Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

It was during the drive to the prison that morning that Clark realized that Wayne had not secured a meeting with Felix Fontenot before flying them down to Shreveport and driving over three hours in a summer downpour.

And, it was during their arrival, even clearer that the prison was not thrilled to have a federal agent there looking to speak to one of their inmates. Clark had hung back a little, eavesdropping on the frustrating conversation between Wayne and a member of the correctional staff who was doing everything she could to get Wayne to give up and leave. Clark predicted they would be at this for the next few hours. He impatiently checked his watch.

"Don’t worry," an older woman whispered to him, "as soon as visiting hours start Marcel comes over and opens up the other window."

"Thank you," Clark answered, smiling politely back at the woman. He checked his watch again. Wayne had been arguing for thirty-six minutes with no sign of slowing down.

True to her word, as the clock flicked over on the hour, another man joined the front desk and motioned for Clark to step forward.

"Who are you visiting?" the guard asked, vaguely disinterested.

"Felix Fontenot," Clark replied.

"Is he expecting you?"

"No," Clark said and decided to fall back on an old routine, "I'm Clark Kent from the Daily Planet." The guard looked momentarily less bored. Clark wasn't sure if he recognized his name or the name of the paper.

He dug his press pass out of his wallet. Lois had been ribbing him for keeping up his USPA membership even though he’d had absolutely no use for it the last four years. Joke was on her.

"Fill out these forms," the guard explained, "Drop them in the box over there when you’re done. Wait until your name is called."

Clark got started on paperwork. The woman behind him in line, a frequent visitor by the looks of it, was quickly escorted in. A few minutes passed before Clark’s name was called.

Wayne was too absorbed in his current standoff to notice Clark’s departure.

The years had not been kind to Felix Fontenot. He couldn't have been older than twenty-three, but he looked ancient. He was worn out. Tired.

"They said you're a journalist?" Fontenot asked as he sat down across from Clark in the visiting room.

"I'm sorry," Clark said, "I wasn’t fully truthful when I came in today. I don't work for the Daily Planet anymore."

Felix frowned over at him.

"You're not a journalist?" he asked slowly.

"No. Not anymore. I work for the FBI now. I had a few questions for you."

Felix moved to stand; Clark reached a hand out and placed it gently on Felix’s forearm to stop him. Usually this was when a guard would yell ‘No touching’ but no one had noticed it yet.

"No, please," Clark said, "they weren't going to let me in otherwise. I’m guessing there's rampant corruption here and they're worried that's why we actually showed up out of the blue like this. Right now, my partner is probably still arguing to arrange an interview with you. And I do have a contact at the Planet who still owes me; she’ll cover your story if you want that. I need you to hear me out, okay? It's important. Please, Felix. For Georgia."

Felix stilled, but didn't fully relax. Clark didn't blame him. This wasn’t a place that allowed for relaxation.

"I don't think you were involved," Clark offered, "I don’t think you killed Georgia."

"No," Felix responded, "I didn't kill her. I loved her."

"I'm so sorry," Clark said and gave Felix’s forearm a gentle squeeze before he pulled his hand back moment before one of the guards turned to face their table, "I believe you. I don't want to give you false hope, but I'm going to do everything I can to get that truth out there and get you home."

Felix blinked slowly at him. His eyes had been so much brighter in the photos of him standing beside Georgia.

"What do you…" Felix started and swallowed, cleared his throat, "what do you need from me?"

"Everything you know about Georgia. Anything she was doing, anyone who was spending time around her, anyone or anything that stood out as out-of-place or unusual. Walk me through her regular habits. Tell me everything you know about the day she was killed. I know they didn't listen to you, but I'm here because I know you didn't do this and you shouldn't be here."

The killings seemed random, but there had to be something that connected them. And he was going to find out what that was.

"Georgie loved birds," Felix said, sad eyes downcast at his cuffed hands, "she was going to be an ornithologist."

Wayne was glaring daggers at the empty front desk when Clark walked back in.

