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Batman was compromised. Bruce was compromised.
Which was, to put it lightly, terrifying.
Wonder Woman tried to explain what had happened: some trigger-happy villain wanting to expose government secrets but ending up hitting Bruce with the concoction while they were cuffing him. How Batman had been much too detailed in his discussion with Commissioner Gordon, namely pointing out some grievances with the man's choice of tie, when they turned the villain in.
But now he was here. At the Watchtower.
And he wouldn't stop saying... things to Superman. Things that made his ears turn red and his face not much better, either.
"Have I ever told you how cute it is when you blush? Sometimes I'll tease you and pretend to not know what I'm doing just to see it," Bruce smiled up at him, eyes gleaming. "It's like you don't realize the effect you have on people. On me."
...Yeah. Those kinds of things.
The other League members thought it was hilarious.
It was not hilarious.
"Don't you guys think we should take him back to the Manor?" Clark practically pleads. "That way he's in a comfortable space, he can just ride it out alone in his home."
Diana gives him a pitying look.
"Clark, you know he needs to stay in a controlled environment. It's both our and his own contingency for situations like this," she reasons.
"You can take me home anytime, Clark. And I'd be more than happy to ride it out with you, if you know what I mean," Bruce winks.
Clark just sighs, dropping his head into his hands.
He pointedly ignores the laughter from his teammates. Couldn't they see Batman would be absolutely mortified when he came to and realized the entire Justice League witnessed him in this state?
"Are we sure it wasn't a love potion?" Hal cackles.
"No, it was truth serum," Diana reassures, causing Clark to sink further into himself.
"And there's really no antidote?" he asks, high-pitched.
"Unfortunately, no," she exhales. "But the effects should wear off in a few hours. It's short-term."
"Perfect," Barry slides in to a spot next to Hal on the couch. "Free entertainment for the rest of the day."
"This isn't funny," Clark all but whines. "I think we should all leave him alone so he's not forced to say anything he doesn't want to. Or mean to."
Oliver opens his mouth to respond, but is cut off by a loud, lovesick sigh.
From Bruce.
"Clark, you're so considerate." If they were in a cartoon, he'd have hearts in his eyes. He's halfway there already. "So caring. I can't believe no one's snatched you up, yet. Well, I'd be pretty upset if they did. No one deserves you and your big heart ... Why haven't I snatched you up yet?"
"I don't know, Bruce, why haven't you?" Hal coughs, covering up a laugh, and Barry is fighting to control his breathing next to the man, face smushed into his shoulder to muffle himself.
"STOP!" Clark shouts, desperate and louder than anyone has ever heard him. "I mean, stop. Please. Don't ask him questions while he's like this. That's not right."
"Damn, Supes," Oliver whistles, low and teasing. "He's got you wrapped around his little leather-gloved finger."
"'S just the right thing to do," he mutters under his breath, but Bruce hears. The man shoots him a small smile, much too sweet and way too personal for this passing moment, and Clark can't help the way his shoulders bunch up, nose crinkling as though bashfully denying the affection. Well, affection by Bruce's standards.
"أنا مغرم بك جدًا, (I am deeply in love with you,)" the Bat murmurs, low as though only for Clark's ears.
"B, what?" he asks, prominent crease in his brow. Bruce knew he didn't speak Arabic. No one in the room did, as a matter of fact.
"Eres mi media naranja, (You are my soulmate,)" Bruce continues. Why was he switching languages?
"I'm going to barf, that was so sweet," Jaime fake-gags, causing the other JL members in the room to beg for a translation. When had the boy even gotten there? Clark was so disoriented.
"Ты — моё солнце, моё небо, моё всё. (You are my sun, my sky, my everything.)"
"Does anyone speak Russian?" Barry asks, frantic.
"没有你的哪一部分，是我不爱的. (There isn't a single part of you that I don't love.)"
"Mandarin?" Oliver echoes Barry's question.
"Ní féidir liom mo shaol a shamhlú gan tú. (I can't imagine life without you.)"
"I don't even know what that was," Hal shrugs.
"It was Irish Gaelic. But I don't know what he's saying," Dinah supplies.
"Zorath klyth venak torath, Kal-El, (You are everything that I love, Kal-El,)" Bruce's voice softens more than it already was, earnest and warm and oh, no, he was speaking Kryptonese.
Clark could understood that one.
Oh.
He feels his heart clench at the realization that Bruce must have been fighting the truth serum's effects, speaking languages no one else did as a loophole to bar others from understanding his words. Of course Bruce would find a way around truth serum. He was so wonderful, so intelligent, Clark didn't...
But, wait. Why, then, would he speak in Kryptonese? Did he...
No. That was impossible.
Did he want Clark to know what he was saying? What he was confessing?
