Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

“So, do you top?”

Clark paused with a forkful of spaghetti halfway to his mouth. Blinked. Put his fork down and adjusted his glasses.

“I’m sorry?” he asked politely.

Across the table, his date, Tristan, eyed him with idle half-interest. “I said, do you top?” he asked again.

Oh. So he had just asked that in the middle of a crowded restaurant, forty-five minutes into their first date, like that was a totally normal thing to ask someone you’d just met. In public. Clark had been hoping he’d misheard, but that had always been a very distant hope. Clark rarely misheard anything, after all.

There was nothing in Tristan’s eyes to indicate that it wasn’t a genuine question. Clark had thought, looking at his profile on the app, that he had very nice eyes: warm, friendly, and a rich chocolate brown. It had been half the reason he’d swiped right in the first place, since the rest of the guy’s profile had given him very little to go off except “works in tech” and “enjoys movies” and “has friends”. This last one was mainly evident from his second picture, posed with the requisite two to five people at a blandly expensive-looking bar, all of whom were either slightly less conventionally attractive or, giving them the benefit of the doubt, caught at an especially unflattering angle.

Clark himself had included a similar picture in his own profile: him posed with Jimmy and Lois at a work event, the night Jimmy had told him he was, “Looking slick tonight, Clark!” and insisted on a picture of him and Lois to commemorate. Overhearing this, Cat had snatched the camera from Jimmy’s hands and told him to get in the picture too, for god’s sake – and Jimmy, ever eager to please her, had for once jumped in without hesitation.

It was a nice picture of all of them, Clark thought. He’d asked both of their permission to use it. Jimmy said of course Clark could use the picture, he was just happy that Clark was getting back out there. Lois had agreed, faintly amused by Clark’s mild but clear discomfort with the question — “But for god’s sake, don’t mention straight up that it’s your ex-wife in the picture. That’s a red flag for sure,” she’d told him sternly. Clark had decided to take her advice on that one.

Still, all their advice (sweet from Jimmy; appreciated but still slightly excruciating from Lois, mostly because of the whole ex-wife thing) hadn’t prepared Clark for this situation. He glanced around nervously. The sweet elderly couple at the next table was shooting them a look now, and Clark couldn’t tell if it was idle curiosity or chastisement. It didn’t really matter which; he could feel heat creeping over his cheeks anyway. “I don’t think— Why are you asking that now?”

Tristan gave an insouciant shrug and smiled, halfway to a leer. “Well, why do you think?”

Clark could hazard a guess. He shifted uncomfortably in his seat. “Um, well…”

“I mean, we’re both men,” Tristan went on. “We don’t have to beat around the bush, right?”

“I’m not sure what my gender has to do with it,” Clark said truthfully.

Tristan laughed. “I don’t know why you’re being so precious about this. Isn’t it normal to ask these days?”

Was it? Clark was, admittedly, pretty out of touch with what was ‘normal’ for dating these days, having only re-entered the dating pool about three months ago after being married for most of the last ten years. And sure, perhaps he was a little more old-fashioned than most, so his ‘normal’ was a little more on the conservative side. But until tonight, he’d been comfortably convinced that it was ‘normal’ not to talk openly about your sex life with a near stranger in the middle of a busy restaurant, in easy earshot of many people for whom Clark’s sexual preferences were none of their business.

They’d been texting polite small-talk at each other for two whole days before this, at which point Clark had frustratedly decided that getting a read on someone over the messaging feature of a dating app was next to impossible and just asked straight up if he wanted to grab dinner after work – nothing too fancy or expensive, but it was nice, cozy. At no point before then had Tristan asked about his preferences in the bedroom.

This could have been a text, was his point.

Before he could say any of that, though, Tristan was already continuing, a little impatiently: “Look, we both know why we’re here, right? Like, it’s kinda cute that you wanted to keep things classy by eating out first, I guess. But we’re both here for the same thing, right?”

Clark glanced back at the couple. They were very deliberately not looking in their direction, and also very definitely not eating their food. “Um,” he said.

“I’m a bottom, if that wasn’t obvious,” Tristan went on. “I figured you were a top, but some daddy types like to bottom. I don’t like to assume anymore. Ass out of you and me, et cetera et cetera. So, you’re…”

He stared at Clark expectantly, clearly waiting for an answer. Clark felt his jaw clench. His ma had taught him to be polite when trying to make a good impression – and that went double on a date, she’d told him sternly before sending him off in the truck to pick up Lana for prom. Being polite, to Clark, meant graciously bowing to conversational expectation; it also meant not airing one’s dirty laundry in public.

The two edicts warred briefly, before the former emerged reluctantly victorious. He suppressed a grimace and, under his breath, mumbled, “I, uh, yeah. Either way around is fine.”

Tristan’s mouth twisted. “You’re vers? Actually vers? Or do you really just bottom but say you’re vers?”

Clark had absolutely no idea how to answer that. “Um…no?” He could feel the eyes of that nice elderly couple on him again, now embarrassingly tinged with sympathy. Desperate to change the subject, he cast about for anything he remembered about Tristan from the three days of shallow conversation they’d had by text and the not-even-an-hour of dull-but-inoffensive small talk they’d managed while waiting for their food, and settled on, “So. What’s the most recent movie you saw? Any good?”

It was, admittedly, not Clark’s best conversational hook. Tristan didn’t seem to mind, immediately launching into a diatribe about a movie Clark had never heard of. It had been shown at Cannes, Clark learned, and was profoundly underrated. This led seamlessly into a diatribe about Hitchcock (who was ‘the only real auteur, when you get down to it’) which in turn led into another diatribe about the state of modern cinema. Said state was, apparently, terrible. Tristan had an unusually strong hatred of Timothée Chalamet, who he felt was symptomatic of some kind of larger problem in Hollywood. Clark, who had been making the appropriate listening noises at the right times to appear at least politely interested, couldn’t quite bring himself to ask him what he meant by that.

By the end of their date, Clark was exhausted, which in a way was honestly impressive. It took a lot to tire Superman out, after all. As they left the restaurant, Tristan shot him a sly grin and asked, “So, you can host, right?”

“Host?” said Clark, a little perplexed before the meaning took, and—

Ah. Tristan really thought this date had gone well. Well enough to…

Huh.

He looked down at Tristan, at his warm brown eyes and his perfect teeth, the broad shoulders and lean build and crisp shirt.

He struggled to remember why he’d ever found Tristan attractive.

He offered Tristan his most politely apologetic smile. “Ah, no. Sorry, but that’s not on the cards tonight.”

“Oh,” Tristan said. Irritation flashed across his face. “After all that?”

“Sorry,” Clark said again, smile fixed firmly in place.

Tristan’s mouth twisted, eyebrows creasing. He pressed his lips together in unsuppressed displeasure, then said, “Well okay, no sex. But I came all the way here, so maybe just BJs?”

Clark’s smile dropped.

“I think it’s over for me, B,” Clark said miserably, a few days later.

Sitting beside him in the Watchtower’s computer room, Bruce didn’t even look away from the screen, focused on running some kind of system check. Clark honestly hadn’t paid that much attention to his explanation beyond ‘computer stuff’. “That’s an unusually melodramatic response, from you.”

“Yeah, well,” Clark grumbled, slumping a little in his seat. “You asked how my date went. That’s your answer.”

“That bad, huh?”

“That bad,” he confirmed.

Bruce offered him a sympathetic grunt (which, from him, was a fairly effusive expression of comfort) and finally dragged his gaze from the screen, turning fully towards him. Clark might have felt bad about distracting him if he didn’t know Bruce would only let himself be distracted if he wanted to be. “How bad is that bad?”

Clark told him. Bruce’s expression didn’t change throughout his telling, at least not in a way that was noticeable through the cowl. When Clark finished, he pursed his lips.

“Hm. You’re right,” he said. “It is over for you.”

“Ha ha,” Clark said dryly. “But I mean—I’m not crazy, right? That’s just not normal to ask someone.”

“In a restaurant? No.”

Clark paused. The phrasing felt deliberate. “But not in general.”

“Let’s just say I don’t think you’re ready for Grindr and leave it at that.”

“You know, I did actually make an account there.”

“And?”

“I lasted about thirty minutes. The less said about those thirty minutes, the better.”

“I figured.” Bruce took a slow sip of his coffee. “And the others?”

“You want to know about my other dates?” Clark asked, a little surprised. “I honestly didn’t expect you to show an interest. We don’t normally talk about this stuff.” Even being so close. When he’d told Bruce he was marrying Lois, he’d received a clipped but, by Bruce’s standards, heartfelt congratulations, before they’d immediately moved on to a debrief. And since he’d mentioned a couple months back that he was going to try dating again, Bruce hadn’t brought it up once. “I mean, you never tell me about your dates with Selina.”

“That’s because we don’t have ‘dates’,” Bruce said. “She shows up, we have sex, she leaves. I assumed you didn’t want details,” which was…fair enough, actually. “But if you want to talk, I’m happy to listen.”

“Well…okay. Sure.” The idea of explaining his slightly pathetic love life to Bruce of all people was a little embarrassing. Bruce didn’t have these kinds of problems. He would have left that date with Tristan during the entrees rather than hanging around out of what had turned out to be a misplaced sense of politeness. In fact, Clark was pretty sure Bruce would never have ended up on a date with a Tristan in the first place.

But if Bruce really wanted to know…

He tipped his head back with a sigh, staring up at the ceiling. “This most recent one was definitely the least successful, but I haven’t had a lot of luck with the others. The first date I went on…we went out for afternoon coffee. She barely looked up from her phone. Then she said she had another date to get to and left after an hour.”

“Hn. Not great. And the second?”

“Well…” He grimaced. “Better, I guess, but barely. Although not because of anything she did; she seemed perfectly nice. But it got pretty tiring trying to keep up a conversation. I guess it was first date nerves, but she could barely look at me.”

Bruce snorted. “More like you made her nervous.”

Clark frowned. “You think? I don’t think I did anything to make her nervous. I tried to be, you know, friendly.”

“I'm sure. But you can be intimidating when you want to be.”

“Clark Kent isn’t though,” he said. Wryly, he added, “And besides, you’re one to talk.”

Bruce shrugged. “I’ve never claimed not to be intimidating. As Dick would say, it’s my ‘thing’.”

“You’ve never been intimidated by me, though, have you?”

“Not since I saw you tear up at an insurance commercial.”

“It was a good commercial!” he protested, mostly to see Bruce laugh – just slightly, more a huff of air than a chuckle. Bruce’s real laughter was hard-won – even if it wasn’t quite as rare as some people thought it was. “Anyway, those were the first two. And the rest were…” Mostly forgettable, he wanted to say, but it felt too rude. Even if it was true. “They were…fine? Mostly nice. There just wasn’t a spark.”

Bruce hummed consideringly. He was wearing the cowl since they were on the Watchtower, but after a decade of friendship Clark could read him well enough to catch the pensive tilt of his mouth.

“You of all people shouldn’t be struggling with this,” he said eventually.

Clark grinned, as genuinely flattered as it was teasing. “Aww, B. Are you saying you think I’m a catch?”

Bruce didn’t deign to respond to that, just rolled his eyes and returned to his work, tip-tapping away at the keyboard once more. Clark settled back in his seat, content for the moment to watch him work. Even in silence, his presence was comforting familiarity, the stern line of his lightly stubbled jaw and the thin lips pressed together in concentration. Although it was hard to see much of Bruce under the Batman suit, covered with armor and his thick cloak, there was still a distinctly Bruce quality to the way he sat with rigid posture even while grimacing at the screen, the casual elegance of his movements. And for as many times as Clark had seen what lay beneath the cowl, it took no effort at all to picture the aristocratic nose, the strong brows, the intense focus in his piercing blue eyes.

As flattered as Clark was that Bruce thought he was a catch, he was pretty sure Bruce had him beat in that department. 

A few more minutes passed in comfortable silence, interrupted by the tip-tapping of the keyboard. Then out of nowhere, Bruce said, “I'll set something up for you.”

Clark blinked. “Set something…you mean, you’ll set me up with someone? Bruce, I wasn’t asking— I mean, you don’t have to—”

“It’s no trouble,” Bruce said flatly. His mouth twisted. “Clearly the issue is your taste in partners. You must be a terrible judge of character to end up in these situations.”

The unspoken but strongly implied, Clearly the issue is them and not you, took the sting out of the insult. Still, Clark protested, “Hey, it’s hard to get a read on people without meeting them!”

“Hard for you, perhaps,” Bruce said. Before Clark could come up with a suitably sarcastic rebuttal, he went on, “Fortunately for you, anyone I recommend will have been vetted. By me.” He finished typing with a resolute tap of the enter key, eyes flickering towards Clark. “You’re welcome.”

“B…” Clark sighed. Once Bruce was set on a course of action, it was notoriously hard to dissuade him. And for some reason, he seemed set on this. “Fine, I guess it can’t hurt. Do you have someone in mind?”

“Yes. A friend.”

Clark’s eyebrows rose. “A friend?”

“I don’t know why you’re questioning that. I have friends.”

“Sure,” Clark agreed, “in the superhero set. But most of them are also my friends.”

“Not a hero.”

“Okay, but who—” Clark paused, as something occurred to him. "Wait. Is this someone you dated?”

Bruce, tellingly, said nothing.

“Oh my god,” said Clark, sitting up straight in mild alarm. “Seriously? You’re trying to set me with one of your exes—”

“There’s no need to act scandalized. Things between us ended years ago. We’re on good terms and keep in sporadic contact. And I happen to know she’s on the market.”

She. That narrowed the pool a little, but— “Just tell me it’s not Talia.”

The corner of Bruce’s mouth pulled up in amusement. “It’s not Talia.”

“Good,” Clark said, slumping back in his seat. “I don’t think Damian would want me as his stepdad.”

“Hn. Probably not. And besides, I wouldn’t set Clark Kent up with an assassin. The woman I’m thinking of is a civilian, and recently out of a divorce, just like you. I’ll see if she’s interested. If she’s not, I can think of several others who—”

“Who you’ve also dated,” Clark cut in dryly.

“...who I’ve also dated. Again, it was a long time ago.”

“Right.” Clark definitely felt some kind of emotion about Bruce passing his admittedly impressive collection of ex-flings onto Clark like hand-me-downs, but he couldn’t quite identify what that emotion was. “And you think she’ll be different.”

Bruce flashed him a smug smile. “Trust me, Clark,” he drawled. “You’ll like her.”

The really annoying thing was, Bruce was right.

“I’m Ronnie,” Clark’s blind date told him warmly, standing to shake his hand when he arrived five minutes late and deeply apologetic (flash floods had a way of not resolving on time for prior engagements, unfortunately). Her handshake was pleasantly firm. “Well, technically it’s Veronica, but everyone calls me Ronnie, so I’d love it if you did too. It’s Clark, right?”

She was beautiful, obviously, because everyone Bruce had dated was beautiful. Long, sleek red hair, tall and graceful, with a warm smile that made her eyes crinkle. She fit right in at the overpriced restaurant Bruce had picked for them with her elegant black dress. Clark immediately felt underdressed.

He pushed the feeling down. “Yes, that’s right! It’s nice to meet you, Ronnie…wait.” He paused, quickly going through his mental rolodex of Bruce Wayne’s exes. “Veronica…Vreeland?”

Her eyes widened. “The very same! Gosh, did Bruce tell you who I was?”

“He didn’t,” Clark replied. He gestured for her to take her seat and then slipped into his own opposite her. “I think he wanted it to be a surprise, even though it wouldn’t have hurt to have a name at least before coming here. But, well…” He smiled ruefully. “What can you do? It’s Bruce.”

Belatedly, he remembered that he didn’t know which version of Bruce Ronnie knew and felt a stab of awkwardness. But she just rolled her eyes and said, “Yeah, it’s Bruce alright. What that man won’t tell you for no good reason could fill a damn library.” The line was delivered with enough wry fondness that it startled a laugh out of him, and she smiled, clearly pleased. “But you know my family name. Has Bruce mentioned me before?”

“Ah, no,” he said lightly. Bruce didn’t tell him much about his dating life, and Clark didn’t ask. And besides, from what he knew about the young Wayne heir’s courtship with Veronica Vreeland, it all happened long before they were close friends anyway. “I’m a reporter, actually. It’s my job to know these things.”

“A reporter! Are you…wait.” She brightened. “Do you perchance work for the Daily Planet?”

Clark felt his eyebrows rise. “I, uh…yes, I do. How did you…?”

“Clark Kent!” she exclaimed. “I knew you looked familiar. I adore your columns, you know. I was telling Bruce just the other day how much I…” Her face fell. “Oh. Ohhh, that bastard. That’s why he set this up isn’t it? He figured out my little writer crush and decided to ambush me with a blind date—”

“Crush?” Clark asked, raising an eyebrow.

Ronnie flushed and let out a self-conscious giggle. “Oh, don’t read into that, I’m not some crazed fangirl. It’s an expression! I write too, you see – nothing on your level of course, just a hobby. And I’ve taken to describing writers whose prose I admire ‘crushes’.” She smiled, rueful. “But, well…I may have also mentioned to Bruce how handsome you look in your reporter profile, so…you can read into it a little bit, I suppose.”

“Oh,” Clark said, surprised and definitely flattered. “Well, I’m honored. But I don’t think I hold a candle to you.”

Ronnie beamed.

From there, the dinner went as well as Bruce had probably predicted it would. Ronnie was a warm and spirited conversationalist. She claimed not to have much knowledge about politics (“I’m afraid most of my interests are far more frivolous,” she told him with a self-deprecating smile) but she was curious about Clark’s work and eager to hear about his takes on the major stories, asking a lot of insightful questions. When their food arrived, the conversation shifted. They talked about the food. They talked about travel, and the many exciting places Ronnie had gone. They talked about Ronnie’s writing projects. They talked about Bruce, Ronnie firing off anecdotes about when they’d been dating that had Clark snorting into his wine glass. And Ronnie seemed similarly entertained by Clark’s recounting of the few Bruce-related anecdotes Clark could safely share.

And they also talked about themselves. Ronnie mentioned her recent divorce with more embarrassment than pathos (“I’ve had three divorces now, Clark. Three! Honestly, I’m becoming a walking stereotype of a socialite, it’s mortifying—”) and Clark mentioned his (“Clearly I need to catch up: I’ve just had the one so far”). They commiserated. And Clark hadn’t had anyone to talk to about the divorce who’d been through it themselves, and it was…

It was nice. It was really nice, actually. Ronnie was excellent company, and Clark was forced to concede, reluctantly but with some relief, that Bruce had been right yet again about Clark wanting a thing he hadn’t thought he wanted. They chatted mostly aimlessly through three courses and a mug each of hot chocolate with plenty of marshmallows – instead of coffee, because Ronnie was too prone to insomnia to risk caffeine at night and Clark promised it wouldn’t be childish if they both had one, now would it?

By that point it was getting pretty late, so Clark offered to walk Ronnie to her car. She agreed, but when she found out Clark had arrived by public transport, she insisted on dropping him off at the ferry.

It was only when they reached the ferry that the jovial mood changed. Ronnie quietly shut off the engine and turned to Clark, looking suddenly pensive.

“Everything okay?” Clark asked, frowning.

She let out a soft breath. “Yeah. Yeah, everything’s okay. I just…I had a really nice time tonight, Clark.”

“Me too,” Clark said honestly, smiling. “Honestly, I wasn’t sure what to expect from tonight, but I haven’t had such pleasant company in a while.”

“Oh,” she breathed, “I… I’m glad.”

“Forgive me for saying it,” he said gently, “but you don’t look very glad.” Now he was really starting to worry. “Ronnie, if you’re not feeling well, or—or if I’ve done something to offend—”

“God no,” she said with an incredulous huff. “You’ve been a perfect gentleman. I’m just…”

She chewed on her lip for a second, studying him. Clark tried his best not to look too concerned. Eventually she took a deep breath and said, “Okay, screw it, I’m just going to be straight with you. What do you want out of this?”

Clark blinked. “This? You mean you and me.”

She sighed. “Yeah, you and me. I— Look, I know we just met tonight, and all the advice for women in their thirties going on first dates is, for god’s sake don’t come on too strong. But…” She smiled then, a little melancholic. “Well, the thing is, I’m not young anymore. I’m nearly forty, and I’ve had more failed flings than I care to count. I don’t have the free time to spend on someone who isn’t interested in serious.”

“Ronnie, I…” He swallowed. “No, it’s fine. I get it.” After all, hadn’t those same thoughts been circling in his own head after the divorce? It wasn’t that he was unhappy. He had a wonderful family, wonderful friends, and a purpose. But that wasn’t the same as having his someone.

He’d thought Lois had been his someone. He’d thought they’d be forever. Then things had started to fall apart, and she drifted further and further away, and no matter how he tried to hold the broken pieces together it had all just…crumbled. And then it was Lois in their kitchen, head in her hands, saying, “I think I need a break,” and then that break turned into a separation, and then lawyers were called and that was that. That future Clark had been so sure of, slipped finally out of his grasp. For good.

“I get it,” he said again, more quietly. “You want someone who’s on the same page. That’s…that’s smart.”

“Thank you. I’m glad you understand.” She laid a hand on Clark’s arm, looked up into his eyes, and Clark had to fight not to look away. “Even if it’s early to say it, I really like you, Clark. More than I expected to. I could really see this going somewhere serious in the long run. It doesn’t need to be now, or even anytime soon, but… Can you see this going somewhere, eventually? And, more importantly…would you want it to?”

Her smile was quiet, wry, and a little hopeful. Clark considered her. She was warm, charming, and beautiful. He’d really enjoyed talking to her. They had common interests. And on top of that, she liked him, had found something in him worth chasing after, enough to put herself out there like that.

There was a bravery to that, one Clark had sometimes lacked. One he could admire. And Clark—

Clark couldn’t bring himself to say yes.

Chapter Text

Clark had already made it as far as his block when his phone buzzed with an incoming massage. He knew who it would be and what it would say before he even checked it.

      B: What happened?

Clark suppressed a grimace and texted back. Thanks for setting it up, but I don’t think it’s going anywhere.

He was about 95% sure that Bruce already knew the outcome of the date before he’d texted, but it felt like the only answer Clark could give. He slipped his phone back into his pocket and trudged up the front steps to his apartment.

Sure enough, only a few seconds later he received another text:

      B: She said you got on well. And then you turned her down.

Clark wished he had a simple answer. And honestly, this didn’t feel like a conversation he could have over text.

      Clark: Can I come over?

      B: You know where the door is.

That was as good as an invitation. Clark slipped inside his apartment, quickly changed into the suit and headed off to Gotham.

When he arrived at the Cave only twenty minutes later, Bruce was sitting at his computer, in uniform but cowl off, hair mussed and hanging over his forehead. It was about as dressed down as Bruce got when he was working on a case. And Clark had known he would be working on a case, because he was always working on a case, even when Alfred had very specifically instructed him to not work on any case, please and thank you Master Bruce, human beings actually require this little thing called ‘rest’ in order to function – a novel concept perhaps, but very possibly worth a try now and again? Bruce, in his infinite wisdom, usually disagreed.

Bruce looked up as soon as Clark drifted down beside him. “Clark.”

“Bruce,” Clark replied, flashing a smile he didn’t quite feel. “Sorry for dropping by last minute. This is a patrol night for you, right? I hope I’m not keeping you.”

“You’re not,” Bruce replied, slipping his gauntlets off and dropping them on the desk. “I asked Red Robin to take Robin out tonight instead.”

Clark felt his eyebrows rise. “Oh. You…canceled?”

“Yes.”

“Are you injured?” Automatically he looked Bruce over with his x-ray vision and found…nothing of note, really, beyond the pile of nicks and contusions and still-healing fractures that Clark knew Bruce didn’t count as injuries.

“Stop that,” Bruce snapped, and Clark guiltily switched back to his normal vision. He let out a disgruntled huff. “Well. As you can see, I’m fine.”

“So you’re not dying? That’s good to hear at least, but it still doesn’t explain—” Clark blinked. “Wait. Am I dying?”

“Clark.”

“Sorry, sorry, I’ll be serious. I was just surprised, is all. What’s the occasion?”

“You asked me if you could come over,” Bruce said.

Clark frowned. “You don’t usually change your schedule for me like that. And I wouldn’t ask you to—”

“Exactly. You don’t usually ask. You just show up.” He shrugged. “So I made time.”

“Oh,” Clark said. Come to think of it, Bruce was right: Clark did have a habit of dropping by unannounced. After all, they were both busy enough that they’d rarely get the chance to hang out just the two of them if he didn’t. And of course, he’d usually apologize for the intrusion, and Bruce would grunt at him in welcome. Usually, he’d carry on working contentedly while Clark chatted away, until one of them had to leave. Or, once in a while, when things weren't going well and Bruce was tense and snappish, Clark would sit silently by his side instead, pulling out his laptop to do his own work. Parallel play, Dick had called it when he’d stumbled across them like that a while back, which had earned him a chuckle from Clark and an eye roll from Bruce.

That was how it usually went. Clark didn’t ask, and Bruce didn’t say he was welcome, but Clark knew he was anyway.

Of course, they hadn’t always shared this quiet understanding. He’d been much less sure of his welcome the first time he'd made an uninvited social visit to the Cave, back when their friendship was still tentative. It had been a rough day. People died who shouldn’t have. Good people. People Superman should have been able to save. He couldn’t talk to Lois about it, because he knew she’d tell him it was okay, that these things happened; that he did his best, and that’s all anyone could ever ask. The words rang true, but they weren’t what Clark had needed.

So he’d come to Bruce. Found him working quietly just like he had been today, alone, cowl off, glaring at something on his impractically large screen. If he’d been surprised by Clark’s sudden visit, he hadn’t shown it. When Clark had haltingly asked if he was too busy to talk, whether Clark was being a bother by dropping in like this, he’d said simply, “I can multitask.” And when Clark had told him what happened, he’d said calmly, “You weren’t good enough. But now you know how to be better next time. That’s how you improve.”

The words weren’t exactly comforting, and had been delivered in a clipped, almost disinterested tone, but—

That had been what he needed. And maybe that was why Clark had wanted to talk to him so badly tonight. When he was lost, Bruce always gave him what he needed.

Bruce was watching him expectantly. Clark flashed him a grateful smile and took his customary chair, the one reserved for Robins and visitors. Bruce turned to him, fingers steepled.

“So?” he prompted, one eyebrow raised. “What was the problem?”

Clark shifted uncomfortably in his seat. “We’re not beating around the bush tonight, huh?”

“That is what this is about,” Bruce said. It wasn’t a question.

Clark chewed on his lip. “Yeah. Yeah, it is.” Bruce didn’t prompt him again, just watched him with flat patience. Clark groaned. “Sorry. Sorry. I just…I don’t really know where to start.”

Bruce looked unimpressed. “You’re the one who wanted to talk.” Bruce fixed him with a forbidding look, arms folded expectantly. “Start with this, then. Was she not your type?”

Clark winced. It felt rude to be discussing her like this, especially when Bruce was essentially asking him to insult her. “I’m not sure I have a ‘type’, but she’s definitely an attractive woman and we had a lot in common. And…well, we only met tonight, but she seems very kind.”

“She is,” Bruce agreed, and for a moment Clark wondered if he heard a hint of wistfulness in there. “So there’s some other problem. Was there no chemistry?”

Clark felt himself flush. “Well, uh, I don’t know about chemistry, but I think we got on pretty well.”

“She didn’t ignore you?”

“No.”

“She didn’t make lewd sexual comments in public?”

“Ha! Definitely not.”

“Something else objectionable.”

“Uh. No?”

“Then you just don’t like her. For indefinable, inexpressible reasons.”

Clark grimaced. “Well, uh…I do like her actually.”

Bruce’s index finger was tapping rhythmically at his bicep. “So, to summarize: you’re attracted to her. You get on well. She did nothing wrong on your date. You like her.”

“Yes.”

There was a pause. Bruce steepled his fingers again.

“Clark,” he said eventually. “Do you understand why this isn’t adding up for me, or would you like me to explain?”

Clark rolled his eyes. “Okay, you can park the condescension right there, thanks. I know, okay? There’s nothing wrong with her, this is all my issue. It’s just—”

It was just. When Ronnie said she wanted something serious, he could picture it. He could picture them dating, picture Ronnie as his girlfriend. He could picture it getting serious. And just the thought of it made him feel—tense, and trapped. Which was horrible of him. After all, Ronnie was lovely and would probably be an excellent partner. Clark would be lucky to have the chance. Right?

Either way, Ronnie definitely deserved better than to date someone who wasn’t sure about her. That Clark was sure of.

“She wanted something serious,” Clark said eventually, carefully. “And I don't think I could be that for her.”

“That's unhelpfully vague,” Bruce said, frowning. “But fine. If you won't tell me your reasoning, then at least tell me what you're looking for.”

“B, I told you I don't have ‘type’—”

“Wrong. You like people who you think are better than you.” Before Clark could figure out a response to that, he went on impatiently, “But that's not what I mean. What are you looking to get out of going on these dates?”

Clark opened his mouth to reply but found that he wasn’t sure of the answer. He thought he’d known what he wanted. The divorce had been finalized for nearly six months now. And he’d been married for nearly a decade, long enough to get used to having someone around all the time. So yeah, he missed the affection. He missed the companionship, hearing someone’s heartbeat next to him as he fell asleep. But also…

“Well,” he said, sheepish. “I guess. Sex would be nice. And maybe a little cuddling.”

Bruce blinked. “Sex,” he echoed blandly.

“Um…yup. And cuddling.”

“I really don’t know why you’re so hung up on that part.”

“Because cuddling is nice, Bruce! Look, don't judge me, okay? It’s been a while since I…cuddled anyone.”

Bruce’s lips thinned. “You mean since you—”

“Yes,” Clark said tiredly, “I mean since I had sex. Thank you for making me clarify.” He didn’t need to explain that the last time he’d had sex was with Lois, before they separated. He was sure Bruce had guessed that one.

Bruce shrugged. “If that’s all you want, then maybe you should just call Tristan back.” Clark made an involuntary face at that, and the corner of Bruce’s mouth twitched up in a grin. “Okay, not Tristan. But if you just want sex, that’s easy.”

“Says you,” Clark muttered. He might have expected Bruce to be so blase about it. Unsurprisingly, he and Bruce – strikingly handsome, obscenely wealthy, and the kind of self-assured that came with knowing he could command the attention of every room he entered – had very different track records when it came to dating. Clark had slept with eight people in his 41 years of life, and he’d been seriously dating three of them at the time; Bruce would probably have lost count of his total years ago, if he were the type of man to lose count of things. Clark had been married for the last decade; Bruce’s longest and most enduring relationship was probably with Selina, and they were the very definition of not exclusive. Clark’s relationships had always been serious; Bruce had a history of dating so casually that there often weren’t even dates involved.

It all felt like another world to him.

“Hey, Bruce,” he said tentatively. “You have a lot of casual sex, right?”

Bruce raised one delicate eyebrow. “Mr. Kent,” he said slowly, amusement curling around the words, “are you calling me easy?”

Clark rolled his eyes, even as he felt the beginnings of a flush crawling up his neck. “Don’t twist my words. I just mean, well…you’re not really a relationship guy, right?”

“Not really, no,” Bruce said. “That’s not something I seek out.” He tipped his head back, eyes flickering to the ceiling. “To answer your question: some, yes. Although not so much these days. Bruce Wayne is in a more mature phase of his bachelorhood. I don’t need to jump into bed with anyone to sell the act.”

“Sure,” Clark said. “But I never got the impression that selling the act was the only motivation. Was it?”

The corner of Bruce’s mouth twitched. “No. Not entirely.”

“Then…?”

“I used to explain away my scars as just the result of accidents, but…” He smiled, wry. “Gunshot wounds and large animal bite marks are harder to explain away as the result of reckless thrill-seeking. Nowadays, the excitement doesn’t seem worth the risk.”