"Where the hell have you been?" Wayne groused.

"Visiting hours," Clark replied and took a seat beside him.

"You're fucking kidding me," he breathed out.

"Georgie liked birds," Clark said, "she’d been going to that wetlands for years for bird watching. Every Sunday morning. Like clockwork. She’d go out with her DSLR and take photos."

"That wasn't in the file," Wayne murmured.

"No," Clark agreed, "it wasn't."

"She wasn't found with her camera," Wayne added.

"No," Clark agreed again, "she wasn't."

"You think she saw something she wasn’t supposed to?" Wayne asked.

"Yeah," Clark said after a long moment, "I think there’s a pretty good chance she did."

It was another hour and fifteen minutes before they reached the wetlands where Georgia’s body was found. Wayne used the rental car’s GPS to direct them down the long, mostly desolate road, but Clark had brought along a paper map all the same. The last sign of civilization was a gas station and an unmarked building with a large parking lot.

When the GPS cut out, Clark was able to direct them the rest of the way down the dirt road to the spot Georgie always parked. Felix had told him he tried to go birding with Georgie about once a month and had gone with her two Sundays before. He had planned on going with her the next week. He’d recounted the path they usually took which Clark had translated onto the map while Wayne drove.

It was sunny and bright as they parked, a nice reprieve from the overcast summer rain. Clark got out of the car and surveyed the scene. It was years too late for any real evidence at the crime scene, but Clark was never going to skip on an opportunity for more information.

Wayne turned in his seat to grab a gym bag from the back of the car and pulled out a small bottle of SPF 70 and began to apply it to his neck, face, and hands.

"Do you want sunscreen?" Wayne asked as he exited the car.

Clark leaned over the top of the car, arms folded over the hot metal, and grinned over at him.

"You burn easy, don’t you?"

"Fuck off," Wayne huffed as he slid on his sunglasses on and pulled down his bureau ballcap, "You want some or are you trying to get skin cancer?"

"I’m good, but thanks."

Wayne shut the car door with more force than necessary.

"You still have your license, don't you?" Clark asked.

"I've been driving us for the last two days," Wayne deadpanned.

"Not your driver's," Clark clarified, "your medical."

Wayne glanced over at him as he started walking away from the car. Clark could see his own reflection in Wayne’s sunglasses.

"Why do you ask?" Wayne sounded suspicious.

"I’ve got this weird mole…" Clark started. Wayne’s mouth twitched in a frustrated frown. "I’m kidding, I’m kidding!" Clark threw his hands up laughing, "Professional curiosity, in the sense that I am professionally curious, I guess. I wanted to know why you keep it up if you don’t practice right now. Is it something you’d like to do again?"

"Why do you still have your press pass?" Wayne countered.

Clark shrugged and started to carefully pick his way through the tall grass, easing his weight to not crush the plants too terribly.

"You know, if you’d asked me this morning I wouldn’t have had a good reason, but it sure came in handy, didn’t it?"

"Mmmm," Wayne replied.

There wasn’t a lot to gather out there in the field. Well, there was a lot, but nothing particularly helpful to the case this many years out.

"I’ll never get over how flat some places are," Wayne muttered as he crouched down. He seemed to be looking around for landmarks. Comparing it to the crime scene photos he’d shown Clark that first day working together back at Quantico. He was about four feet off from the exact spot.

"Prairie madness," Clark agreed.

"This is where they found her," Wayne said after a moment; Clark could see him squinting behind his sunglasses as he looked over at the dirt road in the distance. The vegetation was tall, nearly up to their mid-thighs, and a few trees dotted the landscape, but the car was still clearly visible. An average human, with average eyesight, would have been able to spot them from the road.

"Not very far from the road," Clark commented.

"Mmm," Wayne hummed.

"I didn’t see any other cars on the road for the last twenty miles, easy."

"Hmmmm," Wayne intoned again, "someone knew her movements and followed her out here. They were bold enough to assume no one else would be there. This wasn’t someone’s first kill."

