as if he realizes exactly the significance of Bruce’s surrender.
“Bruce, you have to know that I-” Clark starts saying and no, Bruce has to stop this right here.
“Come on Kent.” He says flippantly in the best Bruce Wayne tone he can master with his insides having turned to acid, “Cuddling is bad enough, let’s leave the pillow talk for some other time.”
He waits for a tense breath and then: “Fine. But we’ll talk about this, Bruce.” It sounds like a promise. It feels like a death sentence.
Bruce presses his face in Clark’s collarbone and closes his eyes against the onslaught of emotion that rips through him. He wants. He wishes he could let himself believe he could have this. But Bruce hasn’t come this far by wanting anything.
Neither of them say anything more. Perhaps Clark senses that Bruce’s self-control is in shreds and one word in the wrong direction will send him running.
Moments later, Clark’s breaths even out. Bruce considers leaving him to return to the cave.
But tonight is already a disastrous lapse in judgement. He can do damage control in the morning.
He slows his breathing and lets himself drift. Clark is warm and solid underneath him. He can’t believe he is this close after months - no years of carefully calculated distance. He breathes in as softly as he can even though he knows that the man below him misses nothing. He smells as he always does, of sunlight and the same floral detergent his mom used since he could remember- as he had told Bruce unprompted one night during an endless stake out where both of them sat together with their ghosts. If Bruce wasn’t already a goner by then, that night would have done the trick.
He feels Clark pressing his cheek in his hair.
His last thought is that maybe it is already too late for damage control.