There was no way.
"Bruce," Clark ends up sighing out, little more than an exhale.
"Yeah, baby?"
"Please," his face must be maroon by now.
"When I picture you begging for me, it's usually not like this," Bruce smirks, throwing a suave wink Clark's way. He hears at least three people behind them cackle.
"Oh, sweet Jesus," Clark mutters, much too flustered. "I'm taking you to your room."
Bruce's mouth opens less than a millimeter, smirk growing, and the Kryptonian rushes to correct himself.
"I'm taking you somewhere else. Where you aren't at risk of revealing more than you want to."
"Kal, someone has to-" Diana starts, a weak protest, but he cuts her off in a rare display of impatience.
"I'll stay with him. Don't worry," he reassures. "Please. I don't want him to..."
Clark trails off, searching for the right description.
"I know," she smiles, warm and knowing. "Go."
"Aw, no fair, Supes gets to have all the fun," Hal pouts, voice fading as the World's Finest walk away.
"Are we going to have fun in here, Superman?" Bruce teases, running a hand up the man's arm and slightly squeezing his bicep.
"Bruce," is all he says when they cross the threshold of the Gothamite's Watchtower bedroom. It sounds defeated.
"Clark," the man echoes, smirking.
"I promise I'm not going to talk to you or ask you any questions," Clark looks into the other man's eyes, earnest and blue. "I don't know if the serum causes you to think out loud and speak your mind or what, but I don't want you to feel on edge about it. At all. So don't talk, you don't have to. I'm only here to make sure nothing goes wrong. I'll be silent as a mouse, promise."
At the end of his rambling, one of Bruce's large, calloused hands comes up to caress his cheek. It's softer than Clark has ever seen him. (Did the serum lower his inhibitions as well?)
"I know," he whispers, fingers feather-light on the features of Clark's face, and those two words feel more dangerous than anything he's said all day.
When he retracts his hand, it's with a small smile, and he goes to lay on the bed. Clark takes his place in a chair in the corner of the room. As Bruce drifts to sleep, Clark thinks he hears a small "thank you," escape the man's lips.
As promised, Clark is quiet. He sits in silence for an undisclosed amount of time, focusing on the gentle puffs of breath in and out of Bruce's nostrils. He has lots of time to think.
Eventually, Bruce shifts in the bed, awake, and speaks up:
"I think it's passed."
"What is your name?" Clark asks him in response.
"Clark Kent," comes out of Bruce's mouth. It's quickly followed by a crooked smile.
The Kryptonian laughs, a mixture of relief and pure joy, as Bruce sits up.
"Oh, thank god," he grins. "I'm so glad you're back to normal."
"You didn't like it when I was wholly and completely honest, all the time?" Bruce cocks his head in interest, smile beginning to grow on his face, as though Clark is a calculation he needs to analyze.
"You already are," Clark's grin fades to a smile, voice soft. "Not in the way you were earlier, but in your actions. Your care. The words you choose to say. And that's what matters."
"Clark," he breathes out, pupils dilated.
"Yeah?"
"Clark."
"...Yeah, B?"
"Do you remember what I was saying? Earlier?"
"Of course I do," Clark's eyebrows furrow, slight blush tinging his cheeks. "But you weren't speaking of your own volition. I can forget I heard anything."
"Clark," Bruce all but sighs. His heart is rapid as the flap of a hummingbird's wings. "I love you."
"Bruce," his voice sounds broken even to his own ears, but he can't help it. "Bruce."
"Yes?"
"I love you," he exhales. "Probably have since the day we met."
"Come here?" Bruce asks.
The words aren't even halfway out of his mouth before Clark is sitting next to him on the bed in a whir, those smooth, warm hands encompassing cold, rough ones.
"Okay. Since you're following orders..." he continues, voice getting lower, face inching closer. "Kiss me?"
"B," Clark whispers against the man's lips as they press against his own, not a question or even a statement, just an acknowledgement.
The kiss is soft, slow, unhurried. Bruce's lips are surprisingly gentle and seemingly sensitive, if the small keens he makes when Clark nips them are any indication. Kissing him feels like coming home after a long day. Their lips slot together like pieces of a puzzle, one that's now completed. Clark has half a mind to think he's been missing this, but kissing Bruce feels like something already hardwired into his brain, like he's always been destined to be right here, doing this. Maybe he was.
When they pull away from each other, it's so Bruce can breathe. He presses his forehead to Clark's, though, keeping the contact.
"What were you saying in all those other languages?" Clark murmurs, crinkles near his eyes.
"I'll tell you later," Bruce mutters back, eyelashes tickling Clark's eyelids as his eyes flutter closed, pressing their lips together once more.
Clark could get used to this. The good thing about that, though, is that he thinks Bruce will let him.