"No," Clark agreed, "no, it wasn’t. As hectic as the attack appeared on paper, this was all planned. He knew what he was doing and he knew no one would be around to witness it."

They diverged and walked in opposite directions. Clark had walked less than half a mile before he spotted something. He called out to Wayne who made his way towards him.

There were a few ‘No Trespassing’ signs and a temporary chain link fence. Wayne pulled out a camera and began to take photos.

"Any idea who owns the land?" Clark asked, "Looks like development hasn’t broken ground."

"Not yet," Wayne replied as he stowed his camera away, "but we’ll get it soon."

"Stop at the gas station," Clark ordered as they returned from the dirt path onto asphalt. Wayne obeyed without question.

"This is the only road in or out for miles," Wayne observed as he unbuckled his seat belt, "they both would have had to go past that junction."

Clark headed into the small convenience store at the gas station with Wayne trailing behind him. Clark introduced himself to the woman behind and flashed his badge. Some people loved talking to FBI agents, even if they hardly had anything useful to say. She was clearly one of them.

She never worked Sundays you see, because she was a good God-fearing Christian. The country was going to hell in a handbasket because more people didn’t follow God’s great will. No, she couldn’t remember who worked back then. A series of no good teenagers; she was certain they’d been stealing from the till.

"Can you tell me anything about the business across the street?" Clark asked, "How long have they been there? Do you know the owners?"

"Bunch of sinners and deviants," she spat out.

"Thank you for the warning, ma’am," Clark said with a strained smile as he handed over his business card, "we appreciate your time today. If you remember who worked here back in 2012, please don’t hesitate to contact us. We would like to speak with them."

Wayne’s jaw twitched; he didn’t say anything until they walked outside.

"Camera?" Wayne asked, inclining his head towards the security camera outside of the building across the street. Clark nodded in response.

"It looks like it could have a good view of the street. Let's hope they save their footage."

Clark wasn’t sure what brand of sinners and deviants the people across the street were. It was a quaint bar with a tiny dance floor, a few booths and two tops were scattered around. It looked like it could maybe fit a hundred people.

The woman behind the bar was easily Wayne’s height. She was in the middle of restocking. He noticed a small rainbow flag sticker on the corner of the bar mirror. Ah. That brand of sinners and deviants.

"Excuse me, ma’am," Clark started and pulled out his badge. The woman didn't turn to look at him. Clark caught her eye in the mirror over the bar.

"No cops," she replied.

"I assure you my partner and I aren't here to harass you or any of your patrons. We’re not ATF."

"No? Then what the hell are you here for?" She turned around and crossed her arms over her chest leaning against the bar. Her long, auburn hair was pulled up in a loose bun, "Where were you the first time our window got smashed? The second? The fifth? The time we got a bomb threat? Where the hell were you then?"

"Well, ma’am," Clark replied, "I usually work out of the FBI field office in New York, and I'm genuinely sorry the local law enforcement hasn't been doing their job, but I do know some folks who work in the Civil Rights unit and investigate hate crimes. I would be happy to put you in contact with them if you believe you’re being targeted."

"You think passing the buck is going to try and get you some sympathy? I told you. No cops. Get out."

"No," Clark answered, "I wasn’t expecting any sympathy, but there's a young man in prison for a crime he didn't commit and I’m inclined to ask you again for your help."

"Does the name Georgia Dreamont mean anything to you?" Wayne asked and took a seat at the bar. Clark remained standing beside him.

"Of course," she replied and went back to restocking the bar, "The girl that got murdered out in the field a few years back. Her boyfriend did it."

"He didn't," Wayne stated, calm, but empathic. "I’m Special Agent Bruce Wayne, this is my partner, Special Agent Clark Kent," Partner. Clark couldn’t help but preen a little. It was stupid. It was just that… that Wayne had never really had a partner before. Seemed to think of it like a dirty word to use around him. But here he was, calling Clark his partner like it meant something. LIke he trusted Clark and the work he could do.