Clark winced. “Ah. Fair enough. And, uh, is it? Exciting, I mean?”

Bruce regarded him silently for a long moment and gave a one-shouldered shrug. “Sex is fun, Clark. What do you expect?”

He huffed. “I don’t know. I mean, it’s just, ah. I’ve never really…”

Geez. He was really red now, wasn’t he? His history of monogamy had never felt particularly embarrassing before. He’d pretty consistently either dated or been interested in someone specific since…well, since he was old enough to be interested in anyone. The idea of sleeping around had just never really appealed.

Still, confessing it to Bruce felt…different, somehow. It didn’t help that Bruce was still watching him, quietly assessing. Then:

“No,” Bruce said, “I guess you haven’t.”

“No,” Clark agreed, “I haven’t.”

“You are a relationship guy.”

“...Well, technically I’ve been single more than I’ve been in a relationship. Mathematically speaking.”

“Single and pining after the person you later end up dating. Or even married to. I think my point still stands.”

Clark didn’t really have a rebuttal for that.

“But it’s not too late to try something new,” Bruce went on. “What’s stopping you?” 

“No, I don’t think…” He swallowed. I don’t think I could do that, emotionally, felt like a laughable thing to admit to Bruce of all people, and one he had no idea how to justify. “Even putting everything else aside, casual doesn’t work for me practically. It’s like you said: it’s hard when you have secrets. What do I do if they try to give me a hickey? Just say I’m immune to bruises but totally an unpowered human otherwise, don’t worry about it?”

“Casual doesn't have to mean a stranger,” Bruce said, eyebrow raised. “I know that Superman has single friends.”

“Well, sure, but I couldn’t just…”

Bruce shrugged. “Why not? If you’re interested in someone, just go for it.”

Clark made a face. “‘Go for it’, you say. So what, just…ask?”

“Honestly? Yes.”

“Are you crazy?” he sputtered. “I couldn’t just… I mean, how do you even start that conversation? Hey Hal, how’s work, and – oh, while I have you here, would you like to have sex with me?”

Bruce wrinkled his nose. “Your first thought was Hal?”

“I think you’re focusing on the wrong thing here. My point is, it’s not that simple.”

“It can be that simple.”

“Historically,” Clark said, “it has not been that simple. Do you know how long it took for Lois to even consider me an option?”

“Because the whole time you knew her, you insisted on dressing and acting like a guy who doesn’t want to be noticed.” Bruce was practically rolling his eyes at this point. “Come on, Clark. You know what you look like. Just lean into that and I promise you, you’ll be fine.” Which was—

Oh. That was…oh. Maybe Bruce…?

Clark was embarrassingly aware of his heart beating faster. “Are you saying,” he said, slowly, carefully, “that you think I’m attractive?”

This time Bruce did roll his eyes. “I know you’re terminally Midwestern, but you don’t have to pretend to be that modest. You have internet access. You know what people say about Superman online—”

“That’s not what I meant,” Clark said. “I’m not asking about what other people think of Superman. I’m asking if you think I’m attractive.”

There was a brief pause as Bruce processed the meaning and intent behind Clark’s words. Then, all of a sudden, it clicked.

Bruce went very, very still. “Clark,” he said, as if he were going to follow that up with something incisive. But nothing else followed. And that…that meant something, didn’t it? Because if Bruce didn’t, then he’d just say so. Wouldn’t he?

Clark honestly hadn’t considered the possibility that the conversation might go this way. He hadn’t seriously considered that Bruce might…

The thing was, he’d definitely…noticed Bruce sometimes, wearing his well-tailored suits or half-naked in locker rooms. Of course he had. After all, Bruce was pretty much universally considered extremely attractive, and in this case, Clark was no exception to popular opinion. And sure, he’d let himself idly wonder what sex with his best friend might be like, reading about his partially manufactured sexploits in the gossip columns. Maybe more often in the months of mild sexual frustration since the separation, when thinking about Lois in that way was more painful than it was arousing and his mind had inevitably strayed to others.

But those had been idle thoughts, and nothing more. It had never been serious. For most of their long friendship, he’d already had Lois – and even when he’d been single, he’d never thought that Bruce might view him in that way.

But…if Bruce was interested…

Bruce was still staring at him. After a long moment, he looked away, jaw tight. “I…do. Yes.”

“Oh,” Clark managed, voice tight. He was suddenly very aware of Bruce’s physical presence beside him. The heat radiating off his body. The steady thump of his heart, now just the slightest bit faster than before. He could feel it already, that warm flutter of anticipation, the air between them indefinably different now, somehow charged in a way it had never felt before.

The more he thought about it, the more this vague, half-formed urge felt like a great idea. Aside from just being gorgeous, Bruce was excellent company. Bruce was also the person he trusted more than anyone, someone he didn't have to hide anything from. And if anyone knew how to do casual, it was Bruce Wayne.

…Okay. God. So he was really doing this?

Clark wet his lips. He felt a little nervous, yes, but…but the good kind of nervous, the okay kind. Because it was Bruce, and Clark would trust him with anything.

He could take the leap. Bruce would catch him.

Slowly, deliberately, he said: “Hey, Bruce, how was work? And while I have you here…would you like to have sex with me?”

Bruce didn’t reply. There was some unreadable emotion in his eyes. Not a lot of Bruce’s emotions were unreadable to him anymore. Clearly he’d really thrown Bruce for a loop on this one.

With a self-conscious smile, he went on. “Sorry if that was… It’s just, you said it could be as simple as asking. I thought I might as well just…shoot my shot, I guess?”

Bruce just kept watching him steadily for a few long seconds. Then: “You’re serious?”

“Can I kiss you?” Clark asked in lieu of an answer.

Once again, Bruce didn’t respond. But for the barest fraction of a second, his eyes flickered down to Clark’s mouth, and Clark caught the moment his pupils dilated, his breath silently caught on an inhale.

He tried shifting closer. Bruce didn’t pull away.

Emboldened even as his heart was pounding, he leaned in closer still. It was a little awkward leaning over the armrest of his chair like that, especially since Bruce wasn’t moving up to meet him. He sat there, perfectly still, as Clark gradually closed the distance between them. Bruce made the tiniest sound when it finally happened, something like surprise, soft and strangled in the back of his throat. His mouth was lax, lips surprisingly soft, his stubble a gentle rasp. His breath smelled like coffee.

It was hardly anything really – just the lightest of pecks, a gentle brushing of lips. Still, it felt somehow monumental. Clark was startlingly aware that this was the first person he’d kissed in over a decade who wasn’t Lois.

It only lasted a second, maybe two before Clark pulled back. Bruce still hadn’t moved. In fact, it didn’t seem like he was breathing.

Clark couldn’t help but wonder if he’d horribly misread the situation. “Uh, sorry,” he tried, “was that not… I mean, was that okay?”

Bruce swallowed thickly. “It was…okay,” was all he said, voice rough. And then there were hands on Clark’s jaw, pulling him closer and—

And then Bruce was kissing him. But this was a far cry from the chaste peck Clark had initiated, Bruce rigidly still against him; now Bruce was all passion and aggression. Clark couldn’t help but make a noise, something breathless and encouraging – and Bruce shivered against him, hands threading into Clark’s hair, holding him firm so Bruce could find the perfect angle to slot their mouths together.

Part of him had been worried that kissing Bruce would feel weird, or wrong. After all, no matter how attractive Bruce was, he was Clark’s friend first and foremost. It wasn’t like when he’d kissed Lois, heart overflowing with the joy of it after months—years of hoping. It wasn’t like kissing Lana as a teenager, butterflies fluttering sweetly in his stomach. In fact, it wasn’t like kissing any of the people he’d dated, because that just wasn’t what this was.

But this wasn’t weird at all. It was just—god, it felt good. Clark’s whole body was light and tingly and giddy, pulse racing. He savored the heat of it, the wetness, the feeling of closeness and rightness, just…

Touch. This kind of touch, after so long. Jesus, he’d missed this.

He felt almost dizzy when Bruce pulled back to ask, “You…You really want this?”

“I really, really do,” Clark replied immediately, and then Bruce’s mouth was back on his. He wasn’t entirely sure how it happened, too distracted by sensation and want. Maybe he tugged Bruce closer, or maybe it was Bruce who moved, but it didn’t matter because Bruce ended up in his lap, knees braced on either side of Clark’s calves pressed tight to the outside of his thighs. The chair wasn’t quite big enough for two grown men, but Bruce was Batman and Clark was Superman so they made do, Bruce keeping a precarious balance until Clark’s hands came up to grip his hips. Steadying him enough that Bruce could use the grip on his jaw to tilt his head back and kiss him, forceful and demanding, like he couldn’t get enough. It wasn’t exactly comfortable, but god, it was so much better like this. Clark didn’t need comfort when Bruce was doing that thing with his tongue, when Bruce’s incredible body was all eager heat above him.

Inasmuch as he’d thought about what Bruce, normally so quiet and intensely controlled, would be like during sex, this forthright, barely leashed passion was not what he would have expected. But perhaps he should have. After all, Bruce never did anything by half-measures; it made sense that sex would be no exception.

When Clark’s teeth tugged at Bruce’s lower lip, Bruce made a noise low in his throat that went straight to Clark’s cock, and Clark’s hips jerked upwards helplessly, pressing his growing hardness against Bruce’s body. Bruce broke away with a gasp, eyes flickering down Clark’s body. “You— You’re already—”

“Like I said, it’s been a while,” Clark said. “And, well…I’m really enjoying this, if that’s not obvious.” In demonstration, he let his hands trail down lower to Bruce’s ass and squeezed. Bruce’s breath stuttered gratifyingly. “And besides, I’m not the only one who’s hard. Right?”

He squeezed again, and this time Bruce’s eyelids fluttered. “Ah, how—how did you…?”

“I can kind of…smell it, I guess.”

“Smell it?” Though rough and breathless, he sounded almost disturbed.

“Mm-hm.” He pressed his nose against Bruce’s jaw, inhaling his familiar scent. Sweat and leather, from the suit. Beneath that, expensive cologne. And then beneath that, something that was less familiar, at least from Bruce: “Arousal. You smell like you want me.”

Succumbing to temptation, he scraped his teeth along the rough tender skin beneath Bruce’s jaw, just above the neckline of his suit. Above him, Bruce let out a low slow, shuddering breath. “What…the hell does that mean?”

“I don’t know, I can’t explain it. It just…” His grip on Bruce tightened briefly, as he mumbled against his skin. “It just smells good. Really good.”

Another bite, just a soft nip, and now Bruce tipped his head back to give him better access. “Clark,” Bruce said, strangled – and then there were hands on his shoulders, gently pushing him back. “Clark, wait.”

Clark let himself be pushed, leaning back in the chair so he could look up at him properly. Waiting for Bruce to say something or move away. But he didn’t. He stayed there, only inches away, looking down at Clark with blown pupils. Mouth reddened and slack, breathing harsh. Eyes flickering over Clark’s face, like he was searching for something.

Eventually, Bruce wet his lips. “I don’t think,” he began, and then stopped. “This is…not a good idea.”

Even as he said it, his eyes were fixed hungrily on Clark’s mouth. “Why not?” Clark asked breathlessly. Now that he’d overcome his initial nerves, he couldn’t think of any reason that this wasn’t an incredible idea. The fact that he was struggling to think about anything beyond the scent of arousal in the air, the delicious weight of the body in his lap, and the feeling of Bruce’s ass in his hands was maybe also a contributing factor.

“Because,” was all Bruce said, which notably wasn’t an answer. His gloved thumb was tracing Clark’s mouth, tugging at his bottom lip. Thoughtlessly, Clark turned his head into the touch as it retreated, sucked that teasing thumb between his lips.

“Fuck,” he heard Bruce whisper, raw and urgent. The thumb slid in deeper, and Clark’s eyes drifted shut with a soft sigh. It tasted like leather and something metallic, which wasn’t exactly pleasant, but the sensation of it still made Clark’s blood sing. “Fuck, Clark—”

And then all at once, the fingers were gone and there was a pressure on his cock – Bruce’s palm grinding into him, those fingers squeezing. Clark gasped. “Jesus—”

“This is what you wanted,” Bruce hissed out. “You want this.” It wasn’t phrased like a question, but there was still something to the tone of Bruce’s voice that made it sound like one. If Clark didn’t know any better, he’d say Bruce sounded awed. Clark had already told him that yes, he wanted this, so he just rolled his hips into the touch in answer, breathing hard. The suit didn’t have much in the way of padding or protection, so he was sure Bruce could feel the shape of him through the thin, alien fabric, hard and eager. But he couldn’t feel Bruce in return; the position was still awkward with him balanced on top of him.

They didn't need words. Clark slid his hands beneath Bruce's thighs and Bruce automatically shifted his weight into the grip, let Clark move them both the short distance to the desk and set him on the edge, standing between his thighs, and—yes, this was so much better. Like this, he could feel that long, strong body moving against his own as Clark ducked down to kiss him breathless once more. They were frantic with each other, tugging at each other’s suits until their cocks were at last bared to the cool air of the Cave; then Clark wrapped a hand around both of their cocks, smearing the wetness leaking from their tips down the length of them before jerking them together.

Bruce shuddered against him, gasping out, “Clark,” against his mouth, and then he was kissing him again with twice as much passion as before, legs wrapping tight around his waist to hold him close, and everything was fast and frantic and—god, just so, so good. It probably couldn’t have been any other way, after Clark had gone so long with only the touch of his own hand: like a starving man set in front of a whole buffet, he couldn’t stop himself from gorging on this now that he had it, greedily rutting against Bruce hot and hard in his grip.

It didn’t take long before he felt close, body filled with thrumming tension waiting to spill over. His hands were gripping Bruce’s shoulders tight, and he dragged him in for a filthy kiss as he felt the pleasure overwhelm him, moaning into Bruce’s mouth as he spilled over his hand. While he was still in the throes of it, he felt Bruce arch against him and call out something that might have been Clark’s name.

In the quiet, sticky aftermath, they both caught their breath. And all at once, reality rushed back. Clark winced. “Shoot. We probably shouldn’t have done this here, huh?” he muttered, glancing around the Cave. Technically, any of the bats could catch them like this, and Clark was pretty sure Bruce didn’t want to traumatize his kids any more than he did.

But as he tried to pull away so they could both make themselves decent, Bruce grabbed him by the cape and tugged him into a spine-melting kiss. It wasn’t like before, slow and deep where they’d been frantic and rough, but no less passionate for it. Clark couldn’t hold back a soft moan, toes curling in his boots.

Bruce pulled back after a long moment. “Come upstairs,” he said softly. “You can stay the night.”

Clark blinked heavily, feeling a little dazed. “You…you really want…?”

“I really, really do,” Bruce confirmed, an echo of Clark’s own words, and kissed him again – only briefly this time, almost sweet. A promise of more to come.

Something warm and excited fluttered in Clark’s chest. Some part of him thought that this would be it. Just the once. Just the one taste of this new thrill, this excitement, before they went back to normal.

That would honestly be enough for him. But the thought of more was…

“Me too,” he breathed, and when he kissed Bruce again it was far from sweet.

They crashed into Bruce’s room in a blur of hands and mouths and touch touch touch. By the time one of them remembered to kick the door closed behind them, Clark was hard again. Five shuffling steps into the room, and Clark had figured out the catch on Bruce’s utility belt; another three, and the top half of Clark’s uniform was dropped carelessly to the floor; another two, and half the batsuit had joined it; another one, and Clark finally, finally had his hands on the bare skin of Bruce’s thighs. By the time they’d made their stumbling way to the bed, toppling onto the mattress in a graceless tangle of limbs unbefitting of the World’s Finest, Bruce was down to his underwear and Clark was down to nothing at all.

Clark took the liberty of rectifying this imbalance with his teeth. Bruce responded to this by all but tackling Clark to the bed like he couldn’t stand not to be kissing him anymore, a long, wriggling stretch of hot, naked skin and solid muscle against him, their hard cocks sandwiched between their bellies. And while it would be amazing to continue on like that, just let Bruce grind against him until they both came, Clark was feeling impatient and greedy for more.

It only took a little maneuvering for Clark to wriggle his legs out from under Bruce. “I don’t know what you’re into, but if you like you can…you know,” Clark murmured into Bruce’s ear, helpfully parting his thighs in demonstration. You can fuck me, he should have said, but it somehow felt too coarse and blunt, even considering what they were already doing. 

Bruce didn’t respond in words, but the way his breath caught was answer enough. His hands shook slightly as he prepared Clark. Clark thought about asking if he was nervous about fucking someone with super strength. Telling him that they could switch places, or do something else. 

But nothing about Bruce’s expression looked uncertain, and every inch of his biology screamed that he wanted this, as was the way he dragged his mouth down Clark’s body with clear relish. He didn’t settle for just opening Clark up with his fingers, taking the opportunity while in the general area to slip his mouth over Clark’s cock. And, as it turned out, Bruce gave excellent head. Batman’s wide array of skills seemed to include an entirely voluntary gag reflex, the ability to hold his breath under duress for improbable durations, and an oral dexterity that suggested he could not just tie a knot in a cherry stem with his tongue but also use it to pick a medium-difficulty lock or, if the occasion demanded it, paint a passable forgery of the Mona Lisa. And combined with the feeling of those strong, clever fingers drawing out pleasure with every pass, it was long before Clark was all but begging Bruce to hurry up and fuck him already, all embarrassment over coarse language forgotten.

Bruce slid into him with Clark’s face pressed into the pillows, hips up, and stayed there stretched out on top of him like the world’s sexiest weighted blanket for about three seconds before he was rolling his hips in slow deep thrusts that made Clark’s vision flicker. If Clark could make an expression that wasn’t slack and gasping pleasure, he was sure he’d be grinning ear to ear. God, it was just—so good, and it had been so long since he’d had this. And not just sex, but this, someone inside him just like this. The first and only man he’d done this with had been a not-quite-boyfriend during college. Clark vividly remembered that the first time he’d tried, he’d been terrified of his superstrength kicking in where it wasn’t wanted and giving the guy a horrible injury – a fear that had been thankfully unwarranted. And in the years since then there’d been Lois. Lois, who’d lit up when Clark had shyly confessed during a particularly candid session of pillow talk just how much he still thought about that, and then surprised him on his birthday wearing a strap-on and brandishing a bottle of water-based lube. “Bend and spread, Birthday Boy,” she’d crowed triumphantly in the face of Clark’s surprise, and Clark had been torn between laughter and thrilled mortification.

It was a good night. A really good night, even. Lois had taken clear delight in her role. Clark had very fond memories of her slim, sure fingers opening him up, the weight of her body pushing his thighs down to his shoulders, the hungry look in her eyes as she’d slowly watched him fall apart beneath her. But they’d only used the strap a couple of times after that. It was different with Lois, after all. He knew she didn’t get nearly as much out of fucking him as he did. After all, it wasn’t like she could feel Clark around her, the way he could feel “her” inside him or the way Bruce could feel him now, so it never really felt fair to ask. Especially as things between them deteriorated, in the years that followed, when asking and fair went from considerations to minefields, and even if he wanted he hadn’t felt like he could have—

Clark stopped that train of thought before it could finish. Damn. There was that heaviness in his gut whenever he thought – really thought – about this.

He really needed to stop going over and over these things in his head, when all it did was ache. Dwelling on the past like this just wasn’t helpful.

“Everything okay?” he heard in a low rumble by his ear. “You’ve gone quiet. If you want me to stop—”

“No, please,” Clark said quickly, because stopping was the absolute last thing he wanted, not when he finally had all this heat and touch and slick pressure he’d been missing. He rolled his hips back against Bruce’s, brought his heels up to press into Bruce’s ass. “It’s good, so good, I promise. Just—harder, faster,” hard and fast enough that he couldn’t think anymore—

Bruce swore under his breath and dutifully picked up the pace, and—yes this was it, this was perfect, the weight of memory suppressed by the drag of Bruce inside him sending sparks of pleasure up his spine.

This wasn’t like it was with Lois. This was almost as different as it could get. This was fast, brutal thrusts, stubble against his skin, and a rough hand around his cock, until Clark cried out and shook, obliterating pleasure turning all coherent thought to blissful blankness. This was a low voice in his ear asking him if he wanted to keep going, and a frantic nod in reply, and those gorgeous, maddening thrusts beginning again. This was feeling himself grow hard once more as soft masculine grunts turned into strangled groans. This was a powerful body shuddering over him as his hips finally stuttered and he filled the condom.

This was something new.

And that was exactly what Clark had wanted.

After that, both of them were tired and sticky enough to need a break. They took excellent advantage of Bruce’s enormous shower, before they finally collapsed in an exhausted heap on the unsoiled half of Bruce’s similarly enormous bed. Sleep came soon after.

Clark meandered to a peaceful consciousness when the sunlight hit Bruce’s room. He could sense what his sleep-addled brain slowly realized was Bruce: the low, steady thump of a heartbeat, the warmth radiating from his skin, the dip in the mattress beside him. The reassuring presence of a familiar body. The sun was falling across his face. With his eyes still closed, it turned the darkness to a blurry orange-gold, warmed his skin from the inside out. He always woke with the sun – it gave him a little burst of energy, like what coffee probably did for humans– but rarely when he woke did he feel so…settled, deep in his bones. Like for once, nothing was missing.

He couldn’t remember the last time he’d felt this relaxed. He tilted his head towards that warmth, felt a smile tug at his lips.

Bruce’s heartbeat stuttered.

His eyes drifted open. “Morning,” he croaked.

“Morning,” was the soft reply. Bruce’s voice was rough with sleep. He can’t have been awake for too long.

“I’m surprised you’re awake. I figured you’d sleep in.” After all, Bruce wasn’t exactly a morning person, especially not with the hours he kept.

When he turned his head, Bruce was lying on his side, watching him with a strange blankness that Clark couldn’t read. Which was a little unusual. Even if Bruce was inscrutable to a lot of people, it wasn’t often that Clark couldn’t figure out how he was feeling.

“You’re staring,” Clark noted, amused. Bruce was often cranky in the mornings, but Clark had never seen him so spaced out. Maybe that was just what he was like after he woke up?

Bruce just hummed. 

Clark chuckled. “Do I have something on my face?”

Bruce wet his lips. “No. No, you look…perfect.”

Well, that wasn’t exactly what he expected to come out of Bruce’s mouth. “Yeah, Lo used to say the same thing.”

For some reason, that brought Bruce up short. “What?”

“She always said I looked perfect. No drool, or pillow marks, or eye gunk, or even much bedhead.” He chuckled ruefully. “Well, more specifically, she said it pissed her off—”

“Why are you bringing up your ex-wife now,” Bruce cut in sharply.

Clark winced, immediately guilty. “Oh, is that bad etiquette? Sorry, I’m still not sure of the rules of this yet.”

“The rules,” Bruce repeated blankly.

“Yeah, the rules of, uh…‘casual’,” he explained. “Like I said, I haven’t exactly done this before.” Bruce was the expert here; just this once, Clark was content to follow his lead on this.

“This,” Bruce echoed again. “Meaning…casual.”

“Yeah. Like, is bringing up your ex still bad if you’re not in a relationship, or is staying the night too date-y, or, you know…is kissing too intimate—”

“Of course it’s not. Pretty Woman is not reality, Clark,” Bruce said, face oddly stiff.

“Ha! Yeah, I figured that one out pretty quickly.” After all, he and Bruce had done a heck of a lot of kissing, alongside everything else. 

“You…” Bruce pressed his lips together. “I thought you didn’t do hookups.”

Clark frowned. “Well…I don’t. But this isn’t just a hookup.”

“It’s…not?” Bruce asked, voice edged with…something. Concern?

“No,” Clark said, trying for a reassuring smile. “After all, we’re friends. This is nothing like an encounter with some random stranger.”

Bruce was silent for a long time, just watching him, expression still unreadable. Then he rolled onto his back, staring up at the ceiling.

“I see,” he said eventually.

Oh boy, he was definitely acting off. Clark was starting to get worried. “Bruce? Is everything okay?”

Bruce’s eyes drifted shut. “Yes, Clark. Everything is fine.”

Clark frowned worriedly. It didn’t feel like the truth, even though Bruce’s heartbeat was perfectly steady. But then again, Bruce was one of the rare humans who could force his heartbeat steady even when it wasn’t.

“Bruce,” he tried, laying a hand on his shoulder, “I really don’t want this to affect our friendship. If the sex has made things awkward—”

“I said I’m fine.”

“Then why won’t you look at me?”

Finally, Bruce opened his eyes, just to glare at him. Clark scowled. “Look, if I’ve done something wrong, I’d really rather you just tell me so we can talk it out—”

“There’s nothing to talk about,” Bruce said coolly.

In a sudden, smooth movement, he rolled on top of Clark, straddling his thighs. His hands were braced on Clark’s chest, then trailed down his chest and stomach to wrap around his morning wood in a firm grip.

“After all, it’s simple,” Bruce said. “This is what you wanted, right?”

Clark gasped, hips jerking up into the grip. “Bruce—”

Bruce was stroking him now, teasing and slow, looking down at him with now-familiar heat. “You wanted this last night. Do you want more?”

He dipped his head to drag his mouth along the sensitive skin of Clark’s throat, morning stubble a teasing friction. His cock jumped in Bruce’s grip. “More? You mean…”

“We can keep doing this, if you like,” Bruce murmured. “As friends.”

“Like…friends with benefits?”

“If you like,” Bruce said. And Clark considered it. He’d never had a…a ‘fuck buddy’ before, crude as it sounded, but… Regular sex, without any of the commitment and expectation of a serious relationship. Regular sex with Bruce, who was gorgeous and who he trusted more than anyone and who, Clark had learned extensively last night, was really, really good at sex.

Wasn’t that pretty much perfect?

Then Bruce shifted up to kiss him, hard and demanding, and Clark didn’t have room to consider anything other than the way Bruce was kissing him. Clark moaned helplessly into it, hands threading into Bruce’s hair, hips rolling into his grip as it sped up. Bruce pulled back to murmur against his lips, “Is that a yes?”

And, “Yes,” Clark breathed, and wrapped a hand around Bruce in turn.

Chapter Text

It was a beautiful day in Metropolis. The sun wasn’t shining so much as peeking out from behind intermittent clouds; the birds weren’t singing, because the only birds brazen enough to loiter around central Metropolis were pigeons, which in Clark’s experience weren’t very musical. But with spring now turning to summer, the air was pleasantly warm without the cloying humidity that would arrive with the start of August. Of course, the pollution in Metropolis meant the air rarely felt fresh – even the parks didn’t hold a candle to the Smallville air – but it was still pleasant to be outside for the four blocks it took to reach the food truck Lois loved.

The owner was a tiny, stooped older lady who’d probably only come up to Clark’s waist if they stood side by side, but she had a commanding presence most professional bodybuilders would envy. “Hello, sir! The usual?”

“Yes please,” he said, smiling back. Not that she was smiling at him, technically. Clark had never seen her smile at anyone, in fact. But there was a warm familiarity in her tone that felt like a smile.

Come to think of it, she kind of reminded him of someone.

Clark smiled to himself as he watched her disappear into the back of the van to prepare his food. Just like that, he was thinking about the weekend again. It was barely Monday afternoon, so it was only two days since he’d woken up in Bruce’s bed for the first time in his life. Two days since Bruce had suggested their arrangement. Two days since Bruce had spent a very enjoyable half an hour demonstrating exactly what that arrangement might look like, before Clark had been pulled away by an emergency. They’d been right in the middle of things, so to speak, but Bruce had been predictably gracious about letting him go. After all, Superman was needed. That came above everything else.

Still, he’d looked back for a moment, just as he’d been about to leave the room. Seen Bruce spread out across mussed sheets, temptingly and unashamedly naked, skin flushed and sweat-slick, lazily fisting his cock as his eyelids fluttered with pleasure. And although Clark hadn’t been tempted to stay then, he’d returned to that moment several times since then. What might have happened if he’d stayed? And that thought immediately led to pleasant speculation. Bruce’s lips wrapped around his cock, his clever tongue. Bruce fucking him again, dark-eyed and intense. The feel of Bruce’s incredible body beneath his hands. The curve of Bruce’s grin as he slicked his own fingers up, stretched himself open, let Clark slide in—

“You look like you’re in a good mood today!”

The words startled him out of his thoughts. He looked up to see one of the workers at the food truck watching him: a young man, although probably no more than a decade younger than Clark, with warm, brown skin and neat, close-cropped curly hair. He’d been working there for a few months. Clark recalled. He didn’t come here every day, but it was often enough to recognize recurring faces.

Abruptly, Clark remembered that these were not the direction his thoughts should be going in a very public place. Oh god, had his thoughts been written all over his face? He hoped not. God, he should not be letting himself get carried away like that in public. “I’m sorry?”

The man tipped his head towards Clark. “I said, you look like you’re in a good mood.” Clark’s face must have gone on a journey at that, because the man’s smile widened into a grin. “Sorry, sorry! I wasn’t trying to spook you. It’s just I’ve seen you come here a few times and you have a different vibe around you this time.” He tapped his own cheek. “You were smiling to yourself.”

Oh. “Was I?”

Still grinning, he leaned forwards on his forearms. “Yeah. You don’t catch a lot of 9-to-5 types doing that on a Monday lunchtime. I guess something good happened, huh?”

Yeah, Clark could see that. Monday mornings at the Daily Planet tended to be a relatively somber affair, with most of the staff in various states of grim determination and mild depression. It was unsurprising from any office, and especially one in which a healthy work-life balance – including having an entire weekend off – was an uncommon luxury. Cat had clip-clopped in at nine o’clock pretty much on the dot, clutching a very overpriced and artificially sugarless latte like a lifeline. Steve drifted in a couple of minutes late, seemingly nursing a mild hangover – unsurprising, Clark had noted, given Steve had been talking about “The Big Game” on Sunday for the past week. Few people at the office were at their best.

Clark was generally immune to the Monday blues, but today he was admittedly even more chipper than normal. It was amazing how different the world felt after Friday. Not like the world had tilted on its axis, but…like his load was a little lighter somehow. Like the sun was a little warmer, the grass a little greener, and life’s many obstacles a little smaller. The article he’d been struggling with most of last week, unable to nail the tone he wanted, suddenly clicked into place as if by magic as soon as he’d settled down to work on it that day. Like he’d been spinning his wheels, but finally he’d settled on even ground.

All that, and the only thing that had changed for him was getting laid. He’d known he was craving it – he’d definitely felt a growing frustration over the last few months – but clearly he’d underestimated how much he’d needed that kind of release. But then, it wasn’t just the sex, was it? Sex had always been a wonderful part of something greater, but the point had always been the person and the relationship, not the act itself. This thing with Bruce was the first time in his life he’d done it almost for its own sake, it felt…fun. Exciting. Freeing.

“Yeah,” Clark said lightly. “I guess you could say that.”

“Nice, congrats! Uh, it’s Clark, right?” The man’s expression spasmed. “Uh, I mean. I only know that because I work here and you’re a regular.”

Clark quirked an eyebrow. “Yeah, I figured.”

The man looked a little relieved. “Yeah, of course you would. I’m Abdi, by the way.”

Clark shot him a smile. “Lovely to meet you, Abdi!”

For some reason, this seemed to make the guy nervous again. Clark recalled what Bruce had told him about sometimes being intimidating and tried to soften it, but somehow that only seemed to make it worse.

After a slightly awkward pause, the guy cleared his throat. “So, what’s got you in such a good mood then? Is it your anniversary or something?”

Clark smile froze. “Ah…no. I’m divorced.”

The man's eyes widened. “Oh.”

“Yeah.”

“God, I’m—I’m so sorry—”

“It’s fine,” Clark said quickly. “It was a while ago now.” He neglected to mention that “a while ago” was less than a year. That would probably only make poor Abdi feel worse.

Probably he shouldn’t have mentioned it in the first place.

