Clark woke a few hours later, the early evening, still tired but deciding to get up regardless. He stepped into his minuscule shower stall, belatedly remembering how he needed to bow his head to get it under the shower stream., but the hot water was soothing regardless of that slight inconvenience.
Afterwards, he changed into a fresh set of sweatpants and sweatshirt, stepped into the kitchen, and began combing the cupboards. He had some canned soups. Ma Kent would make him chicken soup when he wasn't feeling well as a child. He could almost hear her telling him to eat something – despite none of these looking appetizing – but he just couldn't make himself do it.
He thought of sitting and reading, or watching some television, but neither did those activities sound appealing, and just as he had decided he would be better off going back to sleep again, there was a knock at the door.
He took a deep breath, bracing himself for another round of questioning from Lois – she must be worried, to have changed her plan of calling instead – then made his way on heavy feet to answer it.
He did not bother looking through the peep-hole to make sure it was her, in fact, he did not even have it in him to meet her eyes, instead, he pre-empted whatever questions she might have with his own greeting.
"It's kind of you to come back, Lois, but I'm really…"
Only to trail off, when it was not Lois's brown leather heels he was looking at on the floor, nor her stockinged feet and legs occupying them. These were men's dark gray leather shoes and even for a casual style, the quality and craftsmanship involved in their manufacture was obvious, along with dark gray trousers and as his eyes moved up, a matching suit jacket, worn open to reveal a black sweater, and his heart seized, when he met the man's lightning blue eyes, peering over the edge of a pair of sunglasses at him, taking in Clark's appearance just as meticulously as Clark was taking in his, probably even more so, knowing Bruce, for it was indeed him, the eyes he had only seen in photographs lately, and in an ensemble he only ever saw in photographs.
Clark was surprised. Taken off guard. Bruce couldn't say he blamed him.
Only for showing it.
He had not planned on going to Clark's apartment that evening; the impetus for that being Lois' phone call earlier that afternoon.
What she said disturbed him. She was disturbed as well. Enough to call an associate of her ex-boyfriend to confide in.
Lois didn't spook easily, yet she had: from Clark's uncharacteristically cold behavior at work; his sudden loss of consciousness, that he apparently had some measure of pre-cognizance about; and his cryptic description of why it had happened.
Reminded Bruce of the last conversation he had with Clark, when he had come to pick up the shard of kryptonite. How uncharacteristically cold he had been, and cryptic, even when asked a direct question.
Bruce had the sense he was telling the truth, that he did not know what had happened to produce that shard of kryptonite, but his lack of curiosity was revealing, regardless of the circumstances.
Clark was inherently intelligent. Inquisitive. One of the reasons Bruce gravitated to him.
Clark was also inherently gentle – best evidenced by his infamous cat-rescues in Metropolis, though Bruce knew he had also used his talents to help animals as large as beached whales – a paradox given he was also massively destructive.
If he wanted to be.
Thankfully, he didn't. For reasons Bruce did not always believe or have faith in personally – Clark's ideas about truth and justice, goodness and kindness – yet they had kept his actions in check.
Clark had not abused or been corrupted by his enormous power.
Maybe there was such a thing. As miracles. For the very same man – when Bruce first saw him, flying around in that bright red cape, the S on his chest that no one knew what it stood for, and his neutrally smiling face uncovered – that Bruce once considered to be the greatest threat to not only Gotham, but to humanity itself, turned out to be one its greatest allies. And one of Batman's most trusted.
But Superman was more than that… Clark was more than that.
He was someone Bruce found infuriatingly and endlessly intriguing. The alien who had grown up in the heartland. The superhero who worked at the newspaper. Someone who had gone out of his way to befriend him, unintimidated by the manner intended to send chills down his enemies' spines, and someone he cared for personally, despite his best efforts not to. To the point where he had felt the need to care for him in his own home, when he had needed help.
Most disruptively, someone he had also felt the need to strip naked and have his way with, a need that had not gone away. It could be put aside, forgotten for a time, the energy even refocused into other things, but it had not gone away. As he was now doubly reminded of, looking at Clark.
Black hair, fair complexion. Large blue eyes and an open face, despite everything. Take away the muscle, and he actually bore a completely ridiculous resemblance to Snow White.
Had thought it before, when he first saw him at the Tower, after more of Lex's madness, Clark lying deep in sleep with no sign of waking.
Under the circumstances, Bruce supposed that made him Prince Charming. A title he had occasionally been given by the press, but never by anyone who had known him personally.