Like they really were going to solve this thing. Together.

"Bruce Wayne?" she asked, "Like that rich kid out of Gotham? The one that—" Clark shook his head trying to subtly discourage her without drawing Wayne’s attention, before realizing Wayne could see him clear as day in the mirror behind the bar.

"Yes," Wayne answered, his eyes meeting Clark’s in the reflection, "exactly like that."

"I’m Jolene," she replied hesitantly and shook Wayne’s hand.

"My partner and I are trying to figure out what really happened to Georgia. You already know how incompetent the state and local police are here. They fucked up the investigation and we’re trying to fix it, but we’re already years behind and doing everything we can to try and catch up."

"What’s any of this got to do with me?" Jolene asked.

"The only way to get to and from the place she was killed is through the intersection out there. I couldn't help but notice you had security cameras and they appear to face out to the street."

"Of course I've got security cameras" she replied, "we kept getting our windows smashed in. Cops won’t do shit with the footage, but at least the insurance coughs up faster when we’ve got video."

"So how long have you had them?" Clark asked, "Did you have them back in 2012? Do you still have copies of the recordings?"

She nodded slowly.

"Would you let us have a copy of the files for the weeks surrounding the murder?" Clark asked.

"Absolutely not," she responded, "not without a fucking warrant."

"You’re within your rights to refuse a search," Clark pulled out his cellphone and began to look through his contacts.

"What are you doing, Kent?" Wayne asked.

"Figuring out which judge could get us a warrant fastest," Clark murmured, "I was thinking Hallison out of the 2nd circuit. I had less for the Sinclair case and she signed off on it. Unless you know someone closer?"

Clark turned to the bartender, "You wouldn’t happen to have a fax machine here, would you? Or know where I could find the nearest one?" Libraries were usually a good spot. The motel might have one as well.

Wayne turned his attention to Jolene.

"Do you really want us to come back with a warrant?" Wayne asked, "We can and we will. We truly believe this is the best path forward to free an innocent man and bring the right person to justice. But what if we found a compromise? What if we watched them here?" Wayne asked, "Fully supervised? I could order a bottle of that scotch up there," he gestured up to a top-shelf bottle Clark didn’t recognize, "What's the going rate for one of those?" Wayne asked as he reached into jacket to pull out his wallet, "five hundred a bottle?"

"Six," she countered, eyes narrowed suspiciously at Wayne.

"Seven fifty," Wayne smiled and quickly counted out the bills, "I'm not going to forget to tip. And if we find something relevant, you would send us a copy of only that time stamp? We’re not trying to target your patrons. I understand how important privacy must be in an environment like this."

She frowned, but eventually reached out and took the cash, dropping a hundred in the till and then pocketing the remaining cash.

She turned around, swiftly grabbed the bottle, dropped two glasses down in front of them, and headed into a back office.

"It’s five o’clock somewhere," Wayne said with a shrug and poured himself two fingers of scotch and then did the same for Clark’s glass.

It was 2:37 p.m.

"Slow down," Wayne ordered and Clark hit the space bar to pause it. He switched the speed back to 1.0, backed up a few minutes, and resumed playing. They’d been scrubbing the footage for hours now on Jolene’s laptop.

The patrons had started to make their way inside as the day went on and Jolene had told them to go loom at one of the tables so they weren’t keeping folks from ordering.

The dark green sedan turned into the gas station, pulled up to the pump, and… and then… and then…

Nothing.

"He's just sitting there," Clark observed. Wayne laughed bitterly, his arm brushing against Clark's as he reached over the laptop's keyboard to pause the video. He turned in his seat to put his full attention to Clark.

"You have no idea what he's doing, do you?"

Clark's attention flickered between Wayne's face and the glowing laptop screen.

"No," Clark agreed, "I don't know what he's doing."

"Of course you don't," Wayne continued, like it was the most obvious thing in the world, "why would you know it? You've never lived in New Jersey before. You've probably never even visited."