The guy opened his mouth to say something – probably another apology – but before he could manage, the owner reached over from where she was standing in front of the stove and thwapped the guy on the shoulder in clear reprimand. “Abdi! Stop harassing our customers!” she barked in heavily accented English, before turning to Clark with warmth in her eyes, handing over three cartons stuffed to the brim. “Here you go, young man, two beef chicken with injera and extra vegetable, and just vegetable with rice, yes?”

Clark accepted them gratefully, but the young man shot her a scowl. “I wasn’t harassing him! We were just talking, I didn’t mean to—”

“Why are you talking when you’re supposed to be working? Have you even charged him?” she snapped at him in Oromo – or at least, Clark was pretty sure that’s what she said (his Oromo was a little rusty), and the guy fired back with something too fast for Clark to fully parse. Sensing that this would turn into an argument he had no business being part of, he quickly pulled out enough cash to cover his order and booked a tactful exit, a polite thank-you-and-see-you-later tossed over his shoulder.

He returned to the office only a few minutes later. Most people were out for lunch but, just as he’d known she would be, Lois was still there just as he’d left her: hunched over her desk, sensible heels kicked off under the desk, her bare feet tucked under her in her chair, glaring daggers at her screen. He’d known something was wrong today before he’d left for lunch. She was wearing her lilac silk blouse, the one that brought out her eyes. The one Clark had bought her on a whim years ago while walking past a storefront, struck by how much it reminded him of the shade of her eyes. She only pulled it out on special work occasions, because she thought getting it dry-cleaned was too much hassle. Which made sense. She’d mentioned last week that today she was supposed to be meeting an important source. So if she was wearing that and so clearly unhappy…

“Meeting didn’t go to plan?” he asked her sympathetically.

She let out a frustrated huff as she met his gaze. “You could say that,” she grumbled. “It fell through. Carandini broke house arrest and went into hiding literally this morning.”

Clark’s eyebrows shot up. “Oh, wow.”

“Yup.”

“And I’m guessing he didn’t leave a convenient journal behind with all the information you need from him, huh?”

“You guess right.” She let her forearms slide forwards and let her forehead thump against them, her glossy, dark hair spilling over the desk. “Damn bastard didn’t even have the decency to leave a note. What the hell am I supposed to do now?”

“Find another source?”

She shot him a dry look from beneath a curtain of hair. “Thanks for the keen-eyed suggestion, Smallville, but ex-mob doctors who know Simone Carandini’s medical history are pretty thin on the ground at the moment.”

“A shame,” he said lightly, but not without genuine sympathy. Losing leads was part of the job, but it never got less frustrating. “Well, if it helps…” He held up the second portion of food. “I got you your favorite, chicken beef with injera.”

Lois sat up. “You got me lunch.”

Clark felt suddenly wrong-footed. “Well,” he said. “I was going there anyway.”

“You didn’t have to—”

“I know,” he said quickly. “I wanted to.”

“Clark,” she said, then pressed her lips together. She accepted the carton and flashed him a smile that didn’t quite reach her eyes. “Thanks.”

“No problem,” Clark said, feeling uncomfortably like he’d done something wrong.

He shook off the unease and settled in at his desk. He was about halfway through his meal when Jimmy stopped by. Jimmy, similarly immune to the Monday blues, beamed down at him with a level of joie de vivre that he knew Cat in particular found excruciating. “Hey Clark! Oh, that looks good.”

“It is,” Clark agreed. “Good weekend?”

“Eh, pretty normal. How about you? Did you have fun on Friday?”

Clark blinked. “On Friday?”

“You said you had plans,” Jimmy went on – and oh, right, the date with Ronnie. For a moment he thought Jimmy had somehow been asking about Bruce.

He smiled. “Yeah, I did, thanks.”

“Awesome! What did you get up to… Oh!” His eyes widened. “Wait, you’ve been doing the apps, right? Was it a date?”

“Uh, Jimmy,” he said lowly. “I’m not sure this is the best place to…”

His eyes flickered to Lois, who was only a few desks away and could absolutely hear everything they were saying. Her jaw was noticeably tense. Jimmy followed his gaze and his mouth formed a perfect ‘o’. “Right, of course,” he went on in a stage whisper. I get it, ixnay on the, uh, ateday. Why don’t we go to the breakroom and grab a coffee—”

“Oh for god’s sake,” Lois cut in harshly, hands slamming on the desktop, “Jimmy, you know I can still hear and understand you when you whisper Pig Latin next to my desk, right? Because I feel like you should know that.”

Jimmy winced. “Oh right. Sorry.”

“It’s fine,” she went on, waving a hand. “You being weird about it is what’s making it weird. You’re making this weirder than it needs to be. Clark’s allowed to date. We both are. Aren’t we, Clark?”

“Um,” Clark said. “Yes.”

“See? We’ve discussed this, and it’s fine. So don’t apologize for mentioning it in my presence, okay?”

“Um. Sure,” Jimmy replied.

“I think it’s a good thing,” she went on forcefully. “I’m happy for him. For you, Clark. Really! And I realize the more I say this the more it seems like I’m not actually happy for you, but I don’t really have any other way to communicate that it’s really. Fine. Everything’s fine.”

“Right,” Clark agreed.

“I feel like you don’t believe me.”

“I do.”

“Well. Good.”

There was an awkward silence. Lois was grimacing at her desk. Jimmy was wide-eyed and silent. Clark didn’t know what to do with his hands.

“Alright,” Clark said eventually, once the silence had stretched past comfort. Feeling a little lost, he tried, “I’m sorry.”

Clark wasn’t sure what he’d been hoping for from that, but it definitely wasn’t Lois’ expression shuttering entirely. The room’s temperature dropped. “Jesus, will you just stop?”

Clark had mis-stepped. He wasn’t sure where, but he had, because Lois was upset now, blank aggression masking something deeper. Something like hurt. That thing between them he tried and tried and tried to fix, but had never managed. That thing that had broken them eventually.

“Okay,” he said carefully. He had to be careful. “What should I stop?”

“Just this, all of this. I don’t need all this, okay? I don’t.”

Clark swallowed. It was becoming harder and harder to keep his face impassive. “You’re going to have to help me out here. I’m not sure what I did wrong.”

“You didn’t do anything wrong, that’s the whole problem,” she hissed. “I’m the one making an ass out of myself here. Why the hell are you apologizing?”

Her voice was getting louder. Clark was very aware that the attention of most of the newsroom was on them now, could practically feel Cat’s eyes burning into the back of his head. “You’re not making an ass of yourself,” he tried, which elicited a disbelieving and annoyed huff. “But maybe we should talk about this outside. I think—”

“No. Nope! Nuh-uh,” she said. She slammed her hands on the table and pushed herself to her feet. “We’re not ‘talking’ about anything. I’m going out for lunch.”

She was already striding out of the office. The food Clark had bought her sat untouched in its container on her desk.

His good mood from earlier had completely vanished.

Jimmy’s expression was twisted with guilt. “I’m so sorry, Clark, I shouldn’t have—”

“It’s okay, Jim,” Clark said with a smile he didn’t feel. “I’m fine.”

Jimmy didn’t look reassured. “Clark…”

Most of the bullpen was still staring at him. There was a feeling bubbling up in his chest that wasn’t quite embarrassment but that he didn’t want to label as anger.

Clark stood. “Really, I’m fine. I think I’ll just…”

“Sure,” Jimmy said weakly as Clark wandered off in the direction of the bathroom at a very regular human pace, wearing his most regular human expression like a shield. Once he was inside the cubicle he sat on the toilet lid.

It was good that Lois had left, he told himself. Lois was upset, and she was never good at talking things through when she was upset, by her own admission. When he tried to force her to talk things through when she was upset, any kind of discussion just devolved into a one-sided argument, and that only made her more upset. And honestly, the rest of the office knew enough about their relationship—former relationship. It was best, objectively, that she stopped it where she did.

He still didn’t know what he’d done wrong.

He felt restless, like his skin didn’t fit right. He took a deep breath and then another, willing his jaw to unclench. After a little while, he took out his phone and started scrolling half-mindlessly through the news headlines. Today’s issue of the Planet offered minimal distraction. The Wall Street Journal wasn’t much better. Nor was the Gotham Gazette.

Without thinking, he closed his web browser and opened up his messages. And then he was staring at his message history with Bruce.

He only hesitated for a moment before he was typing in a message:

      Clark: What are you doing right now?

The reply came only a few seconds later:

      B: Finishing some scheduled updates. Do you need something?

Clark winced. There it was. Not especially, just checking in, he texted back, then sighed and slipped his phone back into his pocket.

Why had he thought that was a good idea? He usually knew better than to attempt small talk with Bruce, who found it pointless at the best of times and irritating at the worst. Sure, Bruce would always listen if he wanted to talk about things. But Clark didn’t want to talk about things. In fact, he wanted to do anything other than talk about things. The idea of Jimmy cautiously, guiltily asking him if he was okay made him want to—

He didn’t know what he wanted.

He pushed himself to his feet. But before he could leave, his phone vibrated again.

      B: I’ll be at the Watchtower until evening.

Clark paused with his hand halfway to the latch. That was definitely an invitation. Suddenly his mind went back to Friday and Bruce canceling patrol for him, and his regret deepened.

      Clark: It’s really nothing! I don’t want to bother you.

      B: You wouldn’t. This isn’t exactly mentally taxing.

Clark smiled, a familiar fondness swelling in his chest. That was Bruce’s way of telling him he’d appreciate the company. Of course he was Bruce, so he couldn’t just say that outright, but Clark knew that was what he meant. Over fifteen years of friendship with a man who was allergic to the concept of direct communication had made him pretty good at reading between the lines.

Knowing that he could see Bruce that evening, returning to the bullpen to face his colleagues was a little more bearable. He kept his head down for the rest of the day. Lois returned to the office an hour later like nothing had happened. The food Clark had brought her was carefully placed in her handbag before she left.

It was fine. It was all fine.

Still, he was glad when 5 o’clock rolled around. He only made the briefest stop at home before flying up to the Watchtower. He arrived to find Bruce in the server room, typing something into a terminal on a small laptop. “Hey B! How’s it going?”

“Slowly,” Bruce said, frowning lightly at the screen. “You?”

“I’m good,” Clark said, which wasn’t entirely a lie.

Bruce just grunted. “I’m due a break.”

Clark widened his eyes comedically. “You? Take a break? Should I be checking out the window for flying pigs?”

“I’m not taking that from you,” Bruce said, which Clark couldn’t really argue with. He pushed himself to his feet. “Let’s take a meeting room.”

Bruce strode past Clark out of the room, without waiting for Clark to confirm. Clark followed, idly wondering why Bruce didn’t just take them to the break room. When they entered, he noted that it was odd that Bruce decided to lock the door behind them. And then before he could ask what was up, Bruce pulled off his cowl and stepped closer.

Somehow, it was only then that he realized what was happening. He swallowed. “Bruce…”

“Clark,” was all Bruce said and then kissed him, licked into his mouth when it opened on a gasp. Clark kissed back, pure instinct, and Bruce walked them back until Clark thighs were pressed against the edge of the table, Bruce’s solid body crowding him in.

“Let’s fuck,” Bruce said.

“Oh god,” Clark managed, voice already hoarse. He hadn’t anticipated how hearing that kind of language in Batman’s rough growl would make him feel. “Here?”

“Here,” Bruce confirmed, hands running down Clark’s sides, slipping down to his ass. It seemed obvious, in retrospect, that Bruce had chosen a meeting room because they were the only ones that locked.

“But—the cameras—”

“I turned them off.”

“For this?”

There was a sardonic tilt to Bruce’s barely-there smile that was entirely familiar, although Clark had never seen it so charged with heat before. “Would you prefer I let them film?”

“Bruce,” Clark said, chastising – although it probably didn’t come across as all that chastising when his own hands were sliding onto Bruce’s hips. Certainly not when his next words dissolved into a wordless groan before they could even form, when Bruce dipped his head to scrape his teeth against Clark’s neck. Summoning all his willpower, he managed, “This…this wasn’t what I had in mind. When I came here.”

“Tell me to stop,” Bruce murmured, “and I’ll stop.”

Clark’s breath was short. “I’m…not telling you to stop.”

He could actually feel Bruce’s lips quirk against his skin. “Noted.”

“I just don’t want you to think,” Clark managed, strangled, “that this is all I want from you now.”

“Table.”

Clark obligingly shifted back to sit on the table. “I just—”

“Clark,” Bruce interrupted him, sounding amused. “It’s fine. I want to.” He wasted no time crawling into his lap, and it was just like it was Friday in the Cave, Bruce deliciously warm and solid above him – except better, because now Bruce could push him down, settle his weight fully on Clark’s hips. Leaning close to Clark’s ear, he murmured, “I’ve been thinking about this.”

Clark shivered. Somehow, his hands were on Bruce without his conscious intent, sliding over his thighs. “You have?”

“Mm,” was Bruce’s only reply, because his mouth was busy working on sucking an impossible bruise into Clark’s neck. His stubble was rough against Clark’s skin and his hand was trailing down Clark’s chest, light and teasing, and Clark was honestly a little embarrassed at how quickly he was getting hard.

“Me too,” Clark admitted on a low outbreath. “I’ve thought about this too. I thought about this all weekend.”

“Good,” Bruce said, unsmiling but clearly pleased, and then he was bending down to kiss him, intense and devouring. Clark groaned and succumbed easily. Already the rest of the world and its problems – Jimmy’s guilt and sympathy, Lois’ anger, the office’s curious stares – felt further away. All that mattered was Bruce’s mouth, and Bruce’s weight on him, and Bruce’s warm solidity under his hands. He was touching Bruce everywhere he could, hands running all over Bruce’s back and sides and ass, fingers tracing along the gaps where the armor was thinnest. He wanted to rip that armor off and touch Bruce’s bare skin again. He wanted to make Bruce lose his composure again. He wanted—

He pulled back, head thumping too hard against the table. “Do you—” he began, then paused, wetting his lips. Licking the taste of Bruce off his lips. “You said you were thinking about this. What did you have in mind?”

Bruce was panting, pale skin lightly flushed, pupils dark and intent. “Nothing in particular. Just you.” He shifted back, rolling his ass over Clark’s hips, and Clark had to bite back a moan. Bent low and murmured into Clark’s ear: “I can do so many things for you Clark. Anything. Whatever you want.”

Clark’s breath caught. “Anything?”

“As you have previously pointed out,” Bruce said lightly, “I’m easy.”

He flushed. “I…I never said that!”

“And I never said it wasn’t true.” His hips were still moving, a teasing grind. “What were you thinking about? My mouth? I could suck you off again, Clark. You could fuck my mouth. I want you to.”

Clark groaned. His hands were tight on Bruce’s hips now, encouraging. It was good, but not enough. Not enough. He wanted—

“Or maybe you’ve been thinking about my cock,” Bruce said, so low it was almost a growl. Seductive and dangerous all at once. “My fingers inside you, opening you up for me. My cock, stretching you open. You were so good for me, Clark, so warm, so tight—”

In the blink of an eye, he had Bruce flat on his back on the table, hips pushing his thighs apart. “I want to fuck you,” he breathed. And he nearly regretted it because god, it was too aggressive, too demanding, why did he even think Bruce would want that—

“Fuck,” Bruce said lowly, voice cracking. His breath was coming faster now. The scent of arousal in the room was impossible to ignore. “Yes. Yes, you can. Just—”

“Off,” Clark said, tugging at Bruce’s suit. Bruce stilled for a fraction of a second, heartbeat stuttering before he complied. Clark sat back and watched him strip out of the top half of the suit with quick, efficient movements, revealing his pale, scarred skin inch by inch, the muscles beneath shifting as he stretched.

On anyone else, it wouldn’t have looked eager. But Clark knew Bruce, knew how he moved: controlled, precise, everything calculated. Almost supernaturally graceful, some might say, although Clark knew how hard he’d worked for every inch of that grace, knew there was nothing supernatural about it. That grace was all but absent now. Bruce’s fingers had the slightest tremor to them, and Clark observed that he really would have had an easier time getting out of his complicated suit if he’d disentangled himself from Clark entirely. But he hadn’t. Like he didn’t want to stop touching him.

That was when it really sank in for him. Bruce wanted this just as much as Clark did, or maybe even more.

Maybe, just maybe, he didn’t have to hold back this time.

The thought of it made Clark feel warm and electric everywhere. As soon as Bruce had cast aside the top half of the suit, Clark was on him, pressing him into the table with most of his weight. Knowing Bruce could take it. “Thank you,” he murmured before capturing Bruce’s mouth with his own again. Bruce strained up to meet him with a barely voiced groan, wriggling deliciously against him, then groaned again when Clark trailed his mouth down Bruce’s chest, down his stomach. He wanted—

He wanted a lot of things. He wanted to nose against the tantalizing trail of dark, coarse hair leading from Bruce’s navel into his pants, so he did. He wanted to taste the salt tang of sweat from his skin, so he did. He wanted to rip Bruce’s pants off, but he didn’t because Bruce might never talk to him again if he ruined the bat suit. Instead, he pressed his face into the crease of his thigh, the hard edge of Bruce’s cup pressing against the side of his nose, where the smell of arousal was strongest. Kissed it.

Bruce’s hips twitched. “I thought you wanted me naked,” he said, just a little too breathless to sound as dryly pointed as he probably wanted.

“Good point,” Clark said, grinning. He slipped off the table to give Bruce room to unclip his belt, then helped him wriggle out of the bottom half. “You know, next time we should do this out of uniform. Your suit takes so long to remove.”

Bruce finally kicked off his pants. “Says the man who’s still clothed.”

Oh. Right. “Should I—”

“No time,” Bruce growled. “Just fuck me.”

Hearing that in that rough, demanding voice made Clark just as impatient. He hastily shoved down his pants, but that was as far as Bruce let him get before he was pressing his heels into Clark’s back and urging him closer, like he wanted Clark to just slide straight in. “Bruce, we can’t just— I need to—”

“You can. I’m ready.”

Clark looked down. And sure enough, Bruce was already—

“Wow,” Clark breathed, eyes caught on the slickness between Bruce’s thighs. “When did you do that?”

“Does it matter?”

“Yeah, it does,” Clark said. He smoothed his hands over the back of Bruce’s thighs and pushed them back, slowly, carefully. Wanting a better look. “Were you hoping for this?”

“I was covering my bases,” Bruce said. When Clark raised an eyebrow, he added dryly. “Didn’t you know? I’m Batman. I like to prepare for all eventualities.”

“Still, this is a hell of a base to cover.” Slowly, carefully, he slid two fingers on his right hand inside Bruce, testing. Sure enough, they slipped inside easily. When he crooked his fingers just so, Bruce gasped, stomach muscles twitching, his hard, flushed cock jerking against his stomach.

“Anytime this century, Kent,” Bruce grunted, in exactly the same tone of voice he used when Hal showed up late for a meeting, and Clark couldn’t help but laugh. He gently tugged Bruce forwards so his hips were at the edge of the table, lined himself up, and—

“Oh god,” he hissed as he slowly sank into that blissfully tight, wet heat. Bruce’s thighs were twitching in his grip and—god he was tight. He couldn’t be— Was he— “Are you okay?”

“Fine. Big,” Bruce grunted, eyes closed, brow furrowed in a mixture of concentration and pleasure, wriggling his hips slightly. “Just keep going.”

“Okay,” Clark breathed. He knew he was a little bigger than most; most of his partners needed a lot of careful coaxing on their first time. It was part of the reason he’d offered to bottom on Friday, not wanting to risk making Bruce uncomfortable. But clearly he needn’t have been so cautious, because Bruce grunted softly and then all of a sudden the overwhelming pressure eased, enough for Clark to slide in.

God, he felt incredible. Clark couldn’t hold back a shaky moan as he slowly sank home, hips pressed against Bruce’s ass. “Christ, you take me so well. I should have known you’d even be good at this.” Bruce made a soft noise and tightened around him, and Clark beamed down at him. “Oh. You like that, huh?”

Bruce didn’t reply. He had his eyes closed, breathing harsh but controlled, jaw tight. Experimentally, Clark rolled his hips experimentally. Bruce just about choked on an inhale.

Christ. Clark could count on two hands the number of times he’d seen Bruce so visibly fighting for composure, and most of those he didn’t care to remember. To know that he could get him there through pleasure…

Clark bit his lip. “You okay for me to move?”

“Yes,” Bruce said through gritted teeth. So Clark did – slow at first, then faster when he was sure that everything about Bruce was screaming that he wanted more. Clark was still gripping his thighs to hold him still, pushing Bruce’s knees back towards the table – Jesus, he was so flexible – but his skin was warm and flushed, his eyes dark and hungry, his hands scrabbling at the table, and tiny, strained noises poured out of his slack mouth on every thrust.

He readjusted his position so he could lean down and kiss Bruce while he fucked him, deep, steady thrusts, pushing Bruce’s flexibility to its limits. Bruce’s arms were around his neck as soon as he was close enough, pulling him in, and they kissed like that, wet and filthy and incredible as the heat built between them, Bruce’s hands digging into the slick material of Clark’s uniform in an attempt to tug him even closer. And Clark realized with a thrill of something that he was essentially fucking Bruce as Superman. He hadn’t done that in a long time. Lois wanted him naked, liked to look, had clearly relished watching him strip off for her or ripping his clothes off. And Clark liked—had liked that she liked to look, when they'd still been together. Intimate. But there was something thrillingly novel, something scandalous and illicit, about doing it like this instead.

Maybe it was that thought that tipped him over the edge in the end, loosing a rough groan into the curve of Bruce’s neck as he shuddered through it. He just barely had the presence of mind to wrap a hand around Bruce in turn, and then Bruce tensed on a caught gasp and came all over his stomach.

They stayed like that for a long moment, panting as they both came down from it. Eventually Clark pushed himself up onto his hands and let Bruce’s legs slip from his shoulders, dazed and exhilarated. Looked down at Bruce, spread out gorgeously naked beneath him, skin flushed pink, come painting the coarse hair of his stomach. His gaze drifted lower, between his legs.

“Crap,” Clark said, frowning. “We forgot to use a condom.”

“Didn’t forget. Didn’t ask,” Bruce said. There was a rasp to his voice that spoke of more than just his usual gruffness. “I prefer it this way.”

Clark raised an eyebrow. “Kinky.”

Bruce snorted. “If that’s what you consider kinky, then you’re more vanilla than I thought.”

Clark carefully pulled out, then bent down to press a light kiss to Bruce’s lips before pulling back. “That was incredible. You were incredible. Thank you.”

Bruce blinked up at him, eyes residually hazy before they sharpened into focus. “No need to thank me. This wasn't exactly selfless,” he said dryly.

“Well sure, but still.” A smile tugged at his lips. “I wasn't having the best day, but this made it a whole lot better. So really, thanks.”

Bruce's expression softened ever so slightly around the edges. “Anytime, Clark.”

He pushed himself up on his hands and reached for his belt, then pulled out a pack of tissues and handed some to Clark. Clark took the cue to start cleaning himself up while Bruce did the same and started to pull on his suit. As Clark was tucking himself back into his suit, painfully aware that he’d have to do laundry after this, Bruce smiled at him, this time edged with heat. “I mean it. Anytime. Don’t be shy about asking.”

Clark paused. “Anytime?”

Bruce shrugged. “Anytime I’m free.”

“Just…call you up and ask if you want to have sex.”

Bruce looked amused. “It can be a text too. But yes.”

“Oh,” Clark said. “That’s, ah…good to know.” He’d definitely thought about it, lying in bed and waiting restlessly for sleep to come. Feeling that familiar stirring, thinking about what it had felt like to touch and be touched after so long. Wondering how insane it would be to him to just call Bruce up then and there.

But in the end, he hadn’t called. He still wasn’t sure how this whole friends-with-benefits thing was supposed to work. He didn’t want to start off too eager and cross any boundaries. Their friendship was far too important to him to risk it over sex.

But if Bruce said it was fine…then, well. Bruce had offered him both sex and friendship. They could have both. And Clark had someone he could, in essence, booty call.

What a world.

“Then I’ll let you know next time I’m…thinking of you,” Clark promised.

Bruce smiled, small and sly. “Good,” he said. He stepped closer, murmured into Clark’s ear, “Then next time I’ll wear something that’s easier to take off. As requested.”

Clark felt a rush of heat go through him, but Bruce was already stepping back and striding over to the door. “I need to get back to work. If you’re planning on sticking around, you can make yourself useful and get us both some coffee.”

“Oh, so you’re gonna be like that, huh?” Clark called after him.

“I am,” Bruce confirmed, then disappeared into the hall with a swirl of his cape. Clark waited until he’d left then sagged against the table as his face split into a grin.

Chapter Text

It was an average Tuesday in August, about two months after the start of Clark’s “arrangement” with Bruce, that Bruce decided to pay Clark a surprise visit at work.

It was one of the rare afternoons that Clark had very little to do. He’d already met that morning’s deadline: an article he’d been working on for a couple of weeks about corruption in the MPD. As always, he kept an ear out for anything that might need Superman's attention, but that day Metropolis – and the world at large – was quietly trucking along just fine without any intervention.

He was half-focused on the fairly dry task of reorganizing files on his computer when he heard the click-clacking of Bruce’s wingtips on the bullpen floor, along with a tinkling, media-ready laugh. “Well, Mr. White,” Bruce said in that breezy tenor that was nothing like how Bruce actually spoke, “I do technically own your newspaper! I wouldn’t be a very responsible owner if I didn’t check on my investments every now and then, would I?”

“Sure thing,” came Perry’s voice, tense in a way that suggested he was annoyed but trying not to show it, “But if you want to go over the company’s financials, we can do that in my office without you bothering my reporters—”

“Oh, relax, Mr. White! I’m sure someone here can spare some time for me, can’t they?”

Clark looked up as Bruce strode into view, a harried-looking Perry trailing along behind him. Clark Kent had no public relationship with Bruce Wayne, but any employee would be curious when the owner of their company dropped by for a surprise visit, especially given how rare it was. In fact, it had been years since Bruce had swung by the office; he’d only visited a handful of times since he acquired the Planet more than a decade earlier. It was very much Bruce Wayne who’d come to visit, not just Bruce: Bruce “Brucie” Wayne, darling of the society pages, and the equal object of mockery, envy and scandal from Gotham’s elite, wearing a three-piece suit that probably cost ten times Clark’s monthly rent.

Bruce was scanning the bullpen with a look of idle disinterest. When his eyes landed on Clark, he brightened, teeth gleaming in a handsome but vacuous smile. “Aha, I know this one! It’s…something Kant, right?”

Clark felt his mouth twitch. “Ah…not quite, Mr. Wayne. I wouldn’t be so immodest as to call myself a beacon of moral ethics. It’s Kent, sir. Clark Kent.”

“Kent!” Bruce exclaimed brightly. “Yes, of course, I remember now. You interviewed me, didn’t you? After the, uh…the thing?”

“After you acquired this company, yes.”

Bruce snapped his fingers. “Yes, exactly. Kent! From Mississippi!”

“From Kansas, Mr. Wayne.”

“Eh, close enough,” he said, breezily unconcerned with his faux pas. Bruce Wayne’s public persona was, by Bruce's own admission, perfectly calibrated to be inoffensively obnoxious: too witless to be intentionally rude rather than simply ignorant, just charming enough to avoid being labelled sleazy.

Clark looked on with amusement as Bruce whirled around to Perry, beaming. “Thank you, Mr. White, but your services are no longer needed. I’ll have your Mr. Kent show me around.”

Perry glanced between the two of them, frowning. “Mr. Wayne, I’m not sure that’s appropriate.”

“Aww, come on,” Bruce said, all but pouting. It was a faintly ridiculous expression to see on a man in his early forties. “It would only be for a bit! I’m sure Clark would love to have a little break from work, rather than being chained to his desk all day. Wouldn’t you Clark?”

Bruce turned to Clark, looking for agreement. “I couldn’t possibly comment,” Clark said demurely.

“That’s a yes,” Bruce told Perry in a stage whisper. More loudly, he went on, “It’ll be fine! I promise I’ll let him go at midnight, glass slippers and all.”

Perry scowled. “Look, Mr. Wayne, it’s not Kent’s job to ba—to entertain our VIPs.”

“I really don’t mind, chief,” Clark volunteered.

“Don’t call me chief,” Perry snapped, before letting out a sigh. “Well, fine, I guess if everyone’s okay with it, it’s fine by me. But don’t think this is an opportunity for you to slack off work, Kent.”

Clark threw him a mock salute. “You got it, chie—uh. Sir!”

“You’re on thin ice with that one, Kent,” Perry told him, before turning to Bruce. “And you better not damage him! You break, you buy. Remember that.”

Shooting Clark a final look that said, for the love of god don’t fuck this up, he stalked off, leaving them alone – or the closest thing they had to it, in the middle of a crowded bullpen.

Bruce watched him leave, amusement dancing in his eyes. Clark leaned back in his chair and smiled. “So, Mr. Wayne. You wanted a tour?”

Bruce practically batted his lashes at him. “Please. I’m just so curious about the inner workings of a newspaper, you see.”

“I’ll bet,” Clark drawled and pushed himself to his feet. “Alright, then. Where do you want to start?”

The answer to that turned out to be not the bullpen. It was unsurprising: if Bruce was here for Clark, then he’d want to talk to him in private. Bruce half-led, half-followed Clark into a hallway, made polite noises as Clark pointed out the break room, the copier room, the meeting room – until they passed by a storage closet in an empty corridor. After a quick glance around the hall to check they were well and truly alone, he tugged Clark inside.

It was only here, decidedly away from any prying eyes, that Bruce dropped the mask. The interior of the closet was dim, but with Clark’s vision he could still see Bruce perfectly: the relaxed slouch straightening into Bruce’s habitually perfect posture, brow dropping into a neutral half-frown, the facile smile vanishing like smoke.

“Hello, Clark,” Bruce said.

“Hello, Bruce,” Clark replied with an easy smile. “I see you’re pulling the flighty billionaire card again.”

The corner of Bruce’s mouth twitched. “It’s generally an effective card.”

“I’ll bet,” Clark agreed. “What’s the occasion this time?”

“I’m in town on business.”

“Business? Or business?”

“The latter. Intergang has been making moves in Gotham. I came to Metropolis to investigate.”

“Oh.” Clark frowned. “Do you need me to—”

“No,” Bruce said. “I’m dealing with it. Although I appreciate the offer.”

“Then why—” he began. Just as Bruce stepped closer. Much closer.

And all at once, it clicked.

“Oh,” he breathed. The air in the closet felt warmer already, electric. “You wanted…”

“I did,” Bruce said, shooting Clark a wicked smile, the one that never failed to make heat curl in his belly. “I thought, while I was in the area…”

He took another step forward with a hand on Clark's chest, then another. Clark moved with him, let himself be backed against the wall of the closet. Bruce’s breath ghosted tantalizingly along his cheek as he leaned in to murmur, “I’m not dragging you away from anything important, am I?” 

Clark felt a thrill of heat race down his spine. “You’re not,” he said lowly. “In fact, I think I’m due a break. But… Really, Bruce? I’m at work.”

Bruce’s hands were already sliding up his chest, toying with his tie. “And? It’s hardly the most scandalous place we’ve done this.”

Clark hummed. “True. The Watchtower might have been worse.”

Bruce’s smile tilted into a smirk. “Which time?”

Clark smiled back, hands coming up to rest on Bruce’s solid waist and trailing down low on his hips, feeling the fine material of his suit jacket beneath his fingertips. “Well, I meant the first time. But I guess the showers were also pretty risqué.” Especially since the men’s locker room didn’t actually have locks. Clark had spent the whole time listening out for the other Leaguers, paranoid that one of them would come in. At the time he’d been thoroughly scandalized, but after two months of semi-regular sex with Bruce, he’d gotten a lot more desensitized. After all, aside from the Watchtower there’d been the toilets at the Metropolis City Arts Gala, at least three separate rooftops…

“You know,” Clark mused as Bruce’s hands traced a path down Clark’s chest to his waistband, slowly and deliberately tugging his shirttails free, “it really feels like you’ve got a bit of an exhibitionist streak. You keep initiating things in public places.”