He knew Clark would disagree with all of this. Wouldn't be amused if Bruce pointed out they even had similar attire. Red cape. Blue top. A liking for yellow.
Clark's outfit at the moment was only heathered gray. Sweatpants, sweatshirt. Hunched over. Pale. Looked and sounded like he was about to fall asleep. The shower he had recently taken had not refreshed him. Or if it had, and this was the result, that only made Bruce's appearance here all the more necessary.
All in all, Clark appeared similar to how he had while staying at the Manor, yet there was no Kryptonite involved, if Lois' intel could be trusted.
If Clark could be trusted. Strange, indeed.
Also strange that Clark had no greeting for him, at least a verbal one when he realized he was not talking to Lois, and Bruce recalled how he had been at a loss, when Clark slumped into the Batcave one night, about a year previously, to deliver the news that his relationship with Lois had ended, causing him to do something he rarely did. Asked him, "Do you want to talk about it?"
"...No, not really. I just… wanted you to hear it from me." Was the ashamed response he got in return, eyes looking off to the side, and while that answer had been a relief at the time, as time passed, Bruce every now and then thought he should have pushed it.
Should have made him stay longer, not let him leave, as Clark did shortly after, with some poor excuse about letting Batman get along with his nightly patrols.
Should have told him he was sorry, even though he truly despised when people said that. The pointlessness of it. To apologize for something that wasn't one's fault.
Yet he was. He was sorry.
And despite the ego involved in thinking so, he was sure his own actions were partly to blame for Clark's current sorry state. Another instance where he should have pushed Clark to talk, the morning after, and he had not, thinking that would be easier.
A mistake he fully intended to rectify tonight, because he would never forgive himself if something happened to Clark, if he was distracted in any way because of Bruce's silence on this matter. He couldn't take it back, but he could put it properly to rest. Rest in this case meaning the two of them resting together. With no foolish ambiguity this time.
If he played his cards right. And if his assessment of Clark was accurate.
That if Clark's attraction to him had been strong enough for him to act that night, it would be strong enough for him to act again. As long as he was sure that attraction was reciprocated.
Watched now as Clark snapped out of it, and hurriedly opened his door for Bruce to step inside, which he did. Also noted Clark checking the hallway for any witnesses before closing the door.
He would find none. Not that it would have mattered.
"Believe it or not, I can walk the streets unnoticed." Bruce commented, after the door was firmly shut, but he was more interested in looking around. He had never been in Clark's apartment.
It was small. Smaller than Bruce thought it would be. Lois had mentioned Clark wasn't living here. A decision Bruce could personally endorse: he disliked the entire city of Metropolis. Too many lights, not enough hiding places. Perhaps a bad sign, that he could actually prefer Gotham, despite its horrors. He also lived in a palatial estate, but Clark had freely chosen to live and work here for years. Why change his habits now?
Clark wasn't acting like this was his home either, seemed at a loss of what to do or where to go. Not that they had many options. Living room or kitchen.
Clark chose the kitchen, beckoning Bruce to follow him. Standing room only. Understood why though. They rarely sat down with each other. Walking, running, fighting, flying, yes, but rarely sitting.
So for now, they were in the kitchen, and the kitchen was off white everything and cramped, especially for two men of their build. It was also empty. Clean, but empty. Clark hadn't entirely neglected the place.
"Do you… Is everything alright?" Clark started, after taking a stand in front of the fridge, and it figured, Clark would be worried about him first. Nevertheless, Bruce shook his head no, as he leaned back against one of the few counters.
"What happened this afternoon?"
"...Lois called you." Clark quickly surmised, though it clearly unsettled him.
"Answer the question." Bruce redirected, to avoid a tangent, Clark debating the rightness or wrongness of Lois' actions.
Clark did not debate the rightness of wrongness of Lois' actions. Instead, on his face, throughout his body, his entire being, occurred a wave of emotion that alarmed Bruce more than he cared to admit, in both its suddenness and its strength, as Clark hurtled headlong into a genuine panic, eyes too wide, his hands shaking helplessly in front of him, that Bruce knew neither the cause or how to assist.
He needed to change strategy. Adapt. He had expected to push harder, to get answers, yet with only minimal prodding, it was all rushing up to the surface, and now he was dealing with the opposite problem. It was too much and too fast.
Now he needed to calm him down, not rile him up, yet his own reaction was alarming him, in both its suddenness and its strength, his concern coming at him too much and too fast, causing him to lose his own clear head, distorting his meticulous plans, of what he was going to say and do, swirling them together until he could no longer make sense of them, and that process was only furthered by the instability in Clark's voice, when he managed to burst out with.