Clark expected Wayne to fill him in, but he didn’t say anything further.

"No," Clark answered, "I've never been to New Jersey before and I don't understand what is happening."

"This man," Wayne explained, pointing at the laptop screen his shoulder bumping into Clark again, "this man is waiting for a gas station attendant."

"A—" Clark frowned, "he's waiting for a what?"

"A gas station attendant! It's illegal in New Jersey to pump your own gas. This is someone who is so used to not being able to pump his own gas, that he even though he is out of state, he is waiting for someone to come over and pump his gas for him."

The man sat for five minutes before he opened the car door and walked inside the building. A few minutes later he emerged with the cashier, a lanky teen, who pumped his gas for him and then headed back inside.

Even with his vision, there wasn't much Clark could do with the quality of the image. The security cameras were good, but the distance was too far away for a sharp image. It was grainy no matter how he looked at it. There was no way they would get a strong enough image to run it through any of the facial recognition databases.

With the height of the car for reference, they were looking at a bald white man, 5’8 or 5’9, with a lean build.

"This is a week before her murder," Clark whispered.

"What do you want to bet we see that same car the following Sunday?" Wayne asked.

Jolene did end up emailing them the requested footage. Wayne dropped another fifty in the tip jar and leaned casually against the bar. He looked relaxed. Clark wondered if this was what he was like when he was in a good mood. If this is what he looked like when pieces of the puzzle started slotting in place.

They weren’t out of the woods yet, but this was a solid lead. This had to be at least enough to get an appeal hearing for Felix. It was clear the local PD had bungled the investigation; they hadn’t spoken to anyone here despite it being one of the areas you would have to drive through to make it to the crime scene. Clark was thanking whatever was out there that Jolene hadn’t dumped any of the footage. Sheer luck. This might hinge on a bar owner's willingness to store years of security footage.

"Jolene," Wayne called out, plunking the remaining bottle of scotch down on the desk, "there’s no way we’re finishing this bottle tonight. Would you be so inclined to give the rest of your patrons a round of it on us? We appreciate all your help today."

"You got it, hun," she replied with a friendly wink before walking over to ring a cowbell. The patrons all perked up and turned towards her.

Wayne took this as their cue to exit. Clark followed after. It was still raining in patches. A drizzle, a downpour, overcast and muggy, sprinkles, another downpour. It was a misting drizzle, but seemed to be starting to come down with more force.

"What do you want for dinner?" Clark asked, pulling his windbreaker on while they stood under the awning. He’d realized his mistake the first day and wasn’t planning on getting caught in the rain again.

Clark’s ears rang with a diatribe of hateful slurs coming from an inebriated man camped out in the parking lot. Wayne walked straight up to him.

"What did you call me?" Wayne asked, calm and even. The rain was coming down a little harder now, but Wayne didn’t seem to mind. His dark hair was plastered against his pale skin. His white shirt was nearly translucent. Clark could not take his eyes off of him if he wanted to.

"You heard what I fucking said," the man spat out.

Wayne smiled. Clark took a step back.

"Say it again," Wayne taunted and took a step closer, "say it to my fucking face."

"Wayne," Clark called out and jogged over to step between them, placing his hand flat on Bruce’s chest to gently push him back, "come on, man. He’s not worth it. Take a beat. Walk it off."

"Yeah," the man hissed, "listen to your fuckin’ boyfriend, you coward."

"I’m not his boyfriend," Clark corrected, readjusting the windbreaker to keep the rain from dripping between his jacket and collar, "he’s my partner."

"Partner," he growled, "you’re disgusting. Call it what you want, you’ll still burn in hell."

"Dear lord, you’re a slow one ain’t you? Can you not read? It's only three letters. Your mama not teach you to count either?" Clark asked, gesturing at his jacket emblazoned with the bold yellow letting across his chest. It was dark, but the sodium-yellow light of the lit street lamps was bright enough to show off the insignia.