Bruce raised an eyebrow. “I wouldn’t do it if you didn’t so obviously enjoy it.”

…Well. He had Clark there.

“Besides, it’s not always public places,” Bruce went on in a low murmur. His hands were sliding up Clark’s shirt now, callused fingers tracing over his skin. “There’s also been my bed. Your bed.” His eyes flashed with heat. “The car.”

Clark felt a sudden jolt of arousal at the memory. A meandering late-night conversation with Bruce in the Cave led to the idle question of whether Batman had ever had sex in the Batmobile. Only ten minutes later saw Superman half-stripped out of his suit and bent over the hood as Bruce fucked him from behind – vehemently and with great relish – and Clark had felt an unexpected but undeniable thrill as he came across the side.

He tugged Bruce in by his hips, Bruce’s body a delicious line of heat against his own, even through their clothes. “Mm. That was a really good night,” he breathed. One of many good nights. Honestly, for the past two months, Clark had felt like he was living someone else’s life, and in the best way possible.

It wasn’t as if Clark and Lois had a boring, sexless marriage, before it all fell apart. But still, this…fling felt novel and exciting in a way that sex with one’s spouse never could. And Bruce’s seemingly endless creativity certainly helped too.

And speaking of Bruce’s endless creativity…

“What did you have in mind?” Clark asked in a low murmur. “Surely you of all people didn’t go to all this effort without a plan?”

Bruce’s eyelids were heavy, pupils blown. “To be honest, I had no real plan beyond getting in here. But…”

He leaned in finally to kiss Clark, a gentle but tantalizing brush of lips, before slowly, deliberately sliding down to his knees.

“Oh,” Clark said in a rush of air. He could already feel himself growing hard. After being on the receiving end of Bruce’s talented mouth so many times, that reaction to the sight of Bruce on his knees for him was practically Pavlovian. “I think I like this plan.”

Bruce smirked up at him. “I’m glad to hear it.” He’d already slid Clark’s belt open in quick, efficient movements, those graceful hands making light work of his fastener and zip, tugging down the waistband of his underwear.

They’d done this enough times that Bruce knew exactly what Clark liked. Bruce seemed to get a kick out of drawing it out, slow and wicked, doing everything except what Clark needed him to do until Clark, barely keeping it together, asked him very politely to please hurry it up already.

This was not one of those times. This time, perhaps because of their precarious location, Bruce was ruthlessly efficient, applying the same focused intent he did on solving cases to the much less noble task of making Clark’s better judgment melt out through his ears with his mouth and touch alone. Without tease or preamble, there was a clever tongue playing with his head and a warm wet mouth sliding over his length, drawing out pleasure on every pass. All the while, Bruce watched Clark hungrily through his eyelashes, that icy, molten gaze pinning him to the wall even though Bruce was the one on his knees. At the start, Clark was very conscious that they were in a supply closet at his place of work, but soon enough the lingering hint of nerves faded: Clark’s world narrowed to the obscene sounds of Bruce’s mouth moving over him, the pleasure singing through his body, ruthlessly mounting. Those nerves were silenced entirely by the time Clark trapped a final, shuddering groan behind his teeth and spilled down Bruce’s throat.

He slumped back against the wall as Bruce pulled off. “Jesus,” he breathed. “You’re. So good at that.”

Bruce sat back on his heels. “I know,” he said, clearly pleased. “And you’re welcome.” His voice was rough and a little hoarse. And god, he made for quite a sight, kneeling at Clark’s feet in a full three-piece suit, flushed, eyes dark, lips red and wet, his fancy pants visibly tented just from sucking him off.

“Get up here,” Clark told him roughly.

Bruce smoothly pushed himself to his feet and pressed him into the wall with another hungry kiss. Gone was the slow seduction from earlier; now he was all tightly leashed passion, hands everywhere, sliding beneath Clark’s clothes. Bruce wasn't always the most responsive partner, often kept his reactions controlled when they did this. But how much Bruce wanted him was tucked away in the stutter of his pulse, in the scent of his arousal, in the soft hitches of breath that only Clark could hear. The way he could never seem to touch enough of Clark’s skin, could never press close enough. And Clark loved it. If Clark hadn’t just come, the feel of Bruce’s mouth and body against his – the feel of Bruce wanting this, wanting him – would have got him going again all on its own.

But just then, that didn’t matter. Just then, he had Bruce eager against him, hard and wanting. And while he knew from previous experience that Bruce would be happy to take his own pleasure like this, slide a hand between their bodies to jerk himself off while Clark let himself be kissed…well, after Bruce so graciously got on his knees for him, shouldn’t Clark do something more for him?

So: “Hold on, Bruce, I’ve got you,” Clark murmured, before he gripped Bruce and flipped their positions – reached between their bodies to palm Bruce through his pants.

Bruce gritted his teeth against a moan, head thunking against the wall. He reached for Clark, trying to pull him close again, but Clark resisted the attempt with a soft chuckle. “Wait, Bruce, let me…” He carefully unbuckled Bruce’s belt. “We don’t want you to ruin your nice trousers, do we?”

Bruce swallowed thickly. His heart was still hammering in his chest, but he stayed still and let Clark carefully unbutton his pants and pull them down over his hips. His face was blank, but Clark could feel the restlessness coming off him in waves, feel his impatience, the way he wanted to strain into Clark’s touch. When Clark finally wrapped a hand around him, Bruce gasped softly and bucked into the touch. But Clark only gave him a few slow tugs before he whispered, “Your turn,” low and heated.

Bruce was perfectly still as he watched Clark slowly sink to his knees, breathing harsh, hands clenched into fists. “Fuck,” he whispered, “Clark—”

Approaching footsteps in the hallway. An all-too-familiar heartbeat.

Oh. Jesus.

“Bruce,” he hissed, “We’ve got company.”

Bruce froze. “Company. Who—” he began. But Clark didn’t wait for him to finish Bruce before he was straightening them both up, quickly but carefully tucking Bruce’s erection away into his pants, and depositing Bruce a safe three feet away from him in the cramped space. Just in time for the door to swing open.

Lois Lane stood in the open doorway, silhouetted against the bright light of the hallway. She grinned, triumphant. “Aha! I knew it,” she crowed.

Oh. Jesus.

Before Clark could object, she was already slipping into the cramped space with them, closing the door behind her. “Perry was complaining that Mr. Moneybags dropped by for a surprise visit and then disappeared off with his second favorite reporter, but I figured you wouldn't have gone far. I thought I might as well cash in on the opportunity.” She scowled and jabbed Bruce in the sternum. “Rude of you not to say hi, by the way. How many years have we known each other now?”

“Lois,” Clark managed finally, voice strained, but found he had no idea what to say next. The room smelled undeniably of sex to Clark’s enhanced senses. And a quick glance at Bruce showed that he looked more than a little debauched in the darkness, even after Clark’s intervention: still flushed and visibly hard. But Lois didn't have Clark's senses. And, luckily or unluckily, she was apparently oblivious to what she’d walked in on.

Clark had no idea where to go from there.

Bruce’s jaw was tight. His eyes flickered from Lois to Clark, then back. “Hello, Lois,” he said finally, voice steady – but there was still an extra rasp to it. “I apologize for not greeting you earlier. But this is a private conversation—”

“Yeah, well, now it’s less private. Deal with it. A note for next time: maybe if you responded to your messages, I wouldn’t have to track you down in storage closets.” She crossed her arms with a scowl. “You know something about what Intergang is working on, don’t you? Spill.”

Lois couldn’t see in the dark room, but Bruce’s expression was the closest Clark had ever seen to constipated. “Fine. I’ll call you later.”

“Later? Just tell me now. It’s not like you weren’t just talking about it with Clark, right?” She looked at Clark expectantly, arms folded. Waiting for him to confirm.

Clearing his suddenly dry throat, Clark managed, “Intergang was…mentioned. Yes.”

“‘Mentioned’?” Lois frowned, immediately suspicious. “Okay, hold up. Something’s not right here. Why are you both acting so weird? Was I actually interrupting something…”

The penny, which had been teetering precariously on its edge for almost a minute by that point, finally dropped. She looked between the two of them with wide eyes. “Oh. Oh. You two were…”

She trailed off into an incredibly tense silence. There was a tightness around Bruce's eyes, a rigidity to his jaw. Clark opened his mouth, then closed it again. Began, weakly, “Well, um. It’s…”

“Shit,” she said emphatically. Her cheeks were already ruddy with embarrassment, her expression twisting with something more than that. “Shit. Okay, you know what? In retrospect, this is totally my bad. But in my defense, even when we were married you two always spent a weird amount of time hanging out in small, dark rooms—” She fumbled behind herself for the door handle, swearing under her breath.

“Lois,” Clark tried again.

“Please don’t,” she said. She sounded pained. “Look, it’s fine. I’ll just… Leave you to it. I guess.”

Clark pressed his lips together. He did want to say something to her, but he couldn’t think of anything to say that wouldn’t make the situation more uncomfortable for all of them. So he waited silently until she finally managed to open it and slip out, closing it behind her with a slam that echoed in the ensuing silence. The two of them were alone once more.

Well. That was one way to kill the mood.

“Sorry about that,” Clark said, attempting a smile. “Lois, she…well, you know what she’s like.”

Bruce said nothing for a long moment. And then, suddenly: “You haven’t mentioned this to her.”

“This?”

“Our…arrangement.”

Clark blinked. “Well…no.”

Bruce was strangely blank-faced. “I see,” he said slowly.

Clark sighed. “Look, I’m really sorry about that. I know the mood is kind of ruined, but if you want, I can still…”

But Bruce was already stepping back. “I’m fine.”

“Are you sure? I don’t want to leave you hanging.”

“I’ll manage,” Bruce said flatly. He was already composed again, no longer flushed, erection wilted by the arrival of their unexpected visitor. But there was an edge to his voice that said he was less fine than he was claiming and determined to pretend otherwise.

Oh boy. Clearly Bruce wasn’t pleased about the interruption. And honestly, who could blame him? Getting walked in on would be an unpleasant experience for a lot of people, let alone by an ex-wife.

Bruce looked away, straightening his cuffs. “I expect you’ll want to go after her. Don’t hold back on my account.”

“Hey, no, Bruce, that’s not…” He sighed. “I’m not going after her.”

Bruce paused his movements. His eyes were intent on Clark again. “You’re…not.”

Clark shook his head. “It’s fine. Awkward, sure, but…fine.” They’d been divorced long enough for Clark to know that going after her and trying to explain himself would only make things worse. Lois had made it clear she didn’t want him to make any allowances for their former relationship. The least Clark could do for her was honor that – as wrong as it sometimes felt. He nudged Bruce’s arm with a smile. “Hey, if you won’t let me return the favor, then at least let me buy you lunch so you didn’t come all this way for nothing.”

“Clark, you don’t have to—”

“I want to,” Clark insisted. “I was happy to see you when you showed up today, you know, sex or no sex. You know that, right?” After all, before they were friends with benefits, they were friends; that hadn’t changed at all. That first evening in the Watchtower, after they’d fucked on the meeting room table, they’d spent the rest of the night pretty much as normal, the way Clark had expected when he showed up that evening: Clark half-working on an article and half-making idle small talk while Bruce grimaced at his screen and replied to Clark mostly in grunts. Clark zipped down to Earth to get them both dinner, and they munched on takeout until Clark was needed elsewhere. Business as usual.

Part of Clark had worried that sex would change things. But just as Bruce had promised, introducing sex into their relationship hadn’t suddenly erased their friendship. They still had team-ups and dinners and late-night talks, just as they had before. Some of them just had a happy ending now.

Bruce watched him for a long moment, jaw tight. But after that long moment, he relented, the tension in his face smoothing out. “Alright,” he said quietly. “I’ll stay for lunch. But I don’t have long.”

Clark beamed. The guilty knot that had been forming in his stomach eased. Maybe he couldn’t fix things with Lois, but at the very least he could make it up to Bruce.

It didn’t take them long to sneak out of the closet and head out into Metropolis proper. Bruce slipped into a version of the persona that was a little less attention-grabbing, his regular stride demoted to a step. To a passerby, they probably could have been any two friends going out for a work lunch – albeit one with significantly more expensive style than the other.

Bruce was still quieter than normal on the walk. Maybe it was unfair, but Clark was a little surprised that Bruce was still bothered by what had happened. After all, Bruce Wayne was used to getting caught in storage closets with people he shouldn’t be. While this situation was admittedly a little more awkward than most, given the whole ex-wife thing, Clark would have guessed it would roll off his back pretty quickly.

Still, he seemed content to listen as Clark chattered aimlessly about how his morning had gone, the article he was working on, an interesting conversation he’d had with Jimmy that morning. Clark figured he couldn't be too bent out of shape about it. He shifted from talking about work to talking about his favorite food truck as they approached. “You know, I've always thought you’d like this place. I know you like spice; this stuff has a really nice kick.” They joined the end of the short line to order, and Clark gestured to the menu printed on the truck's side. “Want me to recommend something?”

“There are five options on the menu, Clark,” Bruce said dryly. “I think I can figure it out.”

Clark rolled his eyes. “I’m sure you can. I just thought, since you insist on ordering for me every time we’re at dinner—”

“I know what you like.”

“I know what you like.”

“Fine,” Bruce said. “Wow me.”

The concession was honestly unexpected, but Clark took it in stride. He said his usual hi-how-are-you to the owner when the people ahead of them were finished, then rattled off both of their orders before shifting along to pay for them. Abdi greeted him with a smile. “Clark! How’s your day going?”

Clark smiled back. “Hi, Abdi. Same old, same old. And yours?”

“Oh, you know, same old, same old.” He shot Clark a playful wink. “It’s better now that you’ve shown up, though. I guess you want your usual…” He trailed off as his eyes landed on Bruce. “Oh! You brought a friend today.”

“Ah, yes, I did! This is Bruce,” Clark said. “Bruce, this is Abdi.”

Bruce’s mouth thinned. “You know each other.”

Clark shrugged. “I’m a regular. I know most of the staff.”

Abdi leaned forwards, grinning. “Yeah, but I’m your favorite, right?”

Clark raised an eyebrow. “You’re definitely top three.”

Abdi pouted. “We only have three employees!”

“Exactly. That’s why I’m so sure,” Clark said.

Abdi sighed in mock dismay. “Wow. And here I thought we had something special—”

“Excuse me,” Bruce cut in coolly. “Can I pay for us?”

Abdi blinked, clearly thrown off-kilter by the abrupt question. “Uh… Sure thing. Let me just…”

Abdi busied himself with the card reader. Clark shot Bruce a look. “I was going to treat you.”

“Don't worry about it. It's not like I can't afford it.”

“I know that, just—” He huffed. “Is something wrong?”

Bruce fished out his wallet and offered his card to Abdi. “Why would something be wrong?”

“Well, honestly, I don’t know. But you’re doing the…the Thing with your face.”

“The Thing,” Bruce repeated flatly. “Very descriptive, Clark.”

“Don’t pretend you don’t know what I mean,” Clark said, frowning. Because Bruce of all people, so controlled and in tune with the way he presented himself, had to know what the Thing was: the face he made when he was somewhere on the spectrum from upset to furious, and in response made his whole expression go totally blank but for the tension in his jaw and around his eyes. The one that made many younger superheroes quake in fear, knowing that they must have really messed up this time.

But why was he so upset? Unless…maybe it was part of the act? Although no, that didn’t make sense either: Bruce Wayne may be an airheaded socialite, but he wasn’t generally an asshole to regular service staff. If anything, he was all smiles and flirtation. In fact, that cool, dispassionate glare was far closer to Batman than Bruce Wayne.

Abdi handed his card back with a smile, and Bruce accepted it silently, face still rigid. “Seriously,” Clark tried again, “what’s gotten into you all of a sudden?”

“Nothing,” Bruce snapped. Then he paused. All at once, he banished all elements of the Thing from his expression, blank irritation shifting seamlessly into a smooth, charming smile.

“It's nothing,” he repeated. “Please excuse me. I need to make a phone call.”

He stepped away without another word, sliding his cell phone out of his pocket, leaving Clark standing with Abdi in a now slightly uncomfortable silence. Clark cleared his throat. “Ah…sorry about him. He’s not usually so…uh…”

Abdi winced. “Oh god, please don’t apologize. I swear I can’t seem to stop putting my foot in it when I’m talking to you.”

Clark frowned, confused. “Put your foot in it? Abdi, you didn’t—”

“No, no, it’s fine,” Abdi said quickly. He rubbed the back of his neck, clearly uncomfortable. “Look, I’m, uh…I’m sorry for hitting on you like that. I didn’t realize you had a boyfriend.”

Clark blinked. “A…a what?” And he was…what?

“That guy, Bruce. He’s your boyfriend, right?” Abdi grimaced. “He seemed pretty upset. I really hope I didn’t make things awkward.”

“No!” Clark blurted out. “I mean, he’s not—Bruce and I aren’t like that. We’re not in a relationship.”

Clark had been hoping to reassure him, but if anything he seemed to have made it worse. Abdi went pale. “Oh. Oh god, you’re straight. I’m so sorry, I’ve completely misread this whole thing, haven’t I—”

“You haven’t,” Clark cut in quickly, eager to cut off a rapidly spiraling Abdi. “Look, you’re really fine. I’m not, uh, straight. And Bruce isn’t my boyfriend. He’s just a friend.”

Abdi blinked. “Oh. Really?”

“Really,” Clark confirmed. Now that Abdi didn’t seem to be panicking anymore, the whole thing was mostly amusing. “Honestly, you jumped to a lot of conclusions very quickly there. Why did you assume we were dating?”

“Why? I don't know, I guess you just had a—a vibe? So I—” He cut himself off, shaking his head. “Wait, that’s not important. You’re single?”

Oh, right. There was the whole hitting-on-him thing too, which was honestly a total surprise. He didn't exactly get hit on very often as Clark Kent, and the way people hit on Superman was…well. Pretty different, to say the least. There was usually a lot less casual bantering, and a lot more probably-staged swooning and sudden proposals of marriage and, on some occasions, slightly desperate sexual propositions.

All this time he’d just thought Abdi was being friendly. And though he’d never really thought about it before…Abdi was really very good looking, wasn’t he, with his warm brown eyes and sharp features? And at least from what Clark had seen from their brief interactions at the food truck, he was nice and fun to talk to. So…

“Yes, I am single,” he replied. “Since you’re asking.”

“Oh. Oh!” Abdi said brightly. He looked genuinely excited; it was honestly very flattering. “That’s, uh, good to know.”

Clark raised an eyebrow, gently amused. “Good.”

“Good,” Abdi echoed, grinning at Clark for a long moment before he jolted at the sound of the owner’s voice. “Oh, wait, crap, your food. Let me just…”

He turned around and busied himself with fixing their food, already set out by the owner. Clark glanced over at Bruce, who was standing a few feet away on the sidewalk, still on the phone, watching them from the corner of his eye. Clark flashed him a smile. Bruce looked away.

Darn. Something was definitely up with him.

When he turned back, Abdi was ready with two containers of food, stacked on top of each other. He handed them to Clark with a hopeful smile. Clark accepted them gratefully and made his way over to Bruce, who seemed to be just wrapping up his phone call. “Sorry for the wait.”

“Thanks,” Bruce said coolly, slipping his phone back into his pocket as he fell into step beside him. He held out his hand for Clark to give him his portion – then paused. “What’s that?”

“Huh?”

Frowning, Bruce indicated the lid of Clark’s takeout container. “That,” he said Clark glanced down and—

“Oh. Huh,” Clark said, face breaking out into a delighted grin. “I think Abdi just gave me his number.” And alongside that, Abdi had scrawled:

      If you really didn’t mind the whole hitting on you thing, call me ;)

Bruce grunted.

Clark’s grin widened as he read over the message again. “Wow. That’s so sweet! I thought this kinda thing only happened on TV.”

“Sweet,” Bruce echoed. He glanced down at Clark’s takeout container, studying it like he might a puzzle or a clue. “Are you…interested?”

“Interested? I mean…” A few months ago, the idea of casually dating someone had felt completely unnatural. But this thing with Bruce had given him so much more confidence, shown him how freeing it could be. If it didn’t work out, maybe Clark would feel slightly awkward buying lunch here for a while, but that wasn’t really a big deal. Was it?

He gave a cheerful shrug. “Maybe? I don’t know, I’ll have to think about it.”

“I see,” Bruce said slowly.

“More importantly, is everything okay with you?” Clark went on, frowning. “You were acting a little weird earlier. And then with the phone call… If something’s come up—”

“Nothing’s come up,” Bruce cut in smoothly. “Nothing important. Let’s just eat.”

Clark wanted to pry. But he also knew that Bruce would never tell him anything he didn’t already want to tell him. If he wasn’t mentioning it to Clark, then he probably had a reason. So:

“Sure,” he said warmly. “Let’s eat.”

In the end, they ate their lunch over the course of a pleasant walk through the park. Bruce’s irritation seemed to have dissipated but, just like he'd been on the walk over, he was quieter than usual, almost pensive. He left immediately after they finished their food, and Clark returned to the office. 

And then Clark didn't see him for three weeks.

It wasn’t for lack of trying. He’d expected to see Bruce at their bimonthly League meeting, but Batman didn't attend, apparently busy on a case. He called Bruce afterwards, checking in, but Bruce just replied, clipped and brusque, that he was busy. “Now's not a good time. I'll let you know when I'm free,” was all he said before he hung up. And that was that.

Clark was a little worried something was really wrong.

But then again, it wasn’t like this kind of thing was unusual for Bruce either. Bruce could just be busy. In fact, Bruce was definitely busy, because Bruce was always busy. On the rare occasions that Gotham or the League hadn’t taken up his time and attention, Bruce was in the habit of finding at least seven other things to do, leaving him with a schedule that would make mindfulness coaches the world over weep. And when Bruce was busy – which, again, was always – he was often fairly hard to reach. A text that from most people would read as pointedly brusque was, at least in Clark’s experience, just Bruce’s normal style of communication when he was working on a case.

But given how Bruce had been acting the last time they saw each other, Clark couldn’t help but wonder. Still, even if that were the case, there was very little Clark could do about it. He knew from long experience that pushing Bruce when he got like that would only make him pull away harder. So he gave Bruce space. And then kept giving him space. If for a whole week he perked up whenever he got a ping on his communicator, or received a text or a call, only to be disappointed when he saw who it was from, that was his own business.

Ironically, after being so alert for any contact from Bruce, he actually missed it when Bruce finally did call. Clark had been wrapping up an arrest, just finished chatting with the officers on the scene and offering an adorably star-struck 7-year-old boy an autograph, when he checked his phone to find a missed call from Bruce, along with a message sent a couple of minutes later:

      B: I’m free this evening if you are.

Clark had barely finished reading it before he was shooting off towards Wayne Manor. And when he arrived, there was Bruce in his bedroom, relatively dressed down in shirtsleeves and trousers, jacket and waistcoat abandoned on the bed, hair ruffled out of its neat styling like he’d been running his fingers through it.

He looked incredible, as always. But as Clark touched down on the balcony, he noticed a strange energy to him, a tension different from his usual quiet focus. As Bruce met his gaze, something flashed across his eyes that Clark couldn’t read.

All at once, the worry that Clark had suppressed all week came back full force. “Bruce?” he said, stepping into the bedroom. “Bruce? Is there something—mmph!”

Before he could even finish his sentence, Bruce was reaching for him, tugging him into a hard, aggressive kiss, all heat and passion. And even though part of Clark was very on board with this – the part that had been missing more than just Bruce’s company for the past couple of weeks – he only entertained it for a few seconds before he was gently pushing Bruce away. “Wait a second. Is everything okay?”

Bruce leaned into the hold, testing, but Clark held firm. With a huff, he took a half step back.

“What makes you think it’s not,” he said, which notably wasn't an answer.

Clark pressed on, determined not to be swayed. “Just humor me, okay? I haven't seen you in a little while, so I want to check in. Are you okay? Are… Are we good?”

“We could be better,” Bruce said with a pointed glare towards Clark’s hand on his chest, keeping them apart.

Clark sighed. “Bruce, please. I’m being serious. Just answer the question?”

At this, Bruce’s scowl softened, albeit only a little. “Yes. Everything's fine.”

“Really? Only you seem…” Clark had to hunt around for the right word, “...on edge.”

Bruce wet his lips. “I…perhaps.”

The admission was honestly a little jarring. Clark had expected denial. “Then can’t we—”

“No.”

“Bruce—”

“I don’t want to talk about it,” Bruce hissed. “I want this. This is…all I want. So can we just…”

He took a step closer, more slowly this time. Asking permission. And this time, Clark didn't stop him.

He didn’t know what was up with Bruce. Probably wouldn’t for a while, since Bruce didn’t seem eager to share. But if this was what Bruce wanted from him – needed from him – who was he to say no?

“Okay,” Clark said. “Okay. We can.” And this time when Bruce kissed him, so fiercely it almost felt desperate, Clark met him halfway, picked him with a hand beneath each thigh. Bruce made a soft noise into the kiss and wrapped his legs around Clark’s waist, let Clark walk them both over to the bed and lay him gently down. Tugged at him impatiently until Clark crawled over him.

As soon as he was within reach again Bruce’s hands were all over him, practically ripping his shirt open and pushing it off his shoulders, tracing along the revealed skin like he didn’t know where to touch first. Clark sat back to strip it off properly and Bruce’s eyes flickered over Clark’s body, already dark and hazy.

“God,” he breathed, reverent.

Clark grinned down at him, teasing, as he worked on the rest of Bruce’s buttons. “Wow. Seems like someone missed this.”

“You have no idea,” Bruce muttered.

“I did too,” Clark admitted. Bruce wasn’t the only one who liked to look. Once he’d unfastened the last button, he pushed the edges of Bruce’s shirt apart and let his eyes trail over that gorgeous body in turn, admiring that strong chest, the soft ridges of hard muscle, the trail of hair leading down his stomach, and—

Clark paused in his exploration, eyes lingering on the marks on Bruce’s stomach. Bruce’s skin was rarely unblemished, almost always dotted with bruises from where the suit hadn’t quite absorbed all of the impact, or occasionally healing stitches when something had sliced through. But rarely did he have anything like this. There were several of them, crisscrossing his lower stomach, maybe twenty in all: thin, raised, pink welts from an injury that didn’t seem to have broken the skin.

Clark traced one curiously with his finger. “What are these from?”

Unexpectedly, Bruce stiffened, averting his eyes. Like he felt awkward. “They're…whip marks.”

Clark’s eyebrows rose. “Whip marks?” Looking at them more closely, it seemed obvious what kind of weapon would cause them. But they couldn’t have been earned on patrol. After all, they looked like injuries made on bare skin. “Who…?”

Bruce worked his jaw, and then said slowly, “Selina was in town.”

It didn’t take long for the pieces to click. “Oh! Ohhh. So she likes to…”

“Yes,” Bruce said. “She does.”

“Huh,” Clark said, eyeing the marks. “Well, she does carry a whip with her pretty much everywhere. And wear a lot of leather. I’m not sure why I’m surprised.”

“It’s not a huge leap,” Bruce agreed.

He traced another one of the thin lines, keeping his touch gentle. “The stomach is a pretty sensitive area, right? They must have hurt.”

“Yes, Clark,” Bruce said dryly. “That's broadly the point.”

“So…do you enjoy it too? The pain?”

“I wouldn’t let her do it if I didn’t like it.”

“Huh,” Clark said. Bruce certainly had a knack for self-punishment, but Clark had never thought of him as a masochist. He'd certainly never asked Clark to hurt him in any way during sex. Experimentally, he traced another of the marks, this time with the tip of one fingernail, and Bruce shivered. “The marks…do they hurt now?”

“Not particularly. They’re fine.” He paused for a moment, then went on, in a voice that would have seemed tentative coming from anyone else, “Do they bother you?”

“Bother me?”

“You’re asking a lot of questions about them.”

Clark frowned. “No, not particularly. Should they?” he asked, a little confused as to why Bruce seemed so uncomfortable talking about it. Until, abruptly, realization struck. “Oh. You thought I might be weirded out because you were with Selina earlier?”

Bruce’s lips thinned. “It was…a consideration.”

“Well, I’m not,” Clark reassured him. If anything, it was reassuring. Of course Bruce had been too busy to see him: he’d been spending time with Selina. She was often only in town for short periods, so it made sense to prioritize her when she was around. “You’ve been seeing her this whole time, right?”

“...In a manner of speaking.”

Clark smiled. “Sure, in a manner of speaking. Look, I know I’m not as…as cosmopolitan about sex as you are, but I know the difference between a friendship and an exclusive relationship.”

“I see,” said Bruce.

Hm. He didn’t seem completely convinced. “I mean it,” he went on. “I promise I’m not going to start getting weird and clingy about our, you know. Arrangement.”

Bruce’s jaw was tight. “Good to know.”

“I really don’t care who you sleep with,” Clark reassured him. He paused. “Well, I guess if you started sleeping with Lois again, that might feel a little weird—”

“Yes, thank you, Clark. I get the idea,” Bruce said stiffly. His legs tightened pointedly around Clark’s hips. “Do you have any more questions, or can we move on?”

“Just one,” Clark said. He skimmed his fingers over the marks again. “Do you want… I mean, would you like me to do this kind of thing with you too? If this is what you like—”

“Clark,” Bruce cut in. He looked a little pained. “You don’t need to do that.”

“Well, sure, I know that. But if you wanted—”

“You don’t have to do anything you don’t want.”

Clark frowned. “Why are you assuming I wouldn’t want to? Wait.” He blinked. “Have you…sexually profiled me?”

Bruce raised an eyebrow. “I profile everyone. I’m Batman.”

“That can’t be your answer for everything,” Clark huffed. “Look, I know you think of me as some kind of inexperienced prude, but it’s not like all Lois and I did for those years of marriage was missionary with the lights off. In fact, I liked to think we were pretty adventurous, as these things go.”

The eyebrow climbed a little further. “Really.”

“Yes, really. I’ll have you know, we got a lot of use out of my Warworld outfit over the years. You know the one, with the—”

“With the chained breastplate. And the shackles.” Bruce’s eyes flickered briefly over Clark’s body. He wet his lips. “I remember.”

Clark smiled. “I’m guessing you were a fan, then. Well, Lo was too. And we, you know, roleplayed it a little. I could give something like that a go, if you wanted.” He hadn’t been on that side of it much, since Lois liked to be the one in charge. Still, he'd definitely thought about it before. That it could be fun.

At the time, they hadn’t been very serious thoughts. But now, he couldn’t help but consider it. He'd already done so much with Bruce that he’d never thought he'd do. Wasn’t this a great chance to try one more?

Bruce sighed as he shrugged his shirt off the rest of the way. “I’ve known you for fifteen years, Clark. I know you don’t like hurting people, in any context.” He shot Clark a pointed look. “You wouldn’t want to hurt me unless you had to.”

“Well…no,” Clark admitted. “But pain isn’t the only thing you’re into. Right?” His eyes landed on Bruce’s bare wrists, on the red marks there, newly visible. Rope marks, probably? Clark had mostly seen the kind left by hemp ropes, not the nice, softer kind people used for sex, but the pattern was pretty distinctive. “Did she tie you up as well?”

Bruce frowned. “You’re…asking a lot of questions about us,” he said slowly.

“Well, I’d like to know.”

“The idea of us together,” Bruce said. “It excites you.”

“...Maybe a little,” Clark admitted, less sheepishly than he would have only a couple of months ago. “But stop trying to deflect. Did she?”

He caught Bruce’s wrist in his hand, brushed his thumb over the marks. Bruce stilled his movements, eyes fixed on that thumb. He swallowed. 