"I don't know, I… you want facts, just like Lois, and I don't have any!"
"Then tell me what you do have." Bruce tried, desperate to keep this conversation on track.
"What I have is meaningless to you!"
"I'll decide if it's meaningless."
"I know you well enough by now. Darkness, chains. Fate, bound. Blackness. Does that have any meaning to you?"
"Was it magic." Bruce gritted out, as much as he hated that word and what it represented. If not kryptonite, it was the only other thing known to effect Superman.
"...What?" Clark replied, truly perplexed, as though this had not occurred to him. That in itself was troubling, yet Bruce was quick to assure him.
"I don't think you're crazy, Clark. Was he using magic on you. That's my theory."
"...Why me though? I've never even met the man." Why a businessman would employ magic on Clark Kent, Bruce also had no sufficient answer for, particularly one so heavily invested in the sciences. Even if he knew Clark was Superman – a possibility so remote Bruce hardly thought it worth pondering, yet one he refused to dismiss entirely, for it made much more sense to attack Superman than to attack Daily Planet reporter Clark Kent – why not resort to kryptonite, as his counterpart Lex Luthor did. Why a spell book, but he had to start somewhere. Along with that list of words Clark just provided, and started with the one easiest to work with.
"You said 'bound.' Do you still feel it? Do you still feel bound to him?"
Clark tensed, lowering his eyes, one more poetically inclined could say a certain darkness did take him over, one that did not go away, only grew, when Clark met his gaze, more exhausted than before, and he gave the smallest of nods, as though he could barely admit it was true, only to further the mystery by adding, "I… asked him. I think. Before I passed out. Who he was."
"...And what did he say?"
"'In time, son. In time.'"
Lois hadn't mentioned that; Clark hadn't told her. He could see why, it was perhaps the strangest piece of all. Some confirmation, but of what? Lois did mention her own revulsion, when the mountain of a man picked up Clark, that it made her skin crawl beyond anything she could explain.
Lois also hated when things could not be explained, yet the chill that ran through Bruce's own body, his own sense of warning after hearing Clark say this he could not ignore, nor could he blame it on Clark's false recollection.
Clark, even in the midst of passing out, would have had better hearing than anyone else on the planet. He had not misheard.
If Clark truly thought it was a hallucination, he would never have told Bruce about it, thought Clark continued on in somewhat of a daze.
"It… felt like with you, except this time, I didn't want it."
At that, Bruce clenched his fists, and even Clark looked alarmed, as though he had not meant to say that aloud, and despite the garbled delivery, Bruce knew exactly what he meant. Or at least, could connect it to his own experience of that night.
Had felt something he could only describe as essentially Clark, as the thing that had wiped his skin clean, giving him a blank slate. And though it was a wholly mysterious experience, he had found it pleasurable.
He had enjoyed it.
Unlike Clark. Arching his back and gripping the sheets not in the throes of passion but in pain, yet he couldn't get it out of his mind, it had burned a place there: Clark when he had opened his eyes afterwards, the fog of confusion clouding typically bright crystal, how terribly vulnerable he appeared, out of breath, hair askew and so much bare skin.
How terribly vulnerable he was, with Bruce straddling him, holding a shard of kryptonite, and yet he still reached up to him, not to throw him off, but to pull him closer, and how easily they seemed to fit against each other, to the point of not knowing where he ended and Clark began. Overall though, what he could not forget was how astonishingly and terribly easily Clark gave of himself, something Bruce was not convinced he could reciprocate.
Nevertheless...
"I want to talk about that too."
Clark went shock still, then let out a cautious, "...Why?" Couldn't quell his natural reporter's curiosity, even at a time like this.
"I still want you." That was probably the most concise way he could put it. Clark still looked bewildered though.
"...What?"
"I thought I could move on, and I haven't. It's distracting me. I think it's distracting you too. If it's distracting us both, to me, it's only logical that we do something about it."
Never thought he would prefer this particular logic, of bodies and emotions, as complicated and messy and distracting as they combined could be, over a discussion of magic. That that would be an easier conversation than whatever possible magic had happened this afternoon.
Said how much he disliked magic.
Also said something about Clark though.
"Bruce, I don't understand, what are you..." Apparently Clark felt otherwise. They did so often disagree. Actually, he thought Clark would probably prefer to not have either of these conversations. That he would have chosen silence.
Another strange occurrence, Bruce the one pushing Clark to talk, just as Clark had so often done when he dropped in unannounced at the Cave. Something he had not done ever since that night.