The man took a swing at Clark. There was always a delicate calculation Clark needed to factor in anytime someone tried to hit him. How far to move, how fast to move enough to get grazed, so the man’s hand wouldn’t shatter on impact.

Except he didn’t have time for that, because Wayne slid in and took the hit on the jaw. Wayne had the man by the arm and pinned against the car in less than three seconds. Clark didn't even have time to plan before it was all simply done.

"Listen you pathetic, useless, little prick," Wayne growled out as he shook the struggling man in his grip. He looked biblical in the rain; like the anger and grief of The Fallen Angel. The man screamed and thrashed uselessly against the hold.

Clark watched the scene in front of him and didn’t move to interfere. He couldn’t move. He was rooted to the asphalt. He couldn’t pull his eyes away from Bruce’s face in the rain. Watching the slow trickle of blood from the corner of his lips surrounded by raindrops. He could have written sonnets about the curve of his jaw.

"Listen," Wayne hissed again and shook him, "do you know how easy it is to dislocate your shoulder? To tear your rotator cuff? Have you done it before? It’s agonizing. You might be in enough pain to puke. You keep it up and you’re going to rip your own arm out of its socket and fuck up your tendon. It’ll be months of recovery, thousands of dollars in medical bills, and it’ll all get written off because you’re the idiot resisting arrest, so stop fucking moving." The words weren’t meant for him, but they sent a shiver through Clark’s body all the same.

"Good," Bruce smiled, once the man had slumped down. "You’re under arrest for assaulting a federal agent," Bruce said and pulled his handcuffs out and proceeded to give him his Miranda warning.

"I’ll get you some ice," Clark announced once they’d made it back to the motel. He was still a little in awe of how Bruce had handled the arrest. He’d sat the man down on the curb outside the bar and headed back inside. Clark focused in through the din of patrons, Dolly Parton, and listened in on Bruce’s conversation with Jolene where he asked for all the footage of the vandalism because he had a suspect in custody. She’d happily passed it over.

He’d been especially vicious with the officer working the night shift at the county jail. He’d explained if there weren’t charges filed for the vandalism, terrorism, and the assault, he’d be back to see what else this town was trying to cover up. It seemed to do the trick. Clark wasn’t convinced Bruce wouldn’t be back anyway to see the whole thing through.

"Mr. Kent!" The receptionist from the previous night called over to him as Clark walked by with a bag of ice from the ice machine. His nametag read Bobby.

"Hey there, Bobby," Clark offered a tired smile, "how is your night going?"

"Very, well, sir and thank you for asking. I have good news. A room opened up for you," Bobby excitedly announced and handed over the keys. "Should I use the same card on the initial reservation for the incidental hold?"

"Mm," Clark nodded, because Wayne seemed like someone who had an expense card, or, at the very least, loved filing expense reports, "yeah, that works. Thank you."

Bruce stood in front of the mirror in the bathroom examining the damage. He’d stripped off his button-up and was standing in his damp, white undershirt.

There were flecked blood stains at the neck of Bruce’s shirt. Heat radiated off his jaw where the blood was busy forming a new bruise. The florescent motel bathroom lighting washed him out his already pale skin and the redness was starkly evident. Bruce's reflection made eye contact with Clark in the mirror.

"You didn’t have to take the hit for me," Clark said softly and reached forward to gently press his fingertips under Bruce’s chin; he coaxed Bruce to turn his head so he could get a better look. Bruce diverted his gaze to the side as Clark touched him. "Your poor face," he murmured as his thumb gently brushed up against the split lip, "You're still bleeding."

Clark looked up from Bruce’s busted lip to his eyes and froze. Bruce was looking back at him now with an intensity Clark couldn’t parse. Clark didn't move, but Bruce pulled away sharply as he took a step back. Clark watched as Bruce’s tongue slid over his cut, right over the spot Clark’s thumb had been.

"I’m fine," Bruce announced and abruptly turned and left the bathroom.