“Yes,” he said eventually. “She did.”

“So you enjoy that too?”

“...I do.”

Clark grinned. “Good to know. That I can do that for sure. I mean, I can’t do anything fancy with ropes – not without some practice, anyway – but I can definitely…”

He caught Bruce’s other wrist in his hand, then raised them both above his head. Pushed him back, back, slowly, until Bruce was stretched out beneath him on the bed. Held them there, just like that, wrists firm and immovable in his grip.

“See?” he said. “Next best thing.”

Bruce’s breath was already coming a little faster. “Clark—”

Clark leaned down and kissed him. Bruce was still for only a moment before he was opening up for him, letting himself be kissed slow and deep. Clark took full advantage, sliding his tongue into Bruce’s mouth, tracing his tongue along the roof, along his teeth. Sucking on his tongue as he drew back.

When Bruce’s eyes fluttered open, they were dark and hungry. Clark grinned. “You like this. Don’t you?”

Bruce didn’t reply. He flexed against Clark’s grip, more to make a point than to attempt to free himself. They both knew brute force would do nothing here. But the failure seemed to make his pulse jump. And when Clark tightened his grip just slightly he shivered.

Clark didn’t need an answer. The question was rhetorical. After all, they both knew Clark could read him like a book, at least when they were like this. Still, he had to check. “Do you want me to let you go?”

Bruce was quiet for a long moment. His eyes flickered over Clark’s face, lips parted, like he was drinking him in. Finally, his eyes fluttered shut.

“No,” he said, voice rough. “I don’t.”

Clark smiled. “Okay. What do you want?”

Bruce shifted impatiently beneath him. “I want you to get on with it,” he grunted.

“No,” Clark said with a chuckle, “I mean…what else do you like? What else do you want me to do?”

“Whatever you want.”

“Come on, Bruce, don’t make me guess—”

“I mean,” Bruce said slowly – and, if Clark didn’t know better, a little embarrassed – “whatever you want. That's what I want you to do.”

Clark blinked. “Oh,” he said. Bruce wanted…

That raised an interesting question. What did he want?

He’d started this because he wanted to give Bruce – so clearly tense, on-edge – something he wanted, needed. It had been easy with Lois. She’d loved telling him exactly what to do, how to give her pleasure. And in a way, that was easier: doing something for someone else, knowing that if he did what she said then they’d both have a great time. After all, giving pleasure was its own reward.

It wasn’t like that for everyone, he knew that. He didn’t want to be selfish, take things that Bruce would get nothing out of giving.

But if that was what Bruce wanted, then…

He looked down at Bruce. Now that Bruce had taken off his shirt, Clark could see the marks in their entirety: the whip marks scattered over his stomach, bruises on his chest, scattered amongst a tapestry of old scars. Wrapped around both of Bruce’s wrists, Clark’s hand covered the rope marks, but he could still feel the subtle texture of the marks against his palm. There was a subtle flush on his chest that stretched all the way down to his chest. And he was—god, he was hard, practically untouched. Just from Clark holding him down like this. But despite his clear excitement, he was still. Expectant. Clark could hear the pounding of his heartbeat, but Bruce’ expression was blank, even as his ice blue irises were almost swallowed up by hungry pupils. His body was tense with anticipation, coiled like a spring. Waiting to see what Clark would do. Still composed, even like this.

And just like that, Clark knew what he wanted. He wanted to make Bruce lose control for real. He wanted to be the one to get him there.

He felt an electric thrill race down his spine at the thought. Only after he took a breath did he realize he’d stopped breathing. “I—okay. Okay. Whatever I want. Just tell me if I take it too far, or do something you don’t like—”

“You won’t,” Bruce said. He said it almost dismissively, like it was self-evident, even though that was ridiculous. How could Bruce possibly have so much faith in his ability to not cross the line, when Clark didn’t even know where the line was? And yet there was no hesitation in Bruce, only want and impatience.

“I think I’d like to take my time,” Clark said. They were always frantic and rushed, slipping in a quickie between other things. Clark never got to just explore. “Is that…okay?”

Bruce scowled. “Stop asking and just do it.”

“Okay, okay,” he said with a soft laugh. “This is the last question, I promise. Can you hold onto the headboard for me? I know I promised to restrain you, but I need to let go for this next part.”

With a final, affectionate squeeze, he let go of Bruce’s wrists. Half of Clark hadn’t expected that to work, at least without an argument. But without a word, Bruce stretched his arms up to the headboard and gripped it firmly.

Clark was struck. Gosh. He’d never seen Bruce so…well. Obedient.

It was thrilling.

“Good,” he murmured approvingly and leaned down to kiss Bruce again – and again, Bruce opened up for him beautifully, so eager and pliant that Clark felt electric with it. He only lingered there briefly before he trailed his mouth downwards, to Bruce’s neck, his chest. His stomach, full of angry, red lines. Normally, it wasn’t fun to see Bruce’s injuries. But knowing that the marks there were from a pain Bruce had truly wanted, not just something he’d just let happen to his body, made them strangely erotic.

In the spirit of doing whatever he wanted, he succumbed to the impulse to lavish them with attention too, dragging his tongue along one from end to end. Bruce stomach muscles clenched at the contact, almost a flinch. “Does that hurt?” Clark asked.

“No,” Bruce replied thickly. “It’s just…sensitive.”

Sensitive. Okay, he could work with sensitive. He repeated the motion, and this time Bruce’s breath caught on a stifled, barely voiced gasp. Just from Clark’s mouth on his stomach.

Clark felt a rush of something between satisfaction and burning arousal. Oh, yeah, he could definitely work with sensitive. He kept it up, licking and mouthing at the skin there, until Bruce’s breath was coming in soft pants, and the scent of impatient lust was thick and heavy in the air. Only then did he move down, lower, wide across Bruce’s hip, then—

Down to his thighs. Pointedly avoiding his straining cock.

When Bruce spoke, his voice shook slightly. “Clark. Aren’t you going to…”

“I told you. I’m taking my time.” He nipped pointedly at the tender skin of Bruce’s inner thigh and was rewarded with another stifled gasp. “I’m supposed to be doing whatever I want, right? Well, this is what I want.” He grinned at Bruce from between his thighs, his view partially obscured by Bruce’s very untouched erection. “Believe it or not, I’m having a lot of fun right now.”

“I can see that,” Bruce said flatly. But the flatness of his voice was entirely undermined by its breathlessness, by the way his cock jumped when Clark finally – finally – moved up from his thighs to press a soft kiss to the base of his cock; by his gasp as Clark mouthed gently at the underside of the head; by the way his grip tightened on the headboard, like he was suppressing the urge to reach out and encourage Clark closer.

Clark kept it slow, of course, just as promised. Spent probably a whole minute just mouthing at the head of Bruce’s cock before pulling back. He retreated then, pressed soft wet kisses to his thighs again, his balls – anywhere but where Bruce wanted him most. Only when Bruce’s breathing had gone ragged, hips twitching restlessly at every teasing press of lips, did he relent and take Bruce into his mouth, sliding his lips down Bruce’s length.

He didn’t have anywhere near Bruce’s experience with this, but over the past few months he’d learned enough of what Bruce in particular liked, where he was sensitive. What he liked to see Clark do. Because Bruce always liked to watch him when they were like this, and all these months Clark had been paying attention to what made Bruce’s heartbeat spike: when Clark looked up through his eyelashes as his lips parted around the head; the soft, satisfied sounds Clark would make when he finally got Bruce in his mouth. Sure enough, Bruce let out a soft, shocked noise that went straight to Clark’s dick. And Bruce kept letting those noises slip as Clark moved over him, taking his time to savor the taste of him, the weight and warmth of him in his mouth, in a way he didn’t usually get to. But they were choked and bitten back, even though they were edged with something a lot like desperation, Bruce was still holding back—

He pulled off with a wet pop. “You don’t have to be so tense, you know,” he said earnestly. “You can let go. I want you to.”

“I,” Bruce began, barely a rasp, then pressed his lips tight together. His whole body was a line of tension, practically trembling with it. Always so strong. Always in control. Always holding back, even when he didn’t need to.

Clark succumbed to the sudden urge and stretched up that powerful, beautiful body to kiss him. Bruce made a soft, shocked sound, but he opened up for Clark anyway like it was instinct. He made another broken noise as Clark pulled back. There was a fine tremor running through him now; his eyes were dark and hazy, fixed on Clark like he couldn’t look anywhere else. “Relax, Bruce,” Clark said. “I've got you, okay? I've got you.” And he moved down Bruce’s body again, slid his mouth back down over Bruce’s cock, slowly, slowly, and Bruce let out a soft broken noise and just—

Let go.

Suddenly those tense hips bucked upwards – but Clark pressed a hand to his twitching stomach, holding him fast. That only seemed to make him more eager, straining against Clark in vain. Clark moved over him, taking his time with it, savoring the alluring shift of strong muscles against his immovable grip. Usually when Clark went down on him, Bruce would murmur soft encouragements, praise. But this time, the only sounds he made were soft groans, open syllables, like he was beyond words.

Heat was building within him. Jesus, Bruce was just—gorgeous. This was exactly what Clark had wanted, this was Bruce letting go. And that was what Bruce had wanted as well, wasn’t it? To give himself over to someone? Even if he couldn’t just ask Clark for it – because of course he couldn’t, he was Bruce – there was no denying how much he wanted in this moment. And it felt so, so good knowing that he’d been able to give Bruce that. Knowing that Bruce had let him.

Even taking it slow as he was, it wasn’t long before he could sense Bruce getting close, balls drawing up between his thighs. But Clark wasn’t done. He didn’t want this to be over already.

He pulled off to ask, “How are you with oversensitivity?”

Bruce blinked at him hazily, gaze unfocused. “I… With…”

“Oversensitivity. After coming.” Precome was beading on the end of Bruce’s cock. He lapped it up, and Bruce bit back a strained moan. “I really want to fuck you after this. So I can let you come now, but then that might be uncomfortable for you. Or you can come for the first time on my cock. It’s up to you.”

Bruce actually shuddered. “Fuck,” he rasped.

“I need an answer, Bruce. Which would you prefer?”

“I don’t…” Bruce’s eyes were wilder than Clark had ever seen them. The veil of composure was lifted. Clark could see past it now, Bruce’s expression more open than he’d ever seen it when they were together like this. He wet his lips, breathing harsh. “I…the latter.”

“Yeah?” Clark smiled. “Good, then we’ll do that.”

He dipped his head to Bruce’s cock once more, lapping up a newly formed drop of pre-come before wrapping his lips around the head once more. Bruce choked on a startled moan. “I— I thought you said—”

“You’re not there yet,” Clark murmured against the head. “You can hold on for a little while longer, can’t you?”

Bruce’s only response was another strangled curse as Clark took him fully into his mouth once more. This time there was no tease, no drawing it out. This time he just wanted to make Bruce feel good, test that iron resolve. He didn’t hold back, bobbed his head at a fast, even pace, holding Bruce firmly in place until Bruce’s thighs were trembling, his grip on the headboard so tight that his knuckles were white.

When Clark finally pulled off, Bruce sagged back against the pillows, panting, staring at Clark like he was something incredible, and Clark's heart felt so full. He hadn't expected this to affect him so much. But then how could he have known what it would mean to see Bruce like this? Bruce wore his composure like armor; even when he'd seen Bruce at his lowest, beaten down and broken, Clark had never thought of him as vulnerable. But with his expression so open, stripped of mask and artifice, Clark couldn't think of any word more fitting.

Clark smiled down at him. “Thank you, Bruce. You did so well.” Bruce’s pulse jumped at that, and Clark felt his smile widen. He released Bruce’s hips and shifted back to give Bruce space to move. “You can let go of the headboard now. Will you turn around for me? On your knees, please.”

Wordlessly Bruce did, shakily positioning himself as instructed. Clark slid his hands down Bruce’s arms, then picked up his forearms. Gently pulled them behind his back. Then, with a palm on the middle of his back, he pushed Bruce down, down, down until his face was pressed against the mattress.

“Stay like that for a sec?” he said, reaching over to Bruce’s bedside table to get the lube. And again, Clark observed with a thrill, Bruce actually did as he was told, still breathing hard as he lay there face down, ass up. Once Clark had slicked his fingers up, he traced one wet digit around Bruce’s rim. Bruce cock, hanging full and heavy between his legs, twitched. He slipped one finger inside so easily it felt like Bruce was sucking him in, arching back into his touch.

It was amazing. Clark was pretty sure he could do this forever, if Bruce would let him.

“You know,” Clark told him warmly as he carefully worked in a second finger, “you’re beautiful like this.”

Bruce choked on a moaned, “Clark—”

“It’s true! I mean, you’re always very handsome, of course. But like this…” His eyes scanned over Bruce’s body, the long line of his back, the obscene arch of it, the inviting taper of his waist. His free hand followed the path of his eyes, lingering on the tempting curve of Bruce’s ass. He slipped another finger inside, and Bruce let out a soft groan. “You’re beautiful. So beautiful. I just thought you should know that.”

Bruce let out another incredible noise, almost a sob, as Clark pressed his fingers against that spot inside him, before he began to methodically work him open. Inside was all tight heat, clutching around his fingers. Clark was starting to feel impatient. It had been easier to ignore before when he’d been focused solely on Bruce, but his cock was so hard it was almost aching. The thought that he’d get to be inside that tight wet space, make Bruce make that noise again as Clark slid into him—

God. God.

“Is that… Are you ready?” he asked, voice a hoarse rasp. Bruce didn’t respond in words– might have been beyond them at this point – but he made a soft noise of assent, jerked pointedly in Clark’s grasp with a delicious little wriggle that made Clark feel impatient all over again. “Okay,” Clark said in a rush of air, “okay, just let me—”

He lined himself up. Bruce let out a hoarse, wordless cry as the head slipped inside, and another as Clark began to rock his hips in shallow thrusts, fucking him open. And god, Bruce was perfect, opened up for him so easily, arched his back into each thrust even though he had no leverage like this. His hands twitched restlessly, fingertips digging into his forearms, holding himself in place. Just the way Clark had asked him too.

“So good, Bruce,” Clark breathed as he finally slid fully inside. He paused there to let Bruce adjust, hips pressed to Bruce’s ass. Reached out and gripped those forearms himself, pushed them gently up Bruce’s back to immobilize him once more.

Bruce’s pulse stuttered.

“You really like this, huh? Being held down like this,” Clark noted softly. “Well don’t worry. I can keep doing this.” He gave Bruce’s arms a reassuring squeeze as he began to roll his hips, luxuriating in the warm, slick, tight heat of him. “God, you feel—amazing. I want you to feel good. Do I feel good inside you?”

Bruce didn’t reply, just made another wordless noise of encouragement that made Clark’s cock throb with heat—and god but it was so tempting to drive in harder, faster, especially knowing that Bruce would want it that way too, would eagerly take whatever Clark could give him. But he’d gotten this far by taking things slow and steady. Why stop now?

So he kept things slow, careful, even though Bruce was unraveling beneath him, making soft, broken, overwhelmed noises on every thrust, half-muffled into the bed. It was no wonder when he’d been so close before Clark opened him up. He was still close now, Clark could tell, his desperation clear in the way his thighs were trembling, in the way his cock was drooling between his thighs – and he was so good and so hot that it barely took any time at all before Clark was right there with him, a familiar, maddening pressure building at the base of his spine.

So he leaned forward and reached around to wrap a hand around Bruce’s cock, jerking him off in time with the roll of his hips – and just like that, with just a couple of strokes Bruce was coming hard with another one of those gorgeous choked, wordless sobs, whole body shaking through waves of it, cock jerking wetly in Clark’s grip, which—Jesus. Jesus. That was really all it took? Could he have come from Clark’s cock alone, if he’d just kept going?

The thought of it was pure, liquid heat, rushing through him, that pressure within him mounting. With a final groan, Clark let the pleasure wash over him, drag him under, hips stuttering as he emptied himself into that tight, wet heat. When he finally came down from it, he felt incredible, his whole body buzzing pleasantly.

“Wow,” he breathed, a dopey grin plastered across his face. He hadn’t expected to enjoy this that much, but—wow. Just—wow.

Bruce grunted weakly in response. He released Bruce’s arms, watched them fall limply to the bed, then carefully pulled out. He rubbed a soothing thumb against Bruce’s hip. “You alright there, B? That looked pretty intense.”

This time there was no grunt. Bruce shuffled forwards and lowered himself onto his stomach, face pillowed on his forearms. He looked completely wrecked, breathing harsh, pale skin flushed and sweaty, his hole a mess of lube with Clark’s come slowly leaking out of him.

The sight probably shouldn’t have made Clark feel proud but, well…

“Give me a second, I’ll be right back,” he told Bruce fondly, and padded off into the bathroom to fetch a damp cloth. Bruce was still catching his breath when he returned, but he’d rolled onto his back and flung a forearm over his eyes.

Clark settled down again beside his limp form and gently wiped the cloth along Bruce’s stomach, careful not to tug at the dark trail of hair there. Bruce shivered at the first, cool touch of the cloth.

“What are you doing,” he grated out, voice tired and hoarse.

“Isn’t it obvious? I’m getting you clean.” Clark replied easily, lifting his penis so he could clean along his length – gentle, so gentle, since Bruce was probably oversensitive after all that. “You don’t want to lie around covered in semen, do you?”

Bruce didn’t reply, but he was pliant when Clark nudged his thighs apart to clean further down, which for him was as good as permission. Once Bruce was mostly clean, Clark gave himself a quick wipe down too before setting the cloth aside. He stretched out beside Bruce on the bed and held out his arms, fingers wiggling. “C’mere.”

Bruce shifted his head to peer at Clark from beneath his arm. His eyes were still a little glazed over, but there was tension in his brow, a frown tugging down the corners of his lips.

“What,” he said.

Clark raised his eyebrows expectantly, wiggling his fingers even harder. “C’mere, I said.”

Some strange emotion flashed across Bruce’s face. But then, with a huff, he shuffled closer. Clark hummed happily and wrapped his arms around Bruce’s shoulders, tugging him against his chest.

At first, Bruce’s body was tense against him. But slowly, that tension leaked out of him, as if his exhausted body didn’t have the energy to hold onto it anymore. Emboldened, Clark trailed his hand up to card his fingers through Bruce’s hair. Usually when he was touching Bruce’s hair, he was distracted – by Bruce’s mouth, his hands, his body. But in this quiet moment, he could focus on the feel of it: the smooth texture of the strands beneath his fingers, coarser where it went salt-and-pepper at the temples.

“Why are you doing this?” Bruce asked him. The words were flat and unemotional, even mumbled into Clark’s clavicle.

“Why?” Clark chuckled. “Are you seriously asking why we’re cuddling? Because it’s nice, Bruce. Because I want to. And besides, I know things got a little intense for you there. I figured this might help.”

“You don’t need to do that,” Bruce said stiffly. “I’m fine.”

Clark resisted the urge to roll his eyes. “I know. God knows, you’re always fine. But maybe I’d like to have the chance to take care of you every once in a while.” He let his fingers trail down Bruce’s back, along the scars there, most of them jagged except for the surgical ones around his spine. The recovery from that had been awful. Clark had been terrified for him – not so much for his physical health, but for what Bruce’s own mind would do to him if it turned out he could never walk again, never be Batman again. At least, not in the way that he had been.

Bruce hadn’t wanted his help then either. He’d been miserable, stubborn, prickly, pushing everyone away. Even his family. Even Clark. And it had been miserable for Clark too, seeing his best friend in the world suffering and completely unable to do anything about it. Torturous not even being able to be there for him through it, without making things worse.

“You know how much I care about you, right?” Clark said softly. “I know we don’t say it out loud, but I know you know.”

Bruce sucked in a sharp breath and went still. “Clark…”

“You don’t need to say it back. I know you feel the same way anyway.” He felt a smile tug at his lips, probably embarrassingly sappy, but he was warm and comfortable and still bathing in the afterglow, and there was no-one there to call him out on it. He figured he got a pass. “I mean you’re just… You’re my best friend, Bruce. You mean a lot to me—”

“Get out.”

Clark froze. “What?”

“I said get out,” Bruce said again. His voice was small, quiet and even, but his pulse was racing. And when he pulled away, Clark saw just the briefest flash of his expression, something raw and open and the closest to broken he’d ever seen from him.

The warmth in Clark’s chest turned to ice. “Bruce? What’s wrong?”

Bruce wasn’t looking at him anymore. He turned to sit at the edge of the bed, head lowered, so that all Clark could see was that broad, bowed back. The scars his fingers had been tracing along just moments before.

“I’m fine,” he said eventually.

“You’re not fine.” Clark bit his lip. He wanted to reach out, lay a comforting hand on Bruce’s shoulder, but with Bruce suddenly so closed off he wasn’t sure the touch would be welcome. “Did I…say something wrong?”

There was a long, tense silence. Seconds passed before Bruce let out a long, slow breath.

“No,” he said quietly. “No, you didn’t. I just need you to leave.”

“Bruce, please, you’re clearly upset about something. I’m not just going to leave when you’re—”

“Clark,” Bruce bit out, harsh. Clark froze. Voice soft again, Bruce went on, “I’ll be fine. I just need to be alone right now. Can you understand that?”

“I—of course,” he said. “Of course, Bruce. Whatever you need.” 

He slid out of bed, resisting the urge to cast worried glances at Bruce, still sitting tense and motionless at the edge of the bed. Bruce stayed there as he quickly redressed. Didn’t move a muscle as Clark muttered a soft goodbye and slipped out onto the balcony. Stayed there, just like that, long after Clark had gone.

Clark hadn’t wanted to leave him alone. But he didn’t want to intrude. Despite what Bruce had said, he couldn’t slip the lingering feeling that it was something he’d done after all. After all, what else could have provoked such a sudden shift in mood?

Maybe he’d pushed Bruce too hard during the sex after all. Stupid of him to push Bruce like that when Bruce had been off before they started – but Clark had forgotten that, let himself get swept up in the excitement, in how much Bruce clearly wanted it. Or maybe his actions after the sex had been too…well, too much. Too affectionate. They were just friends who had sex sometimes. Maybe Clark had overstepped.

Clark honestly wasn’t sure. He wasn’t used to not knowing what was going through Bruce’s head in moments like these.

He didn’t like it.

Chapter Text

“I'm sorry,” Clark said. 

They were at Gino’s, a lovely family-run Italian place in downtown Metropolis. He and Lois had gone there on their first real date – their first date that was a date date, not just working on a story together and grabbing a meal at a late-night diner, ankles brushing below the table. They'd come to Gino’s for dinner every anniversary since then, a sweet little tradition just for the two of them.

And this time, Clark had been late. Late enough that they’d missed their reservation. The staff, very apologetically, had informed them when they finally arrived that they’d given away their table and no others were available – but perhaps one might free up in thirty minutes or so?

So they’d taken a seat at the bar. Lois sat beside him, halfway through a glass of Cabernet Sauvignon. She wasn’t meeting his gaze.

“Really, Lo,” he said quietly, “I’m so sorry.”

“It’s fine,” she said, but she was lying. Clark could tell. He could always tell.

“It's not fine,” he said. “You're upset.”

She let out a humorless laugh. “I mean, objectively, you really don't need to apologize. You were late because you were…what were you doing exactly?”

Clark shifted guiltily in his seat. “Well, I…there was a fire.”

“Right,” she said. “You were late to dinner because you were rescuing people from a goddamn fire. You're here apologizing because you were…pulling puppies and orphans out of the fucking flames—”

He blinked at her, surprised. “How did you know it was a dog shelter?”

“Jesus Christ, it was orphaned puppies,” she muttered. “But—look, of course you were late. What was the alternative, just let the puppies burn so you could make your dinner reservation with your wife? That would be insane. So seriously, why the hell are you apologizing?”

“Because you’re upset. I never want to upset you. You know that.”

“I’m not upset, I just—” She let out a frustrated sigh. “Jesus, Clark. What kind of asshole would I be if I was upset at you for rescuing puppies?”

“Even so,” he said, frowning. “I mean, it's our anniversary. It should be perfect.” After all, no matter what she said, a good husband wouldn't be late to their anniversary dinner. He was Superman, and Superman could do anything.

He could be a good husband for her. He just had to try harder to be what she needed.

He laid his hand over hers on the table. “I wanted tonight to be perfect, and I messed that up for us. Of course I’m sorry about that. But I’ll make it up to you—”

“For god’s sake,” she snapped, “how many times do I need to tell you to stop apologizing? It’s fine.”

The harshness of her tone brought him up short, made his mouth snap shut. The restaurant was alive with the buzz of background chatter, but somehow all he could hear was the tense silence between them.

It took him a while to break the silence. “Well, sure, I get that. But I'm still sorry,” It came out a little more defensively than he’d intended but he felt…wrong-footed. They’d been having a lot of these little fights recently, fights where Lois would go cold and closed off and angry and nothing he could think of to say seemed to make it better. And honestly, it scared him a little. Because if he didn’t know what he was doing wrong, didn’t even know what the problem was, how was he supposed to fix it?

She stared at him for a long moment, before her scowl melted into something softer. “I know. I know.” She turned her hand over, clasping his hand in her smaller, familiar one. “I’m sorry too. For snapping. I’m just…tired. Okay? I’m tired.”

“It’s okay. You work so hard. Of course you’re tired.”

She let out a snort. “Says you.” Her brow creased with concern. “When's the last time you slept?”

“I don't need to sleep,” he replied.

She gave him a look. “Clark.”

He shrugged. “Couple of days.”

“Clark,” she said again, this time on a sigh. “I know you’re you, but…you can’t be everything for everyone else, all the time. You need some time off.”

Clark offered her a wry smile. “Well sure. And right now, I’m celebrating my anniversary with my lovely wife. That’s time off enough for me.”

He traced his thumb over her knuckles, the way he’d done a thousand times before. Her hands were rougher than his. She’d commented on it once, how strangely soft his hands were. She’d grinned, teasing; said: “And here I thought Superman could do anything. It turns out he can’t even get calluses. What kinda hero are you, huh, Baby Hands?” And Clark had been so elated just to be holding her hand – finally, finally – that he’d laughed at that way too hard and for way too long. “You’re such a dork, it’s not even that funny,” she’d complained – but by that point she was laughing too and she hadn’t let go of his hand, so Clark still counted that as a win.

“You look beautiful, by the way,” Clark told her softly. Because she was. She always was, but she'd made extra effort that night: bought a new dress in her favorite shade of burgundy, curled her hair, put extra effort into her makeup. She didn't need to do anything special for him to think she was beautiful, but he appreciated her effort all the same.

She offered him a weak smile. “Thanks, Smallville. You cleaned up pretty good too.” She sighed. “Look, we don’t have to just sit here waiting. Maybe we can just…go home? Order takeout?”

Over a decade of marriage, and they’d always done Gino’s. He frowned. “Are you sure? If you want to stay, I really don’t mind waiting.”

She shook her head. “No, I…home is fine by me.” She looked up at him, an odd glint in her eye. “Unless you’d like to stay? Would you?”

She was watching him expectantly, waiting for his answer. He’d been looking forward to their date night. They didn’t get a lot of them, considering how busy they both were – for real romance, just the two of them doing something different from normal, something special. Something like dressing up, eating somewhere nice. Reliving the times they’d had together, before age and 

But he was the one who messed up tonight. He owed it to her to make it right.

So instead, he made himself smile. “No, no, it’s fine,” he said lightly. “Honestly, I’m pretty tired. Takeout sounds great.”

“Right,” she said blankly, then drained her glass. “Sure. Then let’s go home.”

As they left Gino’s, Clark felt a stab of guilt. Even though it had been her suggestion, she didn’t seem very happy. Obviously, it was his fault. None of this would have been an issue if he’d just made it in time in the first place. Instead of having this conversation, instead of both of them compromising, they could have been sitting at their table, laughing over a shared bottle of wine, smiling at each other in the candlelight.

But, he decided firmly, he could still salvage this. He tried his best to make it the best staying-in anniversary he could. They took the scenic route home through the park, hands swinging together in the lamplight. They ordered Lois’ favorite takeout and settled in together on the couch, cracked open a bottle of wine. They spent a wonderful couple hours not watching a documentary on the Silk Road until Lois, already weak-kneed and breathless, suggested they move to the bedroom.

They lay tangled together in the afterglow, fingers interlaced beneath the covers. Clark squeezed her hand, smiling down at her where she lay tucked into his side. “Good night?”

“Mm, very.”

“Glad to hear it.” Maybe it was just being cozy in bed, but he suddenly felt completely exhausted. He let his eyes drift shut.

She shifted against him. “And you? Did you have a good night?”

“Of course I did.”

“Okay,” she said quietly.

She sounded suddenly uncertain. He peeled open heavy eyelids to look at her. “We’ll go back next year,” he promised her. “To Gino’s.”

Her smile flickered, just for the briefest moment. But then she was squeezing his hand back. “Sure, Smallville. Gino’s, next year. It’s a date.”

But they never made it back to Gino’s. That was their last anniversary before Lois asked to separate. It hadn’t been an easy conversation. She’d cried. Clark had cried. Of course he had. She was the great love of his life. Over a decade of marriage, their lives intertwined, kids – the whole shebang. And it was ending.

He hadn’t been able to make her happy after all. 

But there was one thing that Clark had never told anyone, not even Bruce. In that moment when Lois said they were over, alongside the heartbreak and the guilt and overwhelming sense of loss, deep down inside, he also felt—

—relieved.

Three days after Clark’s ill-fated attempt at sexual exploration, he was woken up early by a knock at the door. Yawning, he threw a robe on over his boxers and trudged over to the door.

A mysterious, sleek black box sat outside the door. It looked incongruously fancy perched on the homemade sunflower welcome mat Ma had gifted him five Christmases ago, when she’d been getting real into crafts: thick, laminated cardboard, decorated with a geometric Art Deco print so chicly understated that Clark was sure normal human vision wouldn’t be able to pick it out without magnification. In other words, it was very definitely not the kind of package Clark received on the regular.

Huh. Curious.

It was instinct to look through the box to check the contents. And inside the box was…a suit? It was made of fancy-looking fabric and came with a collared shirt, a silk tie, and gold cufflinks. Laid atop the suit was a note, scribbled in Bruce’s familiar, barely legible cursive:

      I got us reservations at Josephine. Meet me at the manor, 19:00 tonight. Wear this.

Huh. Curiouser.

He’d barely spoken to Bruce at all since he’d been unceremoniously ejected from Bruce’s bedroom. He’d sent a single follow-up message the day after, checking that he was okay, that they were okay. Apologizing, if he’d said or done anything to cause hurt or offense. Offering to talk things out.

The day after that, Bruce replied simply with:

      B: I’m fine. I’ll be in touch.

That message wouldn’t be particularly reassuring from anyone else, but Clark knew that if Bruce had actually been upset with him, he wouldn’t have replied at all – and certainly not so quickly. So from that, he’d assumed things between them were okay, and that Bruce would tell him what had happened when he was ready.

Still, he hadn’t expected Bruce ‘getting in touch’ to be a dinner invitation.

Now fairly certain the box contained neither a pipe bomb or some elaborate kryptonite trap, he carefully picked it up and set it on his kitchen table, closing the door behind him. Unhelpfully, blankly staring at the box in its new location did not generate any further insights. This wouldn’t be the first time Bruce told-not-asked Clark to be somewhere, but usually Clark got a little more context than this.

After a moment of deliberation, he fetched his cell phone and typed out a text:

      Clark: Dinner at Josephine, huh? What’s the occasion?

He was about to slip his phone into his pocket when, to his surprise, he received an immediate response. It wasn’t even 7 AM; Bruce would usually have crawled into bed around 5 o’clock and wouldn’t see daylight for at least another couple of hours.

He opened the message and read:

      B: The occasion is dinner.

Clark rolled his eyes. Typical Bruce, always hell-bent on keeping things mysterious.

      Clark: Come on, don’t I get a hint?

Seconds later, two replies came, in quick succession:

      B: Everything you need is in the package.

      B: See you tonight.

“That’s not an answer,” Clark muttered in the vague direction of Gotham. He was tempted to text back a ‘what if I have plans?’ but he knew the answer: Bruce had checked, somehow, and he knew that Clark was free as a bird, barring any sudden Superman business. After fifteen years of friendship, Clark was accustomed enough to the presumptuousness that it didn’t even bother him. If anything, it was a relief: a glimpse of normal, completely expected Bruce behavior on the tail of the recent abnormal, faintly bewildering Bruce behavior. It felt good to be back in the realm of predictability again.

With a sigh, Clark lifted off the box’s lid and set it aside, along with the note he’d already read, and pulled the suit out of the box. Now that he had it in his hands, it was even more obvious how fancy it was. The beige suit fabric was satisfyingly textured – sturdy but still breathable enough for summer, unlike Clark's own polyester-tastic collection, bought off the rack and deliberately oversized to obscure his physique. The shirt was a soft cotton with a traditionally starched collar. The tie was real silk, a lovely shade of sky blue with a tastefully subtle diagonal stripe. The cufflinks were solid gold.

Clark didn't have to try it on to know that the whole ensemble was tailored to his exact measurements. He didn't even want to think about how much it had cost. It wasn’t the first time this had happened. Over the years, Bruce had gifted him shoes, cologne, a watch, glasses and all manner of high-tech gadgets. They were all purportedly ‘for the mission’ and, inevitably, all drastically out of Clark’s price range. “That’s the point,” Bruce had told him when Clark had brought it up years ago. “It’s not something you can buy yourself; that’s why I’m getting it for you. Or would you like to fund the maintenance of the billion-dollar satellite we operate out of?”

Clark hadn’t. But still, he’d put his foot down with the car. Since then, Bruce had been pretty well-behaved with the fancy gifts, but now…

Feeling a little disgruntled, Clark carefully hung up over the suit in his closet. He managed to put the Mystery of Bruce and the Unknown Case out of his mind as he got dressed, made a quick breakfast, and headed off to work. But on the slow and very boring elevator ride up to his floor, he couldn’t help ponder it again. It had to be for a case, right? Otherwise, why else would Bruce pick Josephine, the kind of restaurant where prices weren’t printed on the menus and tables were booked out months in advance? Clark definitely wasn’t a regular – and for that matter, given its central Metropolis location, neither was Bruce.

Maybe that was what the suit was for? Bruce probably needed them both to fit in with the regular clientele. Two wealthy men striking out on the town, perhaps? Or maybe a business dinner? Of course, the cover would probably depend on what they were actually supposed to be doing there—

“Hey, Smallville. What’s got your panties in a bunch?”

“Oh, nothing,” Clark replied automatically, distractedly, barely glancing at Lois as he passed her desk. Then he paused. Backtracked. “Actually, wait. Maybe something.”

She raised an eyebrow at him. “Something I can help with, I’m guessing?”

“Honestly, I’m not sure, but…have you heard any intel about Josephine lately?”

She wrinkled her nose. “Josephine the restaurant?” When Clark nodded, she hummed thoughtfully, tapping her fingers on her desktop. “Nothing major. Except…I guess Luthor’s been spotted there a couple of times this month?”

Clark perked up. “Luthor?”

“Wow,” Lois drawled, “I’ve never seen you so happy to hear that name before. You come around on him or what?”

“What? Oh, no, no. Just think I figured something out, is all. I’m supposed to be meeting Bruce there tonight, but he’s been cagey about the why.”

“Huh. Typical Bruce,” Lois snorted.

“Sure is.”

“So now you think it’s something to do with Luthor?”

“It would make sense, wouldn’t it?” After all, this wouldn’t be the first time Bruce had invited him out to spy on someone, and Josephine was exactly the kind of place the wealthiest citizens of Metropolis might go for a night out. And if Luthor himself was something of a regular…

Lois nodded thoughtfully. “Yeah, I can see that.” She grinned. “Hey, if it turns out to be something worth reporting on—”

“I’ll let you know, yes,” Clark said, grinning back. “As long as we can share the byline.”

“Better that than you scooping me again,” she said cheerfully. But then a shadow passed across her face and her grin faded. “Oh, and uh…speaking of Bruce. Sorry again for…you know…”

Oh geez. “No, no, you don’t have to apologize. Really.”

“Okay. But speaking of, I've been meaning to ask…” She glanced around the mostly empty bullpen before continuing, sotto voce, “Bruce, huh?”

“We really don’t need to talk about this,” Clark muttered. They’d both been collectively pretending that the whole closet incident had never happened for the past couple of weeks, and honestly, he’d really been enjoying not talking to his ex-wife about his friends-with-benefits situation with his best-friend-and-technically-her-ex. But Lois was watching him expectantly, so he reluctantly offered, “Look, there's not much to say. Technically, we’re not even…”

Her eyebrows rose. “Oh. Wow. So exclusively quickies in broom closets, that kinda deal?”

Clark felt his cheeks warm. “Well. Something like that.”

“Huh.” Lois eyed him up, consideringly. “You know what? Coming from you, I’m actually kinda impressed.”

“We really don’t need to keep talking about this,” Clark told her, very genuinely.

Heedless of Clark’s discomfort, she went on: “No, really! I mean, good for you, honestly. Bruce is a pretty generous guy, from what I remember.” She paused and wrinkled her nose. “Ah. Yeah, no, that was too far, wasn’t it.”

“Little bit,” Clark agreed.

“Yeah. It felt weird coming out. I don't think we're ready for girl talk. Let’s just walk that one back, shall we?” She flashed him a bright smile. “Hey, Smallville. What's got your panties in a bunch?”

Despite his lingering discomfort, Clark couldn't hold back a chuckle. “We're walking all the way back there, huh?”

Lois shrugged. “It seemed safest.”

“Well, okay then.” He returned her smile, hopefully not as awkwardly as he felt. “Oh, nothing. Just thinking about dinner with a friend this evening.”

“A vague and non-specific friend, huh? Sounds fun.” That bright smile relaxed into something smaller and warmer. “Seriously, though, have fun, Smallville. Moneybags is paying, I’m guessing? Make the most out of it. They’ve got two Michelin stars, you know. I hear the salmon is incredible.”

There was a softness in her voice that he hadn’t heard in almost a year, the softness that would only appear when it was just the two of them, words murmured after a welcome home and before a kiss goodnight. Clark might have thought it would ache to hear her like that again. Now he just felt glad he hadn’t lost that forever.

“Thanks, Lo,” Clark said, this time with genuine warmth. “You got any fun plans this evening?”

She gestured grandly to her desk. “Unless one of my sources comes through with a miracle, you’re looking at ‘em.”

“Ouch. Well, don’t work too hard, okay? And good luck.”

She flashed him a quick salute, and he headed over to his desk feeling strangely optimistic. A few months ago, he was sure they wouldn’t have recovered from that kind of awkwardness, but now they were just…moving on. Going about their days.

It was such a small thing, but it felt like a milestone.

He found himself smiling to himself as he settled down at his desk and booted up his computer. Things with Lois were okay. And that evening, he’d get to see Bruce for the first time in weeks. Now that he had some idea of what to expect, his elaborate dinner plans seemed a lot less daunting. In fact, if all he had to do was listen in on Luthor while having a probably-delicious dinner with Bruce—

Heck, it might even be kinda fun.

He headed home straight after work. Or, at least, he planned to – but Superman didn’t generally work on a fixed schedule. He was heading home when duty called: a building collapse in Hong Kong, with many of the building’s residents trapped inside.

He spent at least an hour helping the local authorities manage the crisis, dragging people out and clearing the worst of the rubble. As a result, he barely had time for a quick stop at home to rinse off building debris and change into his fancy new suit – which, unsurprisingly, fit like a glove – before flying straight out the door.

(On the flight over the Pacific, he'd considered just showing up in his work clothes. But Bruce had asked him to wear that fancy-schmancy suit and gone to all the trouble of getting it for him. It had to be important, right?)

Alfred let him in as soon as he rang the doorbell, as if he’d been waiting by the door for Clark’s arrival. “Greetings, Mister Kent. Do come in.”

“Hi, Alfred! Where’s Bruce?”

“Upstairs. I believe he’s still getting ready. Feel free to wait with Master Dick in the living room.”

Clark brightened. “Dick’s here?”

“Yes, just visiting. He wanted a consult on a case,” Alfred said as he led Clark through the familiar halls. Clark knew his way around, of course, having been a regular visitor for more than a decade, but whenever he came in through the front door, Alfred insisted on showing him the way. Clark had long ago accepted that this was just the way it was going to be forever, and politely went along with it.

When he entered the living room, there was Dick, half dangling over the arm of a sofa while looking at something on his phone. He looked up when Clark entered, beaming. “Clark!” He leaped smoothly to his feet and paused, giving Clark a quick once-over. “Whoa, you look amazing.”

“Thanks! Long time no see.” Dick wrapped him in an effusive, backslapping hug. Clark squinted down at him “Wow, have you gotten taller again?”

Dick rolled his eyes good-naturedly. “Not for a good decade now, but thanks. Although it feels like a decade since we last hung out. How did I let that happen, huh?”

“You’re busy, Dick. We both are. It’s how this whole hero thing works, unfortunately.”

“Yeah, well, busy or not, we need to catch up! And I don’t mean just working together from time to time. I mean the real stuff. Speaking of which…” Dick's eyebrows waggled. “So.”

Clark smiled back, a little bewildered. “So?”

Dick's eyebrows were still waggling. “You and Bruce.”

“Yes?” Clark replied, a little bewildered. “What about us?”

“I mean…you. And Bruce.”

Clark was feeling an uncomfortable sense of déjà vu. “What do you mean?” he asked warily.

Dick blinked back. His eyebrows were no longer waggling. “What do you mean what do I mean— Wait.” He looked over to Alfred. “I thought… But wasn't he…?”

“He is,” Alfred supplied. “But he hasn't.”

Dick's eyes widened. “He hasn't?”

“He hasn't,” Alfred confirmed.

Oh boy. Clark was starting to wonder whether they were speaking in code. 

“Did Bruce tell you about us?” he asked hesitantly. He’d assumed Bruce hadn't mentioned it to anyone, least of all his family. Bruce was a big fan of not mentioning things in general, even to Clark. But maybe he and Dick had the kind of relationship where they talked about their sex lives? Dick was already an adult after all, even if part of Clark would always see him as a kid. It wasn’t unreasonable.

Dick opened his mouth to respond, but Alfred cut in smoothly, “He has not mentioned it to Master Dick, no.”

“Oh,” Clark said, cheeks warming. Whoops. “But, uh, he's told you?”

“No,” Alfred replied dryly, “I do his laundry.”

…Ah.

Dick looked between them, plainly distressed. “Wait, seriously?! But Bruce said… I thought you two were going out tonight?”

“We are. Dinner at this fancy restaurant, apparently.”

“Oh,” Dick said, brightening. “Dinner! So you’re… Okay! Well, that’s good then. Good!”

Clark shrugged. “Yeah. He hasn’t told me what the plan is exactly, but I guess I’ll find out later. Unless…” He tipped his head. “You don’t know what this is about, do you? A recent case or something?”

For some reason, Dick’s face fell.

Before he could ask why, his attention was grabbed by the sound of familiar, near-silent footsteps in the hall. “Why hello there, Mr. Wayne,” he said with a grin.

Bruce smiled back, small and a little wry. “Mr. Kent. Thanks for waiting.”

Clark couldn’t help but give him an impressed once-over. “Wow. You look great.” He was freshly shaved, his hair was perfectly styled. His suit was a tasteful light gray, his thin white shirt worn rakishly open at the neck. The overall effect was sleek and expensive, even by the standards of his normal public persona. He looked like he could have walked off the set of a cologne ad.

“I think that’s my line.” Bruce looked him up and down approvingly. “You wore the suit. It fits you well.”

“Of course it does. I know you have my measurements.” He folded his arms. “Which is definitely weird, by the way. You know, in case you're not aware of that. I feel like it needs to be said.”

“It’s not weird. I have everyone’s measurements.”

“See, that doesn’t make it less weird.”

“Agree to disagree,” Bruce said.

“Hey, wait, Bruce,” Dick cut in, voice strained. “Can I, uh… Can I talk to you for a second?” He glanced briefly towards Clark, and added, “In private?”

Bruce frowned at him. “Can’t it wait until later?”

“See, uh, that’s the thing. I’m really not sure it can.”

“Is it related to a case?”

“Well, no, but—”

“A family issue?”

“Um. Depends on what you mean by family issue, but—”

“That’s two nos. Then it can wait.” Bruce turned on his heel and strode out of the room. “Come on, Clark. It’s a long drive.”

Clark caught Dick shooting Alfred a slightly despairing glance. Alfred having somehow materialized a feather duster from thin air, ignored him entirely, ostensibly busy with the shelving. “Sorry about that, Dick. Want me to talk to him?” he offered. “Or I could pass on a message, if you like.”

“You really couldn’t,” he muttered under his breath, before waving a dismissive hand. “It’s fine. Probably. Just…have a nice time, I guess?”

Clark frowned. “If you’re sure. Have a good night, Dick.”

He caught up with Bruce outside, unlocking the car. It wasn’t The Car Clark was used to, but one of his many lower-case cars: a sleek, black thing built for gleaming at people from showrooms and obnoxiously streaking down motorways in defiance of traffic law. The kind of car Bruce Wayne might ‘accidentally’ wrap around a lamppost, just after a Gotham rogue’s attack left Batman visibly injured.

As he approached, Bruce opened up the passenger side door for him. Clark raised an eyebrow. “Wow. Are you taking me to prom?”

“No. Just dinner,” Bruce said. He stepped closer, smoothing down Clark’s lapels, straightening his tie. “You really do look good in that,” he murmured.

Clark smiled. “Coming from you, that means a lot.”

Bruce hummed, eyes fixed on his own fingers tracing the silk of Clark’s tie. Then leaned forwards to kiss him, slow and soft and open and a little filthy for it.

Clark kissed back instinctively, but Bruce pulled away after only a couple seconds. Clark wet his lips. “Uh. What was that about?” It wasn’t that he minded Bruce kissing him – and certain parts of him really didn’t mind – but they never kissed unless it was a prelude for something more. Except that couldn’t be what Bruce wanted, because they were about to go to Josephine—

Oh. Oh.

“So this is what I can expect from tonight?” Clark asked. Posing as a wealthy couple out on a date would make for a solid and unobtrusive cover at a place like Josephine. The two of them having a comfortable physical relationship alongside their friendship would only help to sell it.

“It can be. If you like,” Bruce murmured against his lips.

Clark smiled. “I think I’m fine with that.” As far as covers went, pretending to be Bruce Wayne’s boyfriend would hardly be a hardship.

He felt rather than saw the curve of Bruce’s smile against his mouth. “Good. Then we should get going. Our reservation’s for 7:30.”

Clark pulled back, eyebrows shooting up. “What? For—that’s in fifteen minutes! We’ll never make it to Metropolis in time!”

“It’ll be fine. I’m Bruce Wayne. They’ll hold the table until I get there.” His hand slipped down Clark’s side to rest comfortably on Clark’s ass, giving it an affectionate squeeze. “With my date, of course.”

Ugh. Billionaires. “You’d better not do this at the restaurant. I don’t want you getting us kicked out,” Clark grumbled warningly. Before Bruce could open his mouth to reply, he added, “And don’t say they won’t because you’re rich. That’s not the point and you know it.”

Bruce pressed his lips together. With only barely noticeable reluctance, he stepped back, hands held up in a clear gesture of placation – although the smug tilt to his smile somewhat ruined the effect.

“Don’t worry, Clark,” he said, with all apparent sincerity. “Tonight, I’ll be the perfect gentleman.”

Despite Bruce’s assurances, Clark hadn’t actually expected Bruce to make more than a token effort to keep things restaurant-appropriate – not because he didn’t trust Bruce to respect Clark’s boundaries in public, but because they were in public. And that meant that, technically, he wasn’t on a fake date with Bruce. He was on a fake date with Bruce Wayne. 

Ass-grabbing aside, Clark had been prepared to spend the night pretending to be hopelessly charmed by eyebrow-waggling innuendoes and the seductive flash of a black AmEx. And yet…

“Who are you and what have you done with Bruce Wayne,” Clark murmured after their waiter left, having been thoroughly charmed by Bruce during a short conversation about the local cuisine in his home city of Bangkok. It was a very un-Wayne-like exchange, all told, and not solely because Bruce hadn’t pretended not to know where Bangkok was. It only felt more out of place after Bruce had opened the passenger door for Clark when they arrived at the restaurant, then politely pulled out his chair for him when they sat down – the kind of good manners that Bruce Wayne would usually practice with the kind of sleazy smile that said he expected a reward later for his ‘good behavior’.

Across the table, Bruce raised an eyebrow at him over the rim of his wine glass. “What do you mean?”

“I mean this isn't what I expected from tonight,” Clark said. It was a far cry from what he’d heard about The Bruce Wayne Experience™ from articles in the society pages: tell-alls from jilted starlets and society darlings about the real Bruce Wayne, no salacious details spared. Hell, this wasn’t even what he’d expected a date with the real Bruce to feel like. For the first time in their fifteen years of friendship, he’d explained the menu options to Clark in a way that somehow fell short of paternalistically condescending and landed smack bang on helpful. “I mean, you’re being so…”

“So…?”

“Well,” Clark said slowly. “So…normal, I suppose.”

“Normal,” Bruce echoed, with a wry twist of his mouth. “The implication being that usually I’m not.”

He grinned back, teasing. “What, like you disagree?”

He took a slow sip of his wine. “I contain multitudes.”

“That’s not strictly disagreement.”

The corner of Bruce’s mouth ticked up in a smile. “Touché.” His gaze dropped to the stem of the glass, one finger tapping it thoughtfully.

“I didn’t want to be him tonight,” Bruce said eventually. “I wanted this to be more…real. Grounded. Does that make sense?”

Clark blinked, a little surprised at the serious turn in the conversation. “Oh. I mean, sure, I understand.” If anything, it would make the cover easier. It would be easy to act charmed and flattered when Bruce complimented him, to laugh at his jokes, to play at flirtatious when their ankles brushed beneath the table, when Bruce was acting…

Well. Idealized. Not quite himself.

“I know you have a certain view of me. In part because of my public reputation.” Bruce set his glass down and leaned back in his chair, fingers steepled in a particularly Bruce-like (and a particularly un-Brucie-like) pose. “That reputation has been a mostly self-sustained fabrication for a long time now. Outside of that, it's just been Selina and a handful of others for several years now.”

Oh. He meant that reputation. “Bruce,” Clark cut in hurriedly, “you really don't need to explain yourself to me. I know I'm not very—uh, you know. But I'm not one to judge.”

“I know. I just…thought you should know. That the mask is not the reality.”

“I never thought it was,” Clark assured him. Because of course he knew that. How many years had they been friends for? How could Clark have any doubt as to exactly the kind of man Bruce was?

Bruce nodded once, small and brisk. “Good.” He reached across the table and placed his hand over Clark’s. “I'm glad to hear it.”

“Um,” Clark said, briefly at a loss for words. He glanced down to Bruce’s warm, calloused hand over his. Was this still a part of the cover?

Clark suddenly felt uneasy. “Bruce. What are we doing here?”

Bruce raised an eyebrow, eyes flickering down to their joined hands. “I believe this is what the kids call ‘holding hands’,” he said lightly.

“But,” he began, and then stopped. He wasn’t sure how he’d been intending to end that sentence, except he couldn’t help but wonder… But no, that couldn’t be it. Bruce wouldn’t want… Surely he didn’t—

And then Clark froze. Because Lex Luthor had just walked into the restaurant.

“Bruce. 3 o’clock, lower balcony” he hissed.

Bruce’s eyes flickered to his 3 o’clock. His pristine, public-facing smile didn’t drop, but the skin around his eyes tightened slightly in displeasure. “Great. What’s he here for?”

“Not sure yet. But he’s with someone. A woman.” He studied her subtly out of the corner of his eye. She was wearing thick-rimmed, cat-eye glasses and a colorful A-line dress that wouldn’t be out of place at a bat mitzvah; her long, black hair was arranged into a carefully messy updo. “Huh… I think I recognize her, actually. Trish…Q, maybe? She’s a freelance reporter – a gossip columnist, I'm pretty sure. She’s done some work for the Planet.”

“Is she giving him an interview?”

“Maybe? I’m not sure, but that would make—”

Across the restaurant, Luthor reached across the table, picked up her hand and—and kissed it.

“Whoa, never mind,” he said, eyebrows shooting up. “I don’t think it’s an interview. I think it’s a date.”

Bruce blinked. “A date.”

“Yes. And she…” He watched the woman –Trish – tug her hand away, but not before shooting Lex a look of amusement – or at least distinctly not disgust – from under her eyelashes. “Wow. Yeah, she seems actually, you know. Into it.”

“Into…Luthor,” Bruce clarified.

“Yes.”

“...Huh,” was all Bruce said to that.

Clark slanted a glance at Bruce. “I can keep an ear out? See if he lets anything slip.”

Bruce grunted. “That would be wise, yes.”

“Okay,” he told Bruce, smiling. “I’ll let you know if I hear anything. Sound good?”

“Sounds good,” Bruce replied flatly, and summoned their waiter to order food.

Clark felt something unclench in his chest. He must have been mistaken after all. This was what they were here for, after all. And didn’t that make more sense than…than…

It was just as well Luthor came in when he did. Otherwise, Clark might have gotten the wrong idea.

For the rest of their meal, through starters and entrées, Clark kept half his focus on Bruce – keeping up conversation, maintaining the charade – and half on Luthor's table. Despite the need for multitasking, he was actually having a pleasant time. Just as Lois said, the salmon was excellent. Bruce's company was always entertaining. And, while normally spending any amount of time in Luthor's presence was anything but pleasant—

Well. Somehow, eavesdropping on Lex Luthor on an actual, genuine date was fascinating.

“So, Miss Q,” Luthor said lightly soon after their food arrived, “been smearing the names of any other well-meaning businessmen recently? Or should I consider myself special?”

Trish smiled at him. “Oh, definitely. See, I save my ridicule for the really megalomaniacal ones.”

“Wow, megalomaniacal? That’s a lot of syllables for a gossip journalist.” He swirled his wine lightly in his glass. “Please don’t strain yourself trying to impress me with your intellect. You won’t manage in any case.”

Shooting him a dry glance, she delicately sawed off a small corner of her venison steak. “Don’t worry, I’m really not. Even if I wanted to, everyone knows trying to impress a pathological narcissist is a fool’s errand. Let alone one who pays reporters to write nice things about him.”

From the other side of the restaurant, Clark winced. “Geez,” he muttered, “they are so mean.”

Bruce frowned. “What?”

“Luthor and Trish. They’ve been at each other’s throats non-stop since they sat down.” He tuned in again, only to hear Luthor call Trish an ‘off brand Zooey Deschanel’, and winced again.

“What do you think of the restaurant?” Bruce said suddenly.

Clark blinked back into focus. “Huh?”

Bruce was reclined in his chair, fingers curved delicately around the stem of his wine glass. He smiled. “The restaurant, Clark. What do you think?”

“Oh! Um, well…” Clark glanced around. “Yeah, it’s nice. Very romantic.” While the restaurant was, admittedly, intimidatingly far out of Clark’s price range, the atmosphere was wonderfully intimate: soft, warm lighting over each table, fresh flowers strung up on the walls, the gentle strains of violins drifting up from a live string quartet downstairs. If this were a real date instead of a dinner with his best friend, and if they were different people, just a simple Kansas boy and a handsome billionaire out to dinner, Bruce would probably be doing a pretty great job of sweeping him off his feet.

“And the food?” Bruce pressed him.

“Oh, yeah. Delicious,” Clark assured him warmly. “Although I really don’t want to think about the price tag on this.”

“Don't worry. Tonight’s on me.” Bruce paused, wetting his lips. His gaze dropped to his glass. “I know it's not exactly your usual preference. But I thought you might like it here nonetheless. I wanted to—”

“Really, Trish, a hair joke?” Luthor said dismissively. “Like that’s never been done before. Besides, it can’t bother you that much, considering you agreed to this date.” He smirked at her over the rim of his wine glass. “Unless it’s more than that? Perhaps you have some sort of fetish?”

“You’re accusing me of fetishism?” She sniffed derisively. “Please. I’m not the one who fantasizes about making Superman call him Daddy.”

Luthor blinked. “How did you know about that?”

Clark choked on a bite of salmon.

“Is everything okay?” Bruce asked, brows furrowed in concern.

Clark waved a hand as he took a sip of water. “Ah, yes sorry, just got distracted. What was that you were saying?”

Bruce glanced towards Luthor’s table and scowled. “Nothing important. It's fine,” he muttered, before draining the rest of his wine.

Clark frowned. Oh boy, he definitely seemed upset. “Look, I'm sorry” he tried. “I'm listening now. What did you want to—”

“I said it’s fine,” Bruce said flatly. He set his empty glass back on the table. “So? What is it? Has he let something slip?”

“Oh, no, nothing yet,” Clark said ruefully. “They've just been… Well, at this point, I think I can only describe it as flirting.”

“...Flirting,” Bruce echoed. “That’s what has you so engrossed.”

“Yeah. They're just insulting each other, but…” He glanced at their table again. Luthor was gazing across the table with a delighted smile tugging at his lips as Trish, eyes twinkling, reeled off a list of his most recent public failures, most of which she described as ‘cringe’. “I think it's like foreplay for them.”

“Is that so.”

“Yeah. There’s a lot of very uncomfortable sexual energy coming off that table. It’s like what people say about car crashes: it’s disturbing but you can’t look away.” He shook his head ruefully. “I mean I can’t believe I’m saying this, but I think they might be perfect for each other.”

“Good to know,” Bruce said bluntly. And a little…snippily?

Clark frowned. “Okay, you're actually upset. What’s up?”

“I'm not upset.”

“Yes you are. You're doing the Thing with your face again.”

Bruce did the Thing with his face even harder. “For the last time, I do not have a face thing.”

“Oh really? Then explain to me what your face is doing right now.”

“Clark,” Bruce began. But then his expression actually did shift, the tense line of his mouth softening.

“Really, I’m fine,” he said, all traces of irritation abruptly absent. “Why don’t we get out of here?”

Clark blinked at Bruce, who was already summoning their waiter with a hand. “Go? But what about…” His eyes flickered briefly but pointedly to Luthor, who was now saying something hard to decipher about…panic rooms? “Don't you want to stay for dessert?”

“No. I think I've eaten my fill,” he said. Their waiter approached and Bruce gave the man a polite nod as he handed over his credit card. “I think we can have much more fun together without that unpleasant distraction. Say…at your apartment?”

“I…um, sure,” Clark said uncertainly, eyes following the retreating back of their waiter. Had that been said for his benefit? Just in case, he offered Bruce a warm smile. “Sure. That sounds good.”

“Good,” Bruce said. He stood, smoothly buttoning his suit jacket. “Then I'll give you a ride.”

They left once the waiter returned with Bruce's card. And Clark was a little confused. He'd assumed they'd been there to spy on Luthor, but then why would Bruce be so eager to leave before they'd gotten anything useful from him? But then, thinking about it…it wasn’t like Luthor had been talking about anything criminal. He was too focused on, apparently, seducing a freelance gossip journalist.

None of this really made sense. Unless…

There was a little knot of doubt sitting at the base of Clark’s skull, tightening his throat. During the brief, quiet car ride back to Clark’s apartment, the knot shifted, grew, twined its way down his spine. By the time Bruce chivalrously opened Clark’s car door for him and walked him inside, that knot sat heavy and leaden in his stomach.

They stopped outside the front door to Clark’s little apartment. It was hardly the first time Bruce had visited, but this felt different, somehow. Clark offered him a smile he hoped wasn’t too stiff. “Well… Thanks for the ride, B. Good night.”

Bruce smiled at him through his eyelashes. “Aren’t you going to invite me in?”

Clark swallowed. The weight in his stomach was growing heavier. By now he knew what that look meant: Bruce wanted sex.

“Um. Sure,” he said. “If you want. Let me just…”

He slipped his keys out of his pocket and opened the door, excruciatingly aware of Bruce’s presence beside him. When he stepped inside, Bruce followed him in, standing a polite distance away while Clark set down his keys, heart beating a staccato rhythm in his chest.

Only when he’d turned around to meet Bruce’s expectant gaze did Bruce step closer. But he didn’t crowd Clark against the door, or tug him in by his hips, or shoot him one of his trademark wicked smiles. Instead, he eased his hands into Clark’s grip, fingers interlaced, thumbs stroking along the edge of his wrist. Leaned in close until they were chest to chest, sharing the same breath, lips not quite brushing. Smiling. Only then did he sway closer, capturing Clark’s lips in a soft, undemanding kiss, and Clark—Clark—

Clark flinched back. Swallowed thickly, mouth suddenly far too dry. “Bruce, I don’t… What is this?”

Bruce gave him an odd look. “What do you mean?”

“I mean this. This whole evening. What was the point of it all?”

Bruce’s smile flickered. “What do you mean what was the point? I told you, it was a…a date. We were on a date,” he said looking into Clark’s eyes, clearly searching for some kind of recognition, and—

“Oh,” was all Clark managed.

Bruce’s smile faded entirely; the knot in Clark’s stomach twisted. “You didn’t know this was a date. Did you.”

“Uh. Well,” Clark said sheepishly. “No?”

“I see,” said Bruce slowly. Finally he stepped back, and Clark realized abruptly that he’d stopped breathing. But even now that Bruce had given him some space, it wasn’t easy to make himself start again when he could see the warmth in Bruce’s eyes fade in real time. “Then what did you think this was.”

“I thought… Reconnaissance. I thought the whole date thing was just a…a cover, I didn’t realize—”

“A cover,” Bruce echoed, blank and cold.

“We have dinner together all the time, Bruce!” He was trying to keep his voice even, not sound defensive or—or high-strung, but— “This isn’t even the first time you’ve told me to dress up and show up somewhere on short notice, so why do you think I’d assume—”

“Were my actions not enough?” Bruce snapped. His eyes flickered away, the corners of his mouth pulling into a frown. “I tried to be… I thought it would be obvious.”

Clark’s stomach dropped. His actions? “Wait, is that what that was about? The way you were acting, like…” Like the perfect boyfriend, Clark realized mutely. Chivalrous, kind, romantic, attentive. Taking Clark out to a fancy restaurant, both of them all dressed up, like—

Like a real date. Even though it was too much, far too much for a first date, but…that part was Bruce all over, wasn’t it? He never did anything by halves. Clark already knew that about him.

Bruce’s jaw was hard. “I…I thought that was…what you’d want. From me.”

Clark’s skin prickled. “I never asked you to do that.”

“You didn’t have to.” He looked away, shoulders tense. “I knew you’d never consider me an option normally. You haven’t before. And it’s understandable. Romantically, I am not a very appealing prospect. My history speaks for itself.”

“Bruce—”

“But it doesn’t have to be that way. Even if I’ve—failed, in the past. I can still change. Be better. Tonight, I wanted to show you that I could be…different, for you—”

“Bruce, please,” Clark said – a vague and half-formed request, but Bruce’s mouth snapped shut anyway. “Just…please. That’s not…” He let out a sigh, pinched his brow. He didn’t know how to respond to the sheer amount of wrong coming out of Bruce’s mouth. “Please don’t talk about yourself like that. I don’t want you to be someone else. Not for my sake.”

Bruce stayed silent. When Clark looked up, Bruce was watching him mutely, mouth a tense line, eyes alive with an emotion Clark couldn’t place.

“So,” Clark began slowly. “This was supposed to be a date.”