Clark couldn’t explain why he brought his own thumb to his lips and licked away the drop of bright red blood on it, why he watched his reflection while he did it, or why he couldn’t shake the look that Bruce had given him the moment before he turned away.

Clark offered to take the new room because he’d never unpacked. Bruce had agreed with a grunt that Clark actually could only assume was agreement, but since he’d gone on into the bathroom and closed the door, it was tacit approval enough for Clark to grab his suitcase and head next door.

The room looked like a mirrored copy of the other. Same vaguely sepia colored walls. Two queen beds with those stupid yellow bed scarves. Clark tossed his suitcase on the bed closest to the door and went to take a shower. He went through the rest of the nighttime rituals, brushed his teeth, and settled into the bed furthest from the door after raiding the spare one for all the pillows.

He thought about calling his parents, but it was already late enough in the evening they’d most likely already fallen asleep and he didn’t want to wake them. He wouldn’t have had anything to say anyway. He just wanted to hear a familiar voice.

Clark flipped through all the channels on the TV three times, stopping for a few minutes every so often before the restlessness in him overrode his ability to focus on the program and he’d flip to the next channel. After realizing he was on his fourth round, he turned the TV off, clicked off the lamp on his bedside table and tried to sleep. The restlessness did not leave him.

It was much quieter than his apartment in New York, which you might have assumed was good, but unless it was as quiet as that remote farm out in Kansas, he preferred it louder. It was easier to ignore individual sounds when there were so many it became dull background noise.

The motel was just in that awful middle of the road level of quiet. He could hear all the water in the motel as some people turned on sinks or showers. He could hear Bobby in the lobby, flipping the pages of a magazine. Three different TVs were on, each on wildly different channels. Someone on the other end had rented something on pay-per-view and was giggling with a partner. He could hear a woman five rooms over who evidently talked in her sleep and was saying something nonsensical about getting the dragons out of the fireplace.

But then there was the noise that rose above all that. The one sound that was so much more distracting than all the others combined — the one he couldn’t shake despite his best attempts — was that of Bruce Wayne next door.

After Clark had left Bruce had taken a shower and then wandered around the motel room. He’d heard the cry of the metal springs of the mattress sinking under his weight. The scrape of plastic across wood as he moved the remote. He realized that Bruce had laid down on the bed Clark had slept in last night.

He could hear Bruce next door, his heart rate increasing and breath becoming more ragged. For a brief moment, he thought Bruce was having another nightmare. Except the smell…

Bruce was in the bed Clark had slept in last night. And he was… he was…

Clark’s hand slipped beneath the covers, snaked under the elastic of his boxers. He sucked in a sharp breath as he pressed down. He felt the tendrils of all of his attention encircling the globe snap sharply back center into himself, he felt it all recede in on the current moment. He could hear everything so clearly, like Bruce was centimeters from him rather than in another room. He could hear every pause, every hitch of breath through the wall separating them. He moved his hand in pace with Bruce’s, echoing his movements. Matching his breath. He reached his left hand back and pressed it flat against the headboard.

It’d be so easy. All Clark had to do was turn his head and look through the wall. He’d see everything. He could imagine it right now. Bruce in the bed Clark had slept in, one arm slung over his head, bringing the pillow closer to him so he could smell Clark, the other hand touching himself, legs splayed open and needy over the covers.

"Fuck," he heard gasped out on the other side of the thin motel room wall, Clark could make out the sound of Bruce’s toes curling against the sheets the strangled, hitching little cry as Bruce came across his chest, "Clark."

Clark bit down hard enough on his hand to leave an imprint of his teeth behind. He couldn't stop thinking about Bruce's eyes in the hotel bathroom mirror. He couldn't stop thinking about that look in his eyes as Clark touched him. He couldn't stop thinking of the taste of Bruce’s blood on his tongue.

He came with a suppressed grunt against his palm.

The guilt and shame flooded him a moment later. He took another shower.