“Yes.”

“You want to date me. You want a…relationship?”

Bruce’s eyes flickered downwards, away from Clark’s face. “...Yes. I do.”

Clark’s pulse was racing. “But…but you don’t do relationships. What makes this – me – different?”

And Bruce smiled then, strange and almost bitter. “What doesn't?” he said, voice strangely thick—

Oh, Clark thought to himself numbly. That’s what that emotion was. Bruce was actually afraid. Afraid because he was, for once, letting himself be vulnerable.

He was being honest. He really wanted this. He really wanted Clark to want this too.

Clark felt sick.

“Clark,” Bruce says, when Clark didn't say anything. His eyes flickered across Clark's face, searching – and evidently his search was fruitless. His next swallow was visible.

“Oh. I see,” he said, so quietly it was barely more than a whisper. “You’re horrified.”

“No,” he said quickly, “that’s not. I was just surprised. That’s all.” Bruce was already stepping back, lips pressed so tight together they were white and bloodless, and the words tumbled out of him: “Look, Bruce, I’m—I’m so sorry, I didn’t mean to—”

“It’s okay, Clark. Don’t worry about it,” he said, quietly and without intonation – but it was faster than his usual measured speech. The only audible sign that he was really, truly upset. “Forget I ever said anything. We can just go back to how things were before tonight—”

“No we can't,” he said. He watched Bruce's eyes flash with emotion, felt his own mouth twist. “We can't. Of course we can't. This changes things.”

“It doesn't have to.”

“Yes it does!” he said, voice strained. “Bruce, I can't keep sleeping with you if you're in love with me.”

Bruce flinched, like he'd been slapped. And immediately Clark regretted saying the words aloud.

He still hadn't answered the request Bruce hadn't made, not directly. But they both knew what that meant.

Bruce didn't deny it, which was most telling of all. Instead, the tense silence stretched out between them, until Clark found his voice again. “How long?”

Bruce looked away. “Does it matter?”

“Of course it does!” Clark ran a hand through his hair. “We need to—to talk about this—”

“We don't.”

“Please, Bruce,” he said softly. “Don't be like this.” If they were going to move past this, he needed to understand what had changed, where things had gone wrong. “Look, it's understandable. Sex is intimate, and that can lead to certain…feelings. If things changed for you at some point—”

“They didn’t.”

Clark paused. “They didn’t?” he said numbly. But that meant… “So, before all this, you already…”

Bruce’s jaw was clenched so tight it had to hurt. He still wasn’t meeting Clark’s eye.

“Oh,” Clark managed, through a chest that suddenly felt too tight for speech. That meant it had been months, at least, or perhaps longer. Months of what he thought had been casual, casualty-free sex. Not to mention – and it seemed so obvious now – his odd behavior, his irritation, suddenly freezing him out…

He’d been hurting Bruce all along, without even realizing it. And honestly, it terrified him. How many times had he let Clark hurt him, and come back anyway? How long would he have let this go on for, if he’d have known that Clark wouldn’t—that he couldn’t—

“Why?” he croaked. “You were the one to suggest it. Friends with benefits. Why would you say that if you…”

Bruce’s hands twitched, like he wanted to curl them into fists. “Isn’t it obvious?”

“No. No, it’s not.” This moment was tense enough, raw enough, that he knew Bruce couldn’t have gone into this light-heartedly. “I mean, did you even want…this? Any of this?” He thought back to their time together and couldn’t help but wonder: how much of the sex they’d had was even what he wanted, the way he wanted it? All along he’d been so willing, so eager to please. And Clark hadn’t questioned it at the time, thought that was just…just preference. But maybe it wasn’t that. Maybe all along, he’d just been—

Trying to be what Clark needed. Just like tonight. Hoping that if he tried hard enough, eventually Clark would feel the same way.

“I didn't know,” he whispered. It was all he could think of to say.

Without another word, Bruce turned away, laying a hand on the doorknob. The line of his back was tense. When he spoke, his voice was flat and bitter. “You’re a smart man, Clark. If you’d wanted this, you would have seen the signs. But you didn’t want to see it. Did you?”

“Bruce—”

“This,” he said quietly, “is why I said there was nothing to talk about. By now, I know a rejection when I see one.”

Clark stood there, numb and motionless. There had to be something he could say to that. Something he could say to fix this, to make Bruce feel better. Something that would maybe alleviate the twisting knot of guilt and shock and quiet dread that was wrapping itself around his lungs. Suffocating him. Something that would fix this horrible, unexplainable dismay, the bubbling frustration that he couldn’t justify.

But nothing came to mind. He said nothing as Bruce opened the door and slipped out of his apartment.

And he was gone.

Chapter Text

After Clark’s rejection, Clark and Bruce stopped talking for a while.

That wasn’t to say that Clark didn’t see Bruce at all. After all, they were in the Justice League together. There were missions, and the bimonthly meetings, and countless instances where he’d glimpsed Bruce in the Watchtower’s training room or loitering by the coffee machine. But even if he’d exchanged words with Batman, that wasn’t talking to Bruce. That wasn’t friendly banter or teasing jabs; it wasn’t but how are you, really. It wasn’t murmured small talk over a meal, in the Cave or the Fortress or a restaurant or a quiet rooftop, out of sight of civilians.

It was Clark’s closest friend in the world giving him a curt nod as they passed in the hall before disappearing. It was Clark not even knowing where he was heading off to in such a hurry, because he couldn’t even ask, because after the way their conversation in Clark’s apartment had ended, Clark had no idea what to say to him.

It felt conceited to say he’d broken Bruce’s heart, but there was no more succinct way to describe the look on Bruce’s face that night than heartbreak.

I’m sorry would be easier, in a way, even though it wasn’t his fault that he hadn't wanted Bruce the same way Bruce wanted him. Or, at least, most nights he decided it wasn’t his fault. He vacillated between guilt and an uncomfortable lingering feeling of resentment, because here he stood in the silent wreckage of their fifteen-year friendship, mired in guilt for apparently breaking Bruce’s heart, when all along Bruce hadn’t told him. Bruce hadn’t wanted him to know, until that night.

But he couldn’t blame Bruce for it either. Never that.

He knew what he should do. He knew he needed to give Bruce space. But it was hard to stay away, when Clark missed him so much it ached.

During that unhappy time, Clark did a lot of thinking. Most of it wasn’t by choice. The whole situation had left him with an ugly, knotted ball of emotion in his gut, weighing him down. It got lighter as the days passed and it slowly unraveled itself. Loosening strands of it would flit through his mind in quiet moments throughout the day, while he was grabbing a coffee from the machine, or working at the Fortress, or drifting off to sleep at night. And it soon became pretty clear to Clark that there were a lot of things he’d been trying not to think about for a long, long time.

So, a few weeks after it all went down with Bruce, he paid Lois a visit.

There was nothing remarkable about the day itself. There was no argument to resolve, no fallout to navigate, no crisis that pushed him to a breaking point. He’d just gotten home on a Wednesday evening after a regular day at the office, made himself dinner, and then quietly decided that this was The Day.

He’d had the address since she’d left him for good – over a year now – but this was the first time he’d visited. She’d opened the door with a look of surprise that quickly shifted into wariness, but she led him through to her living room anyway. As he looked around, he was struck by just how much it looked like Lois’ apartment. Articles and letters and Post-it notes were scattered over the walls and any available flat surface. The cork board was crammed with pinned notes and pictures. And there, taking pride of place under her coffee table, was the carpet she’d liked from the apartment they used to share – the apartment Clark still lived in, empty now of all traces of her.

She barely waited for him to sit down before she asked, “Is it about Jon?”

He quickly shook his head. “No, it’s nothing like that,” he reassured her. “I just wanted to talk to you. About us.”

“About us,” she echoed. She didn’t look much less wary than when she’d let him in. “Well, okay then. Talk. I’m listening.”

She was watching him expectantly. Waiting. And Clark, embarrassingly, struggled to speak for several long seconds. The concept of ‘talking to Lois’ had felt a lot more doable on the walk over, but now that they were face-to-face…

It took a surprising amount of courage to say the things that were easier left unsaid. Clark faced down world-ending threats on a semi-regular basis, but somehow this felt scarier.

He took a deep breath and forced himself to speak. “You know, this whole time, I was never sure why you ended things. But I think I know now. It was my fault, wasn’t it?”

Lois looked pained. “Clark—”

“No, it’s okay, Lois.” Without his permission, his gaze dropped briefly to his hands, clasped between his knees. “So…towards the end of our marriage. I don’t think I was very happy.”

The words felt monumental. But somehow Lois just smiled. “Tell me something I don’t know.”

Although her reaction wasn’t a surprise, it still ached to hear. He swallowed. “Right. And you weren’t happy either, even before that. And that’s understandable. I mean, we were both so busy, our lives are so crazy…” His eyes drifted shut. “Honestly, it scared me. I thought that if I didn’t fix things somehow, you were going to leave me. So I tried to…to be better. Be perfect, make everything perfect. So you’d stay.”

Now, finally, he forced himself to meet her gaze. “But that was the problem. Wasn’t it?”

Lois’ face was all twisted up with emotion. She turned away, gazing blankly out the window, like she was looking for the right words. After a long, tense pause, she said quietly, “It wasn’t fun, watching you…minimize yourself like that.”

“Yeah,” he said. He’d just wanted to be accommodating, make sure she was happy. He’d thought everything bad he was feeling would be fixed if he could just manage that. Like his happiness was dependent on hers, and hers on his.

But it turned out you could only live that for so long without breaking.

“I wanted a husband,” she went on. “Not a yes man. Or the goddamn…sitcom dad who just says ‘yes dear’ whenever his overbearing wife says anything.”

“Lo, come on. You were never that.”

“Maybe not. But it felt like it sometimes, you know? And after a while, it felt like you couldn’t be honest with me. Like we weren’t being honest with each other. Which is just no good for a marriage. And…and I never asked to be catered to like that. Especially not like that. Sometimes it felt like you were killing yourself trying to make me happy, and it made me feel so guilty, and…and resentful for feeling guilty, which made me feel more guilty because I knew you were just trying to make me happy. And then it all just became this fucking—vicious cycle, which was just…” She sighed. “I don’t even know, Clark. It just made me feel like shit.”

Clark’s throat was tight. “I…can understand that. I put you in a difficult position.”

She shot him a small smile, a little too sad to be wry. “Come on, Clark. It takes two to tango. It’s on me for not saying anything. I guess I didn’t know how to bring it up. I mean, what was I supposed to say? Darling husband, it makes me uncomfortable when you’re nice to me? How the hell do you make that argument work?”

Clark offered her a weak, grateful smile. She was clearly trying to make him feel better, but they both knew that if she’d brought it up, Clark would have just denied it, and nothing would have been solved. “Even so,” he said softly. “I think I finally understand a little of what you were feeling back then. I just wanted to come here and say that I’m—”

“If you’re going to apologize, then don’t,” Lois cut in sharply. “How many times do I have to tell you? I don’t need any apologies, so just park it, okay?”

He frowned. “But Lo—”

“No buts! Clark, no matter how things ended between us, you’re still you. You’re the best man I’ve ever known. The competition isn’t even steep.”

The best man, she said. Even after everything. Clark’s throat felt tight. “That doesn’t fix the fact that I messed up.”

“Fine, so you messed up. But I think enough’s happened between us that we can call it even, can’t we?” Her voice was firm but soft. “I mean, Christ, Smallville, cut yourself some slack once in a while. Okay?”

The lump in Clark’s throat only felt thicker. “Okay,” he said. “Thanks, Lo.”

“I don’t need thanks either. You know I’m always happy to tell someone to pull their head out of their ass.” She sighed, shaking her head. “Honestly, it’s no wonder you and Bruce get along so well. Neither of you have an ounce of chill.”

Something must have flashed across Clark’s face then, because she frowned. “What? Is something wrong with Bruce?”

“Oh! Uh, no. Well, maybe; I’m not sure. It’s…” Clark let out a breath. “We’re not exactly, ah. Talking. At the moment.”

Her expression twisted with sympathy. “Not talking, huh? Is that related to the, you know…”

He winced. “Yeah. Yeah, it is. But I don’t really want to, uh…”

She gave him a rueful smile. “You don’t have to tell me what happened. It’s fine if we’re still not ready for girl talk. But whatever it is, I hope you two work it out.”

“Thanks,” he said, relieved. He pushed himself to his feet. “And thanks for the talk. I’m sorry for ambushing you with this on a weeknight.”

Lois gave him a very wry look. “Clark. What did I just say about apologizing?”

“Well, sure. But there’s that, and then there’s manners. That doesn’t count.”

“Says you.”

“Yeah, I do say that,” he said. “And do you know what?”

“What?”

“I’m not sorry about it.”

She let out a soft bark of laughter. “Look at you, you’re learning!” Her grin softened into a smile. “But I mean it, you know. You don’t need to apologize for wanting to talk about this stuff instead of letting it fester. Honestly, I’m glad you came over tonight. Don’t be a stranger, okay?”

He couldn’t help but smile back, not when it was so ingrained in him to return that smile with his own. This conversation – or something like it – was long overdue. They hadn’t really talked about the divorce in any depth before this. Of course, there were several discussions about it at the time: a man does not hear his wife say, ‘I want a divorce,’ and not at least tack on a, ‘Whyever might that be, dear?’ But the answer had been, broadly, that Lois wasn’t happy in their relationship. And Clark knew that was true – had known that for a long time. What more was there really to say?

Quite a lot, as it turned out.

“I feel like we’ve talked about me a lot. But I’m here if you want to get anything off your chest.”

Her face spasmed. “Ah. I’m…not there yet. I think.”

He nodded slowly. “Right. That’s fine. Tonight’s been a lot. As long as you know I’m here if you need me.”

“Thanks. I do know,” she said and stood. “Now get the hell out of my apartment. Some of us need to sleep.” The words were harsh, but Clark could easily recognize the look on her face: the look she got when she wanted to cry but didn’t want anyone to see.

Maybe he couldn’t make her feel better, but he could let her be upset in peace. Clark smiled. “Sure thing, Lo. I’ll get out of your hair,” he said, and the smile she left him with at the door was only a little wobbly.

So, things with Lois improved. For a long while they hadn’t been the kind of friends who could actually talk about their lives. But on Lois’ suggestion, they started spending more time together – actual time together, outside of work and family stuff, trying to be real friends and not just exes.

There were a couple more Talks after that first one, a little more awkwardness, some shed tears. They made it a regular thing to get lunch together at Lois’ favorite food truck, and it was only after she brought it up that Clark came to a guilty realization: he hadn’t ever used the number Abdi gave him. After everything with Bruce, it had just completely slipped his mind. That first visit back had been pretty awkward, him apologizing to a disappointed but understanding Abdi. Unsurprisingly, having his ex-wife listening in hadn’t made the rejection any less awkward – but seeing Lois’ naked amusement as she looked on from the sidelines almost made it easier.

It was funny how much of a difference it could make, just having things out in the open.

But for as much progress as Clark made with Lois, things with Bruce were still rocky. Three months had passed with no change; that hot summer had already faded into a cool but muggy fall. And Clark’s resolve to give Bruce space began to falter. Three months had to be enough space, right? He could at least ask Bruce whether he was okay, or—or when he thought he’d be okay?

But there was a part of him still that thought that would only make things worse, the part of him that was terrified of losing Bruce forever. And sometimes that part of him was loud enough to drown out the rest. There was a night, two months after it all happened, that he turned up for monitor duty to find Bruce there by himself, getting ready to leave. “Bruce,” he’d said in greeting, in the mostly-normal tone of voice he’d learned to use around Bruce since then; and, “Clark,” Bruce had said back, so blank and neutral it was almost cold. There had been a beat then, while Clark had lingered in the doorway and Bruce was still unplugging his tablet from the console – and surely this was it, surely this was his chance to say something that could fix this?

But the words never came. So he’d stood motionless as Bruce whisked past him and disappeared off down the hall, and thought and thought and thought but—

But after all this time, Clark still wasn’t sure what he wanted to say to him.

In the end, it was Bruce who held out the first olive branch. Clark was sitting at his place in the Watchtower’s meeting room when Bruce walked in.

They were both a few minutes early for the regular Founders’ meeting; no one else had arrived. He caught the moment Bruce realized he was there by the minuscule hitch in his step, the way the breath froze in his lungs. Clark had heard him coming long before that, but somehow that hadn’t been enough to prepare him for the reality of Bruce’s palpable discomfort, just at the prospect of being alone in a room with him.

The air was thick between them.

“Bruce,” Clark greeted him, in what was by now a genuinely convincing approximation of a normal voice.

“Clark,” Bruce replied, in that same, neutral voice. Bereft of excuses to flee, or perhaps unwilling to appear to do so, he took his own seat beside him. The silence stretched out between them once more, and Clark thought again how he should break it – wondered with some self-directed frustration why the heck had he still not worked something out after three months – until:

“So. That engagement party was a nightmare,” Bruce said.

It took Clark a moment to realize what he was even talking about. The night before had been Hal’s engagement party. Clark arrived at the party with homebaked dessert and a nice bottle of wine as a gift; Bruce showed up too, with mostly concealed air of impatience and an envelope full of cash; and Clark had spent most of his evening watching Bruce glare unhappily into a glass of ginger ale from across the room.

They hadn’t spoken all night. But now—

Bruce was attempting small talk.

He gathered himself quickly, offered Bruce a tentative smile. “Oh, I wouldn’t say a nightmare. But yeah, it did get a little rowdy towards the end there, huh?”

Bruce snorted. “That’s an understatement.”

“I’d never seen J’onn drunk before. I wasn’t even sure he could get drunk.” He frowned. “It…probably would have been better if he couldn’t. Hal’s poor sofa.”

“And microwave.”

“And microwave,” agreed Clark with a sympathetic wince. “At least Hal seemed to be having a good time. That’s the important thing.”

“If he even remembers half of it, I’ll be shocked,” Bruce muttered.

“Fuck you, Spooky,” Hal muttered as he traipsed into the meeting room, “I haven’t forgotten shit, I have a mind like a steel trap—” He paused mid-step, just looking at them for moment, before his shoulders slumped. “Oh, thank God.”

“What?”

He gestured vaguely between the two of them. “You two. You’re talking again.” He walked over to his seat, slumping down into it with a sigh. “It’s about damn time. Honestly, I’m too hungover to deal with that today on top of everything else.”

“Oh,” Clark said, feeling a little sheepish. Darn. He didn’t realize they’d been so obvious.

Bruce rolled his eyes. “Coming to a meeting hungover? Very professional, Lantern.”

“Well, I didn’t know the meeting had been moved up, did I?”

“You would if you ever checked the calendar,” Bruce pointed out.

“It was my damn party! I’m allowed to drink at my own damn party,” Hal snapped. He pressed his fingers into his eye sockets like he was staving off a headache. “Cut me some slack, for Christ’s sake, it’s too early for this bullshit.”

He watched Bruce reach into his belt and wordlessly slide a packet of painkillers across the table. Hal accepted them gratefully, downing a couple of pills with a glass of water. As Bruce slipped the pack back into his belt, he caught Clark staring and scowled, and the grim line of his mouth was so achingly familiar that Clark couldn’t help but smile giddily back. Bruce just scowled harder and looked pointedly away, but even so there was warmth blooming in Clark’s chest because this—this was what ‘normal’ felt like. Bruce’s kindness, Bruce’s grumpiness. Bruce’s sarcasm and idle small talk, casual and inconsequential and everything Clark was worried had been lost between them.

It wasn’t much, but it was a first step. Bruce was alright. They would be alright.

From there, it still took a while for things to get back to normal – or whatever normal looked like for the two of them. It started off with little things: coffees and lunches on the Watchtower, snatched moments spent talking about nothing of any real consequence.

He took the opportunity to catch up on what he’d missed. Batman’s life had been predictably hectic: a number of cases, including at least one Arkham breakout and a stressful incident with a small dimensional rift, which had somehow resulted in an outbreak of hyper-intelligent but highly aggressive piranhas in Gotham’s sewers. Clark knew some of these things already – he was a journalist, after all – but it was nice to hear it from Bruce himself. And the newspapers couldn’t tell him that Bruce had a fight with Damian recently but they’d made up; that Bruce had helped Jason with a case and they’d actually, miraculously, had a nice time together; that he’d made a minor breakthrough on his newest iteration of the grapple gun. And it was a relief just to know all of that, where before there had been an empty void where his knowledge of Bruce would normally sit.

He hadn’t realized how much he missed that level of casual connection until it was gone. And he knew Bruce felt the same. It wasn’t as if Bruce had been uninterested in Clark’s life before, but it felt like more now. Like Bruce had been just as anxious not knowing what was happening in his life during the time they hadn’t been speaking.

From there, things slowly got better. Grabbing a quick coffee turned into hours spent talking over empty cups. And then coffees became lunch, and lunches became dinners, and dinners turned into late nights spent on rooftops talking about everything and nothing, bickering about literature, gossiping about their colleagues, and then bickering again because apparently, “Talking about people we both know isn’t automatically gossiping, Clark” – which, Clark argued, was a pointlessly pedantic argument, if it looks and quacks like a duck then it’s a duck, Bruce, and why did he feel the need to derail what had been a perfectly adequate gossiping session with needless semantics anyway?

But even then, they weren’t quite back to normal. His friendship with Bruce was neatly divided into the before times, and the after times, and things were different in the after times, in ways Clark was still trying to wrap his head around. So, he felt a little hesitant when he dropped by the Cave for a visit one night, just as he had a thousand times before, armed with a hopeful smile and a hopefully confident, “Uh, hey there, B! Is this a good time?”

Thankfully, he’d been worried for nothing: Bruce, who was hunched over a workbench tinkering with something, just grunted and gestured vaguely at the empty stool beside him.

Quietly relieved, Clark drifted over. “What are you working on?” he asked, peering closer. “Is this the new prototype of the grapple gun you mentioned?”

Bruce grunted again, this time in affirmation. “The chassis still needs work. It needs to be stronger than the previous version.”

Clark remembered Bruce telling him about this. “Right. Because the load requirements on this version are higher.”

“Mm. For this version, I’m testing out a new alloy I’ve been developing.”

Clark raised an eyebrow. “You’ve been developing an alloy? Just for fun?”

“Not just for fun,” Bruce said, which wasn’t exactly disagreement. He glared at the sleekly curved chassis – specifically at a small hairline fracture near one of the bolts. “I expected it to pass the initial stress test, but it didn’t. Something must have been off in my calculations.”

“Huh.” Clark peered closer still, practically leaning over Bruce’s shoulder. He smelled familiar, like the body wash he always used – the way Clark used to smell when he stayed over and used Bruce’s shower. He squinted, focusing his vision. “Uhh, yeah, I’ll be honest, it doesn’t look very strong. It’s full of gaps.”

Bruce glanced down at the chassis and then stared blankly at Clark. “Gaps,” he said. “Clark. Are you aware that those are intentional?”

Clark rolled his eyes. “Not the clearance holes. I mean within the metal itself. You know, between the atoms.”

Bruce’s eyebrows climbed up his forehead. “You… You’re directly examining the atomic structure.”

“Yup.” He shrugged. “Microscopic vision, remember?”

“Microscopic vision.” Bruce shook his head. “I forget sometimes how…ridiculous you are.”

“Ridiculous? Wow. Fighting words from the man with the billion-dollar bat motif.” Bruce grunted in easy acknowledgement. “Anyway, I don’t blame you for forgetting. I don’t use it much; it gives me a headache if I do it for too long. But anyway—” he pointed at the chassis “—really strong alloys look different from this. A little more…regular, I guess? Right now, there are these big clumps of atoms, and the gaps between them are pretty big.”

“Clumps,” Bruce’s expression turned thoughtful. “Do you mean the microstructures within the alloy?”

“Um, yup. I think that’s what they’re called.”

“Then perhaps the microstructures are too large. I should try a faster method of annealing.” He set the grapple gun down on the table. “Thank you. You may have helped.”

Clark grinned. “Happy to be of service! Honestly, I’m just happy the microscopic vision came in handy for once. It’s nice to be useful.” Bruce let out a soft snort; Clark frowned. “What? Is there something wrong with that?”

“No, there’s nothing wrong with it at all,” Bruce said. He slanted a smile at Clark – just the slightest quirk at the corners of his mouth but still filled with an undeniable fondness. “It’s just very you, that’s all.”

“Oh,” Clark said. Somehow, that had been enough to make his pulse race. He cleared his throat, leaning back on his seat. “Well.”

Bruce’s mouth twitched, and he turned back to the chassis. “If you’d like to continue being helpful, I have some other iterations of the alloy that I could show you. I suspect it’ll be more efficient to ask you than an electron microscope.” He paused. “But. Only if you would like to. It’s not…necessary, I don’t need you to—”

“It’s fine, Bruce,” Clark said, grinning. “I’m happy to stay and help however I can. As long as I’m not bothering you.” Seeing Bruce’s own awkwardness was oddly reassuring. Clearly, he wasn’t alone in that.

Bruce’s shoulders untensed ever so slightly. “Good. You’re not,” he said, and he sounded like he meant it, so Clark stayed.

They whiled away a pleasant hour and a half just like that, slotting idle small talk around discussions about Bruce’s project, before it was time for Bruce’s patrol and Clark to fly back to Metropolis. After that, things became easier. The next time Clark visited the manor was after a joint mission, trailing Bruce back while they continued an intense but entirely frivolous argument about the best episode of The Gray Ghost. The time after that, he dropped by for a spontaneous visit with takeout, having guessed correctly that Bruce was too wrapped up in the case he was working on to think about mealtimes. The time after that was by request – a formal invitation from Alfred to a family dinner, who had stumbled across Bruce and Clark halfway through a carton each of moo shu pork that night and very noticeably took it personally that both of them had chosen not to eat his cooking that evening.

Slowly but surely, their lives were sliding back into alignment. Still, as much as Clark enjoyed that, it was always nicest when it was just the two of them. Now that they were comfortable with each other once more, the mere fact of Bruce’s company felt like home.

Clark was struck by that feeling of rightness one evening, sitting beside Bruce in comfortable quiet. They weren’t doing anything special. They’d rearranged their shifts on monitor duty so that they could spend the evening together (and so Bruce could avoid partnering with Guy; Hal drew the short straw on that one). They were half watching the screens and half focused on other tasks, Clark skimming through some articles and Bruce busy with something on his tablet. And as he let that quiet wash over him, a thought occurred to him: that if this one, quiet moment stretched into hours, Clark would be perfectly content with that.

“What.”

Clark blinked himself out of his thoughts. “Huh?”

Bruce was sitting beside him, giving him a Look out of the corner of his eye. “You were staring.”

“Oh. Was I?” he said, and—oh. Were Bruce’s ears a little red? That was…well, honestly it was very endearing, but it also made him feel guilty. He must have really been staring if he’d managed to embarrass the normally unflappable Bruce. “Sorry, B,” he said sheepishly. “I didn’t realize.”

“You’re distracted tonight. Something on your mind?”

“Ah, no, not really.” He couldn’t tell Bruce what he’d actually been thinking about. They’d never really been big on open sentimentality, and it felt especially fraught now after everything. Bruce didn’t look particularly convinced by the evasion, but he didn’t pursue it, just let out a soft grunt and returned his attention to his tablet. Clark, who had nothing pressing to say, settled back into a comfortable silence. This time he tried not to stare at Bruce, instead trying his best to focus on his reading.

Only a few minutes later, the comfortable silence was interrupted once more by a soft buzz of an incoming message. Clark knew immediately that it was from one of his children just by watching Bruce’s reaction to reading it – knew it from the way his jaw unclenched, from the softening around his eyes, the subtle untensing of his shoulders.

It filled Clark with a rush of fondness. Bruce was rarely demonstrative, but he had so much love in him that sometimes Clark wondered how anyone could ever think him heartless. He loved his family, and his city with a dedication that bordered on fanatical. He loved being Batman, even though he’d insist that it was all for The Mission and any enjoyment was purely incidental. Once upon a time, he’d even loved Clark. And now he couldn’t help but wonder what Bruce looked like now when he was thinking about Clark, in the moments they weren’t together. Was it anything like this? Or was that only in the before times?

“Who was it?” he asked.

Bruce was already slipping his phone away, expression settling back into its default neutrality. “Tim. He was just giving me an update.”

“You’re working together on something?”

“Yes.”

Clark smiled. “I see. And I’m guessing you’re not going to tell me what the case is, are you?”

“That’s need to know.”

“And I don’t need to know.”

“Correct.”

“You know, if you told me, I could actually help—”

“That’s not necessary. Tim has it under control,” Bruce cut in – and there it was, the pride edging his voice, subtle but undeniable. “Apparently, he has intel for me. We’ll rendezvous once I’m finished here.”

“Why not go now?” Clark suggested. Bruce paused, and he went on, “We only have another twenty minutes left here. I don’t mind if you wanna get going a little early.”

“It’s not urgent,” Bruce said. “I don’t need to.”

“But you want to, right?” Bruce’s mouth thinned, which wasn’t a no. “See? Just go. I’ll wrap things up here.”

Bruce considered him for a moment. Clark could see the brief battle between duty and the thrill of a new case play out in the thinning line of his mouth, before he nodded. “Alright, if you’re sure.”

He stood, gathered his things, and made his way to the door. But when he reached the threshold, he paused.

“Thanks for this,” he said softly. “This was…nice.”

Coming from Bruce, that was a glowing endorsement. “Yeah, B,” Clark replied, beaming. “It was nice to see you too.”

Bruce sent him another quick nod before sweeping out of the room. Clark watched him go, still grinning. Once he’d heard the sound of the teleporter activating, taking Bruce back home, he returned his attention to the articles he’d brought, skimming over them distractedly until he was relieved by the next shift.

He flew home that night feeling satisfied and strangely elated, his time with Bruce playing on his mind. As he got ready for bed, he thought about the last time Bruce had been in his bed. Batman had slipped into his bedroom in the early hours of the morning on the tail end of a case, exhausted and mildly injured. Clark had helped patch him up and offered him a cup of tea; then he’d laid Bruce out in his bed and rode him, Bruce gasping out his name like a filthy prayer. And when he’d woken up the next morning, Clark remembered grinning sleepily when he noticed that Bruce was still frowning even in his sleep, feeling warm and hazy as the morning sunlight crept into the room.

It was funny how that memory suddenly made him ache. It hadn’t felt significant at the time. But as Clark laid his head down for the night, it suddenly struck him that Bruce had been in this very bed, and now he wasn’t, and probably never would be again. He hadn’t known then that that would be the last time that ever happened.

Revelations are, by nature, often dramatic. But not always. Sometimes there’s no sudden change, no eureka moment, no coming-to-Jesus, where something happens and the world abruptly tilts on its axis. Sometimes that kind of change is subtle. Incremental. Incidental. Like, for instance: one day, a day Clark would never know, there was a single small shift, far too small to notice on its own. And then later there was another, and then another, and then ten more, or perhaps even a hundred, until finally, finally—

The revelation wasn’t a surprise. Because he’d known for a while now even if he hadn’t known, felt the presence of something warm and nameless and incandescent within him, a feeling so natural and unobtrusive that he’d barely noticed the shift. In the end, it was in the liminal space between sleep and waking, just as Clark was falling asleep, that the thought dawned on him, quietly and without fanfare:

Oh. I’m falling in love with him.

Chapter Text

The problem with falling in love with Bruce was that Clark didn’t want to be in love with Bruce.

For a time, he tried to convince himself that he was wrong. Perhaps this brand new, familiar yearning wasn’t love. Perhaps it was just a longing for what he’d had with Bruce before everything had shifted so irrevocably, before the knowledge of that rejection sat heavy between them, the ease and closeness they still hadn’t quite found their way back to.

But the more time passed, the more time they spent in each other’s company, the smaller the rift between them grew. And soon enough, it became impossible to ignore that ‘back to normal’ wouldn’t be enough for him. That he wanted more.

It would have been easier if he'd just missed the sex. But that wasn't it either. His thoughts drifted to Bruce too often for that, the way they used to drift to Lois back when things were good, that constant tickle in the back of Clark’s mind. He spent too many evenings watching Bruce’s hands instead of working, trying to remember the feel of them in his own, the breadth of his palms and the strength in his fingers, the rough slide of his callouses against Clark’s palm. Too many nights wondering what if – what if – he’d said yes that day. What if Bruce had laid his bleeding heart out in front of him, and slotted his fingers between Clark’s like they belonged there, and kissed him like he was something precious, and Clark had just—kissed back? Where would they be now, if Clark felt then what he did now?

But it was too late for regret. What had happened had happened; there was no changing the past. The situation was what it was: the person Clark wanted was the man whose heart he’d broken only a few months ago. The person who, in an effort to save their friendship, seemed to have made every effort to get over him since then.

The irony of it had not escaped him.

The irony wasn’t making things better.

About nine months after Clark first asked Bruce if he could kiss him, six months after Clark broke Bruce’s heart, three months after their friendship began to recover and three weeks after Clark realized he was in love, he received a phone call at work. “I need you to come to Gotham tonight,” Bruce said without so much as a greeting as soon as Clark picked up. “Meet me at The Carlisle at 7 tonight. Wear something nice.”

Clark felt an immediate and overpowering sense of déjà vu. Feeling abruptly weary, he got up from his desk. If they were going to talk business, he didn’t want any of his colleagues overhearing. “Do I get to know what this is about?” he asked, once he made it as far as the hallway.

“I just got a tip. Someone’s planning a disruption at the Gotham Society’s Annual Children's Benefit.”

“Oh, right,” he muttered, “I think Cat’s supposed to be covering that.”

“Can you trade with her? If you need me to pull some strings—”

“No, no,” he said quickly, “I can just owe her one.” If the Planet’s absentee owner descended from on high to assign Clark to specific events again, he'd never hear the end of it from Cat. Last time, it took a planetary invasion and a scandalous affair between two mayoral candidates before she lost interest.

“If you insist,” Bruce said lightly. He sounded amused.

“I do,” Clark replied, a lot less lightly. He slipped into the emergency stairwell, which was handily devoid of cameras. Once there, he put on a light burst of speed, zipping up to the roof – empty, save for him. The air was crisp and clear. This high up, he didn’t need to look through buildings to see the Gotham skyline, faint in the distance. “And you need me because…?”

“Because Bruce Wayne is on the guest list and has already RSVP’d.”

“Has he now?”

A grunt. “Alfred RSVP’d.”

Clark grinned. “I figured. I’ll bet you were super happy about that.”

“It’s one of the biggest annual events in Gotham, in support of many of the causes Bruce Wayne champions. I’ve attended every year for the past decade. My absence would be noted.”

“That’s what Alfred said when you complained about having to attend instead of taking care of this yourself, isn’t it?” That earned him another grunt. Clark felt his smile widen.

“So,” he said airily, “you need me there as backup?”

“Ideally. Since I’ll be attending as a regular guest, I won’t have access to my normal equipment.” There was a soft creak from the other end of the line. Clark could picture him perfectly just from the sound of it: leaning back slightly in his chair, fingers steepled. “I assume you’ll help.”

“Of course,” Clark said, because if he was needed, he’d always be there. That was never in question. “What kind of disruption are you expecting?”

“Violent.”

He rolled his eyes. “Oh, really? I never would have guessed.”

“I don’t have more details for you than that. My source was not very specific.”

“Your source?”

“Confidential.”

“Of course it is,” Clark muttered. Oh well. If it was important, he was confident he could get it out of Bruce later. “As long as you think this tip is reliable.”

“I do.”

“Okay. Then I’ll be there,” Clark said. “See you tonight, Bruce.”

“Clark,” was all Bruce said, a truncated farewell, before hanging up. Clark sighed and slipped his phone into his pocket. There was a small, giddy part of him that was jumping for joy at the thought of seeing Bruce tonight.

He pushed it down. Good gosh. What was he, a teenager?

He arrived at the event fifteen minutes late. For once, it wasn’t because he’d had something else more important to do – something like his job, or like saving lives, or even rescuing kittens from trees. Instead, he was late because he’d spent fifteen minutes longer than he should have staring at his closet.

Bruce said to dress up. Clark’s nicest suit by far was the one Bruce had gotten him.

Bruce had liked that suit on him.

It was cheaper than a rental, he told himself, with an embarrassing kind of determination. It was a practical, defensible choice. Even if any other time he would have worn one of his normal, everyday suits with a slightly fancier tie and borne Bruce’s sartorial derision with good humor, because Clark Kent didn’t need to impress anyone at these kinds of events.

Even if, as he put it on, he couldn’t stop remembering the appreciative way Bruce had looked at him the last time he’d worn it.

Clark was really trying not to think about that.

Despite arriving after the event’s start, he still arrived long before Bruce; ‘fashionably late’ was Bruce Wayne's usual modus operandi. He made use of his time gathering quotes from the attendees (Cat had left him with very strict instructions on who to talk to) while keeping an ear out for anything suspicious. After half an hour, he'd identified three people who were probably metas – a waiter with an inhumanly slow heartbeat, a man who was ever so slightly (but thankfully benignly) radioactive, and a woman who seemed to have metallic skin beneath the long sleeves of her dress – and made it about halfway through Cat’s list.

That was when Bruce arrived.

Clark heard him before he saw him. First it was just that ever-present awareness he had of Bruce drawing closer, the slow, rhythmic thump of his heartbeat that Clark could pick up from miles away. Then it was his footsteps, the sound of polished Oxfords on the stone steps outside. As he entered the hall, it was his voice, the tinkling ersatz tenor he only used when he was being this version of himself, throwing out jovial, familiar greetings as he made his way into the hall.

Then, finally, he was within sight. It wasn’t long before Bruce’s eyes found him across the room. But they only lingered on him for a second, confirming his presence, before sliding off him again and onto someone else.

It shouldn’t have felt like an anticlimax. It did anyway.

For the next hour or so of the party, he focused on what he was here to do. Or rather, he tried to. But try as he might, his attention kept getting pulled to Bruce again, – or rather, to Bruce Wayne, billionaire philanthropist, in his element; Bruce, the quiet, severe man Clark knew and reluctantly loved, was strategically absent. Even though he was the same man, he didn’t always look like the same man, like a pair of identical twins that one could nonetheless always tell apart. The cut of his suit somehow both minimized and accentuated him, hid the power and strength of him behind sleek, expensive fabric while bringing out the breadth of his shoulders, the length of his limbs. And while Bruce always shaved before going out like this, Clark was used to him with the shadow of fast-growing stubble across his jaw, knew what that stubble felt like against his skin—

Clark forced himself to look away, felt his mouth twist into a grimace, and quite sternly told himself to get a grip.

God, had Bruce always been so…this? Sure, he’d always been handsome, but Clark was sure that before, the sight of him hadn’t stolen the air from his lungs. Or had it? As he was now, it was hard to imagine a time when he’d looked at Bruce and not wanted to drink in every detail of him.

It struck him then how far away Bruce felt, even though they were in the same room. Bruce Wayne, billionaire, and Clark Kent, reporter, had no real reason to interact at an event like this except professionally. But even so, Clark couldn’t help but long to hear that voice up close, rather than from across a room. He wanted to be that woman Bruce was talking to, leaning in with a wicked smile. He wanted to brush a flirtatious hand against his shoulder like that, to lean in and return that smile in kind. He wanted to say something clever that would bring out Bruce’s real smile from behind the mask, the one only he and a few others ever got to see. He wanted Bruce to invite him home – not even for sex, just…companionship. Touch. He wanted to see Bruce rumpled and warm in the early hours, the way he used to.

Too bad he didn’t have a right to that anymore. If he ever had a shot, he’d missed it by now—

“Clark?”

Clark blinked himself out of his thoughts and turned to see a familiar face. “Ronnie?”

Sure enough, there was Veronica Vreeland, her smile just as warmly radiant as ever. Her long, red hair was piled atop her head in a complicated updo, and her long silk gown flowed from her shoulders like a particularly expensive waterfall. She looked even more effortlessly glamorous than she had for their date almost…gosh, had it really been almost a year?

This time, though, Clark didn’t feel so underdressed. “Wow, it is you!” he exclaimed, returning her smile. “I guess I should have expected you’d be here. You look beautiful.”

“Says you!” She gave him a playfully appreciative once-over, then whacked him lightly on the shoulder. “I mean my goodness, that suit looks absolutely divine on you, Clark. Is that Marvin’s work?”

“I have no idea,” Clark admitted. “It was a gift.”

“Ah,” she said. She glanced across the room, to where Bruce was laughing loudly, clutching a glass of probably-not-actually-champagne. “From Bruce?”

“Yup.”

“Then it’s almost certainly Marvin.” Her eyes flickered between them, considering, before settling on Clark. “That’s quite the gift. Forgive me for being nosy, but I can’t help but wonder. Are you two…?”

“No,” Clark said. “No, we’re just friends.”

There must have been something telling in Clark’s voice. Or perhaps it was the way he couldn’t help but glance at Bruce as he said it, the way he’d been glancing at him all evening. Ronnie’s expression softened with sympathy. “‘Just friends’ with Bruce, huh? I’ve been there.”

“Ah, not like…” He bit his lip. He didn’t actually want to tell her everything, but…

“We had…something. Before,” he said eventually. “But not anymore. I think I’ve, ah. Missed my shot.”

The sympathetic crease between her brows deepened. “Oh, Clark.”

“No, no, it’s—it’s fine,” he said with a smile he didn’t quite feel. He didn’t deserve sympathy after the way he’d reacted that night. A rejection alone would have been bad enough. If anything, this was karma.

“Still. I’m sorry to hear that.” She offered him a rueful smile. “Oh, and while we’re on the topic of apologies… I’m sorry about how our date ended. Looking back, I can’t help but feel like I put you on the spot.”

“No, no,” Clark said quickly, “don’t apologize. Honestly, I’m glad you were honest. I definitely wasn’t ready for a relationship back then.” He returned her smile, just as rueful. “And I would have felt terrible if I’d wasted your time. You’re a real catch, Ronnie. You deserve better than that.”

She giggled, cheeks flushing a delicate shade of pink. “Oh shush, you charmer. Don’t tempt me, Clark, I can’t be flirting with handsome men anymore. I’m off the market.”

Clark’s eyes widened. “Oh! You…”

Her smile was practically glowing with joy. “I’m seeing someone, yes! For a couple of months now. In fact, he’s…” She glanced across the room and laughed. “Oh! In fact, he’s coming over here. I suppose this makes introductions easier.”

Clark glanced over to see a man approaching them, walking just a little faster and more purposeful than the kind of casual meander folks usually used in crowded halls. He was not quite as tall or bulky as Clark and probably a little older, his dark hair turning to salt and pepper. He was strikingly handsome but in a nervous sort of way, broad shoulders a little hunched, his stride slightly ungraceful. When he reached them, he wrapped a possessive arm around Ronnie’s waist and turned to Clark with a slightly forced smile. “Hi there! You two sure are getting along well. What are you talking about?”

Ronnie leaned into his side with a happy little sigh. “Oh, nothing much, just catching up. Teddie, this is Clark, a friend of mine. Clark, this is Ted.”

“Ronnie’s boyfriend,” Ted added pointedly as he stuck his hand out for a polite handshake.

Clark accepted the handshake with a polite nice-to-meet-you, but Ronnie frowned up at him. “Teddie, darling, don’t be rude. I promise you, there’s nothing untoward happening here. Clark here is a friend – and my favorite reporter! You know, Clark Kent, from the Daily Planet?” She beamed at Clark. “He writes all those wonderful articles about Superman.”

“Oh,” Ted said, relaxing a little. “Of course! Clark Kent, right. Ronnie’s a big fan.”

“So she says,” Clark said modestly. “I’m flattered, truly.”

“She never mentioned that you were friends, though. How did you two meet?”

“We went on a date!” Ronnie chirped blithely.

Ted stiffened again. “Months ago,” Clark added quickly. “And it was just the one date, really—”

“No, no, it’s fine!” Ted said, just as quickly. “God, please you don’t need to reassure me. It’s not a big deal. I feel very normal and…and secure. In myself. And my worthiness of Ronnie. And I am definitely not threatened by the fact that all of her exes look like male models! Definitely not!”

“Definitely not,” Clark agreed.

“Because that would be not normal,” Ted continued, “and as I said, I am. Very normal. And you’re very handsome.” He grimaced. “Jesus Christ, why am I still talking.”

Clark smiled, flattered and a little amused. “Thank you. But you know, you’re very handsome too, Ted. From where I’m standing, you’ve got nothing to feel insecure about.”

“Oh my god, he’s nice too,” Ted muttered, looking despondent.

Ronnie giggled and poked Ted lightly on the tip of his nose. “Oh, you are so cute when you’re jealous.”

Ted flushed. He looked like he was resisting the urge to squirm. “Ronnie…”

“Sorry, darling. I’ll stop teasing you.” She turned to Clark with a wink and added, in an exaggerated stage whisper, “He gets shy.”

Unsurprisingly, this only made Ted more self-conscious. Still, it was a pleased kind of self-consciousness. He seemed to glow under Ronnie’s attention, and the way she leaned into his was all comfort and adoration.

Clark smiled. It was nice to see this whole love thing had worked out for someone.

“I’m glad you found someone, Ronnie,” he told her. “You deserve it.”

“Thank you,” she said, warm and genuine. “And so do you, by the way. I really do hope you work things out with Bruce.”

“Bruce?” Ted asked.

“Bruce Wayne, a mutual friend,” Ronnie explained. She gestured towards Bruce on the other side of the room, who was in the middle of charming what looked like three generations of the same family: an elderly matron, a woman about Bruce’s age, and a girl who could have been a college student. They all looked identically smitten. Clark could already tell that the car ride home would be interesting.

Ted followed her gaze. “Ah. And by friend, you mean—”

“We used to date!” Ronnie explained, with the same blithe cheeriness as before.

Ted’s face fell. “Oh god, not another one,” he whispered in quiet horror.

Ronnie looked at Ted with fond exasperation – and what looked like a glimmer of amusement – before she turned back to Clark with an apologetic smile. “I’m afraid I must love you and leave you, dear. I need to whisk poor Ted away so I can convince him he’s just as handsome as any of my exes.” She patted his chest fondly, and Ted turned impossibly redder. “But it’s been lovely catching up! Perhaps we could go for coffee sometime? I am still your fan, after all. I’d love to pick your brains a little more about your process.”

“Absolutely,” he replied. “You have my number.”

She beamed. “Then it’s a not-date! I’ll be in touch.” She grabbed the now flustered Ted by the hand and started to drag him away, calling over her shoulder, “Good luck, Clark! I hope you find your happiness!”

Her volume attracted a few curious eyes. Clark ducked his head bashfully, half to keep character and half because…well, it was a little embarrassing to draw people’s eyes like this. Especially…

He looked up. Sure enough, Bruce was glancing between him and the departing Ronnie. There was a question in his eyes that Clark didn’t want to answer.

Thankfully or unthankfully, depending on how you looked at it, that was the moment the ballroom went dark.

In the end, things were dealt with pretty quickly. There was an initial attack by the woman with metallic arms, after which, predictably, there was chaos. Guests ran shrieking from the hall, glasses were dropped, tables were overturned, and Bruce Wayne ‘slipped’ dramatically on his way out – which gave Clark Kent a chance to zip out and take care of things without anyone noticing. No-one had been injured in the commotion, but the remaining guests seemed unenthusiastic about continuing their night, so the benefit came to a premature end only a couple of hours after it began.

By the time Clark had finished taking statements from the other guests – for an article that was looking to be a significantly more interesting read after the night’s events – Bruce was already safely back at the manor and summoning him back to the Cave for a debrief. Bruce was working on something at his desk when Clark arrived. He was still wearing his nice suit, but now he looked charmingly disheveled instead of painstakingly polished: his tie was loosened, his collar unbuttoned; his jacket and waistcoat had disappeared entirely; and short strands of dark hair hung loose over his forehead, presumably displaced after he’d run a hand through his neat coif. No longer Bruce Wayne. Just Bruce.

“You were successful,” Bruce said without even turning to look, a statement rather than a question.

Clark drifted into his regular seat beside him. “Sure was.”

“And?” he prompted and listened carefully as Clark explained, typing up detailed notes into a case file. The perpetrator had been the victim of workplace negligence and wrongful dismissal, after her employer, Stagg Industries, pinned the blame for a workplace accident on her, tanking her professional reputation in the process.

All told, it had only taken Clark about ten minutes to whisk her away, safely restrain her, and leave her for the police to find, with a promise to look into Stagg and get justice for her mistreatment. “Unless you want to,” Clark amended.

Bruce paused in his notetaking to raise an eyebrow. “Shirking your duties, Boy Scout?”

“Obviously not.” He smiled, teasing. “I know how fussy you are about jurisdiction—”

“Having sensible rules in place is not being fussy—”

“—so I thought I should check with you. Stagg Industries have their HQ in Gotham, after all.”

“Your consideration is touching,” Bruce said, in a tone that suggested he felt no emotion at all, “but no. You made the promise, so you help. Your skill set would probably be most suited for this one.”

“My skill set?”

“As Clark Kent. I have it on good authority that exposés about corrupt business practices lead to happy editors. If you’re struggling to find a story worth printing, this might be a good option.”

“Your concern for my job is touching, if a little patronizing. I may not be The World’s Greatest Detective, but I can source my own leads, you know.”

“Is that a no?”

“Well,” Clark said, “I didn’t say that.”

Bruce’s mouth twitched, like he was suppressing a smile. Clark grinned, leaning back in his chair. “So, aside from the general carnage, did you enjoy the party?”

Bruce grunted. “I think that should be my question.” He went back to his typing, eyes fixed on the screen. “I noticed you talking to Ronnie.”

The implication was obvious. Clark abruptly felt a little embarrassed. “Geez, it’s nothing like that! She’s in a relationship now.”

Bruce’s eyebrow raised minutely. “Hm. So that was her new boyfriend.” In a mutter, he added, “I see she has a type.”

Clark frowned. “What do you mean?”

“Nothing,” Bruce said mildly. He reached across the table for his lukewarm mug of tea, set aside out of the way while he was working—

Clark frowned. “Bruce, you’re bleeding.” There was a red stain on the inside of Bruce’s shirt cuff, stark against the white fabric. As Bruce lifted the mug, the cuff slipped down to reveal a nasty looking cut, sluggishly leaking blood. 

“I know,” Bruce said. He took an absent-minded sip and set the mug down again, then carried on typing like nothing had happened. “When I ‘fell’, there was some broken glass on the ground. That’s all.”

Clark’s frown deepened. “That’s all? Bruce, it looks pretty bad. You should take care of that.”

“It’s fine,” Bruce said. “It doesn’t need stitches.”

“Have you even cleaned it?”

“Later,” was all Bruce said to that. Which was typical Bruce. Of course, whenever anyone else got injured, he was the worst kind of mother hen, but when it was him—

“Bruce,” Clark said, warning. Bruce ignored him, so, “Bruce,” he said again.

Bruce sighed. “What.”

“At least let me see it,” Clark insisted.

“It’s a scrape, Clark,” he said dryly, “I’m not going to lose the arm.”

Clark said nothing, just raised an expectant eyebrow and waited. It only took ten seconds of stubborn typing before Bruce relented with another, heavier sigh, wordlessly shoving his wrist in Clark’s direction. “Thank you,” Clark said, because at least one of them needed to have some manners, and it might as well be him.

He reached across Bruce’s body and carefully picked up the offered wrist. In his periphery, he sensed Bruce growing stiff beside him, but he ignored it, gently turning Bruce’s wrist over to inspect it properly. He couldn’t hold back a wince. “Not serious? Bruce, one of your tendons is partially lacerated!”

Apparently, all Bruce had to say for himself was a soft grunt. “Okay,” Clark said in his most diplomatic voice, “I know you’re not going to agree to a splint, so I won’t even try. But at least let me clean and dress it for you.”

Another grunt. Wordlessly, Bruce took an antiseptic wipe and a sterile dressing from his pouch. Clark carefully cleaned the small wound. Tried not to think about the fact that this was the first time he’d touched Bruce’s skin since—

Since before.

He pressed his lips together, keeping his eyes fixed steadily on Bruce’s wrist as he applied the dressing. During those months they’d spent being slightly more than friends, the physical boundaries between them had blurred. After that, every incidental touch – a touch he wouldn’t have thought twice about before – had a new weight to it. Where was the line between what was and what existed before that? When he went to lay a hand on Bruce’s shoulder, he couldn’t help but wonder whether he would have done this a year ago, or whether this was the new kind of closeness. Whether it would still feel the same for Bruce regardless of that, or whether that was now maybe too much when everything between them was still tentative.

So, even with as much progress as they’d made in their reconciliation, Clark tried not to touch Bruce at all. Anything more felt like a risk. And how could he trust his instinct to bridge that gap now, when he wanted that touch so much, when just the feel of Bruce’s skin beneath his fingers felt so sweetly illicit, warm and fragile and—

He swallowed thickly. Hadn’t he told himself to get a grip earlier? This was really not him getting a grip. He couldn’t let himself go there, not now, when Bruce was finally letting him close again after so long.

He forced the emotion down, smiled up at Bruce. “There. See, that wasn’t so bad…uh…”

He trailed off, words caught in his throat. Bruce was watching him, eyes intent, pupils wide and dark, lips parted. 

Their faces were only inches apart.

Clark wasn't breathing. Couldn't. He was close enough to see every beloved detail of his face: the flecks of gray and blue in his irises, the fine lines around his eyes, the strands of silver at his temple. Bruce's wonderful mouth, lips soft and welcoming. If he leaned in just a little, and if Bruce didn't pull away, their lips would brush. He knew exactly what those lips would feel like on his, how they'd move against him. What they'd taste like. He knew what Bruce's hair would feel like between his fingers, how the sharp line of his jaw would feel beneath his thumb.

He knew that look in Bruce's eyes, the crackle in the air, that thrumming energy between them. He’d felt it before.

“Bruce,” he managed eventually, with a voice that was too thick, too hoarse. His thumb was still resting on the delicate skin of Bruce’s inner wrist. He should…he should pull back. Let go. But even though he could uproot buildings, carry planes, move mountains—he wasn’t strong enough for that. Not when everything in him was screaming how right this was. Not when Bruce wasn’t making any move to pull back as he leaned closer still, helplessly drawn in. Not when Bruce was looking at him like he—like maybe he—

Bruce’s expression shuttered. He tugged his wrist from Clark’s grip. “Clark. Don’t.”

Ice water, rushing over him. His empty hand lingered in the space between them.  “Don’t?”

“Just…don’t,” Bruce said. His jaw was tight. “I can’t do this with you again. I won’t. Just because I’m an option you think is available—”

“God, Bruce,” Clark cut in sharply, “that’s—that’s not what that was. Do you really think I would do that?”

“I don’t know what to think, Clark,” Bruce said. He sounded tired. “What else could it be?”

“Bruce…” Clark began, his dismay keeping the words at bay. Bruce wasn’t looking at him, just staring straight ahead, eyes fixed on nothing. Anything but him. But even now, even like this, heart heavy as lead in his gut, Clark couldn’t take his eyes off him: the short, dark eyelashes; the jagged shape of his nose in profile; the highlight and shadow of his cheekbone.

Suddenly Clark wanted more than anything to press his thumb into that hollow. It was strange to think that touch might have been welcome only a few months ago. Now Bruce was so far away, so much further away than he’d ever felt.

Suddenly, Clark couldn’t stand it.

“Is it really too late?” he blurted out, before he could think better of it.

Now, finally, Bruce looked at him, emotion rippling across his face before it was visibly, ruthlessly suppressed. “I said don’t—”

“Please, Bruce,” Clark cut in softly, and Bruce’s jaw snapped shut as sharply as if he’d yelled “Look, I’m sorry. I know it’s a lot to ask. I know it’s unfair. And—god, I really don’t want to ruin what we’ve built back up.” He took a breath. “But if there’s any part of you that might still—that could conceivably…”

Bruce’s face was like stone. “Why do you care? You’ve made your feelings about me perfectly clear. I’m…not what you want.”

“That’s not…” Clark began, stomach sinking. Did he really think…? “Oh, geez, no, Bruce, it was never about you. It was all me, I—I was just afraid of—” He bit his lip, pulse racing. God, he felt like he was messing this all up. But he had to do this. If he even had a chance—

“It wasn’t about you,” he said again. “I just wasn’t ready. You wanted something serious, something real. And back then, the thought of real was…well, kinda terrifying. I know our arrangement wasn’t what you wanted, but it really meant a lot to me. I didn’t want to lose it. I just…” He sighed. “Like I said, I wasn’t ready then. But now it’s different. Spending time with you like this, my feelings for you have changed—”

“Have they,” Bruce said, voice flat.

The words, flat and bitter, cut through him like a knife. Clark felt cold.

“You don’t believe me,” he said.

The words were half disbelief, half accusation. Bruce opened his mouth to speak; closed it again. Wet his lips.

“I think,” he said slowly, gaze fixed dead ahead, “that you’re confused. That’s all.”

“Confused,” Clark echoed helplessly.

“It’s understandable,” Bruce said, measured and reasonable, like the words he was saying made any sense at all. “Our arrangement ended abruptly and dramatically. Now that we’re closer again, you’ve started to miss the physical side of things—”

“Jesus, Bruce, that’s not—”

“—and you’ve conflated that with having feelings—”

“Bruce,” Clark said sharply, desperately. “Stop. I’m not confused. I swear to you.”

Bruce said nothing. He still wasn’t looking at Clark. His hands sat tense in his lap. Slowly, carefully, Clark reached out to lay his own overtop.

Bruce’s heartbeat stuttered.

“I’m not confused about anything,” Clark said softly. “In fact, this is the first time in a long time I’ve known exactly what I wanted.”

Bruce still said nothing. Clark squared his jaw. “You still don’t believe me? Fine. Then let me tell you what I know for sure, and you can tell me what that means.” His thumb was tracing the outside of one knuckle; still Bruce didn’t pull away. “I know that you’re the person I trust most in the world. I know that, outside of my family, you’re usually the person I think about most, every day. I know that even though you drive me crazy half the time, there’s no one I respect more. I know I feel happier just being around you.

“I know that I think you’re beautiful. I’ve always thought that, because it’s always been true, but it hasn’t felt like this. I know that I’ve spent the past few weeks missing you more than I’ve ever missed you before. Wondering what the hell I was ever so afraid of. Wondering what would have happened if I’d just said yes that night. Wondering if I’d let the chance for something amazing slip through my fingers. Wondering if…”  He swallowed. “If…maybe. It wasn’t too late after all.”

Finally, Bruce met his gaze. Bruce’s expression was carefully, tensely blank, but beneath his own, Bruce’s hand was shaking. Just the tiniest bit. Just enough that Clark could feel it, the tension and tremor. And Clark thought back to Bruce’s confession in his apartment, the bravery of it, the vulnerability. The quiet devastation on his face as he’d turned to leave. Had his hands been shaking then too?

“You tell me, B,” Clark said. “I know what I think that means. In fact, I’m pretty darn sure. And sure, maybe you want to leave this – us – in the past. Maybe you don’t think it’s worth the risk. But if you feel anything like I do, then isn’t that worth…something? A try, at least?”

Clark’s heart was pounding in his chest. It was a long, tense few seconds before Bruce finally spoke. “I don’t think I could…try,” he said.

Clark’s chest splintered.

“I see,” he said tightly. But if this disappointment was even a fraction of how Bruce had felt that night, then was it any wonder? Why had Clark ever hoped for otherwise? “Well, that’s…that’s okay. I understand completely. We can just be…friends, as always—”

“I mean,” Bruce said, slowly, “A ‘try’ wouldn’t be enough for me. I’d need more than that. Do you understand?” His expression wasn’t blank anymore, wasn’t carefully controlled. He was looking at Clark with an expression he recognized – from the quiet moments, the joyful silence after a bout of laughter, contentment as they lay together in the afterglow. Even after that first night, Clark remembered seeing it, soft-eyed and open—

Hope bloomed, warm and effervescent. Oh, Clark thought, quietly awestruck, heart so full it could burst. That was love. Even then?

Even then.

“You really…you really want this with me?” he managed, voice a little more tremulous than he wanted it to be – but Bruce didn’t seem to mind, was still looking at him with that unbearable softness, so he couldn’t bring himself to either. “I mean, after everything… I know I already…”

“Shut up, Clark,” said Bruce, his voice a warm, comforting rumble. “You said you want this.”

“I do.”

“You said you’re sure.”

“I am.”

“And you want…” Bruce’s voice fractured then, just a little. “You want me.”

“I do,” Clark confessed, grinning helplessly. “So much. More than I’ve wanted anything in a long time.”

“Then I want this too.” His hand was clasping Clark’s tightly, like he was afraid that if he let go, Clark would disappear. “Obviously I do. Don’t you have any idea how much I—how long I’ve—”

He broke off with a soft noise of frustration. Bruce didn’t like expressing himself in words, Clark knew that. He squeezed Bruce’s hand back. “I know. I think I know. The important things, at least. Bruce, I’m so sorry—”

Bruce kissed him. 

Clark’s heartbeat stuttered. He’d kissed Bruce a hundred times by now, knew the feel of him, the taste of him. But when their lips finally met – that still felt new, soft and sweet and tender. His large, rough hands were cupping Clark’s jaw tenderly with both hands, and for all the ways Bruce had touched him he'd never touched him like this before.

Clark couldn’t get enough of it. He still couldn’t believe he got a second chance.

Bruce pulled back, too soon, far too soon. “For god’s sake, Clark, stop apologizing,” he growled.

Gently overwhelmed, Clark couldn’t hold back a startled laugh. “Gosh, you sound just like Lois.”

“She’s a sensible woman. Maybe you should listen to her.”

“I know. I’m working on it,” he said. Clark turned into the hand cupping his jaw, pressed a soft kiss to the inside of Bruce’s wrist, just beside the dressing, thrilled at his sharp catch of breath. God, Bruce was so close and so warm and real and there after feeling so far away for so long.

Now that he had this, Clark couldn’t imagine letting this go again. 

“Can I stay the night?” he blurted out. Bruce blinked. As soon as the words left his mouth, he realized how that sounded. “I don’t mean—not for sex. I don’t want you to think that’s all I want from this anymore. I meant it when I said that wasn’t this was about. I just want—”

“Clark, it’s fine,” Bruce said – and thank god, he sounded more amused than anything. “You’re welcome to stay the night if you’d like. We don’t have to have sex. I know how much you like cuddling.”

“Cuddling’s nice,” he mumbled.

“I never said it wasn’t.”

“Do you cuddle?”

“I’ve dabbled,” Bruce said lightly. “But between the two of us, I suspect you’re the expert. You can show me how it’s done.”

Clark felt his lips tug into a smile, wide and probably a little silly. “You want me to teach you my ways? You?”

“When appropriate, I defer to the master,” he said humbly. “Unless you don’t want to?”

“I really, really do,” Clark said emphatically. He pulled back and stood, tugging Bruce to his feet. Clark followed easily. “In fact, let’s start our first lesson now.”

Bruce raised an eyebrow. “Right now?”

“Right now,” Clark said. “Let’s go upstairs right now and cuddle.” Maybe it was a little forceful. But if he’d learned anything over the past few months, it was that sometimes you had to go after what you want. Sometimes, the brave thing to do is be selfish.

All along, Bruce had always encouraged him to be selfish. And maybe it hadn’t always worked out, but—

Clark trusted him. If he took the leap, he knew Bruce would catch him. And sure enough: “Okay,” Bruce said, and followed easily as Clark tugged him towards the stairs.