"What did you want to happen, that morning? If I hadn't ended it, would you have wanted to continue?"
"But you made yourself perfectly clear..."
"No, I didn't. I had intended to make myself clear, but, like a fool, I believed you when you said some things are better left unsaid. Because I was a coward."
And Clark argued with him, once again. More in empathy, this time, but still disagreement. "You're not a coward, Bruce. You're-"
Bruce had no patience for Clark's empathy at the moment though. "I was that morning. You gave me an easy out, and I took it."
"Then I was a coward too. I wanted an easy out, so I made one." Clark had the gall to sound genuinely reproachful. As though this was the final word on the matter. As though there weren't so many other factors at play. Then again, Bruce had always secretly enjoyed debating with Clark.
"You made yourself an easy out because I treated you terribly."
"...I pushed it. I… I should have let you walk away, like you wanted to..."
"Why do you insist on taking responsibility for everything, Clark."
"Because... nothing's changed. If I hadn't started it, we wouldn't be in this mess..."
"You didn't start it."
"You're going to say you did?"
"This isn't something anybody starts. It isn't something people chose."
"How can you of all people say that, Bruce."
"Because it's true. You can chose whether to act on it, but the feeling itself? The attraction? Even I admit I don't chose that."
"But why didn't we see it coming? I've gone over it over from every angle I can think of..."
An investigative journalist and a detective getting blindsided by emotion. Just because it wasn't chosen didn't mean it wasn't humbling.
There were signs. Not enough for him to have predicted what would happen: the agitation he felt when in the same room with Clark, that would go away after he left; the increasing bite to their conversations, specifically Bruce's side of them; and possibly his most fatal miscalculation, when he had cornered Clark, pressed him to the wall, thinking it was out of anger, thinking all of it was out of anger, that Clark had been careless, that his powers had impaired his judgement, that he didn't truly believe he could die.
Only to have the sinking suspicion, when Clark kissed him, that that had been his intention all along. That he had fought a battle for a long time, to keep others from him, at a distance, that that was what he needed, to do his work. That a life with a partner and children and friends was something far beyond his reach.
Some would call it psychotic, perhaps explaining his feud with the Joker, or truly any of the villains he dealt with on a regular basis. He and they were all mad, all refusing to follow the rules. To get dressed and go to work or school like normal people, to have hobbies like normal people; to have children or partners or friends like normal people.
Alfred at one point had even suggested a dog.
Like normal people.
Maybe someone else could have moved on. Maybe someone else wouldn't have been so haunted, by the injustice, by the chaos and cruelty of what had happened in that alley.
The Joker often argued that insanity was a logical response to an insane world.
Perhaps sanity was in the eye of the beholder. Bruce still could not and would never condone the Joker's killing, no matter what had happened to him.
And yet, there was the Joker, cackling in his hideous purple- pin stripe suit, and there was Batman, in a pitch black uniform designed to terrify the ones he hunted, chasing him endlessly.
Insane as it may be, as long as the Joker roamed free, he wouldn't have it any other way.
Despite all that, Bruce had amassed a group of people who loosely fit those categories: partners, children, friends. Talia and Selina. Dick and Barbara. Jim Gordon and the Justice League.
Many had questioned his choices, to lead his life the way he did. Many had clamored to be closer to him, both as Bruce Wayne and as Batman.
Sometimes he had buckled, but he had not caved in. He had carried on, with his training and his mission. Despite Alfred's dry disapproval, despite Dick's impassioned pleas, despite his own deeply hidden dreams for a family, he kept the wall intact.
He carried on.
Until a dark and stormy night broke him down. Broke down his resolve and his reserve.
It was fitting that it was Superman, he had lost to.
He was always the one Bruce feared he could not fight.
His powers, Bruce had contingencies for. Yet in this case, it was his personality that had taken him off guard: Clark wasn't anything like the people Bruce was used to. The few close to him were as crafty and cunning as he was. It was what he most respected about them.
Clark was not crafty and cunning. He was honest and genuine in a way Bruce normally did not care for. Best exemplified by the nickname that many had adopted for him: the Boy Scout.
They were really nothing alike.
Yet when Clark had kissed him, it took every ounce of willpower he had not to return the favor ten-fold. When he kissed him again, it rendered his will power obsolete. Clark's inability to control his levitation granted him an unexpected window to stop, which he took.
He could have cursed Clark, for following him into the hall, if he had not looked so completely lost, the pale from the kryptonite only made more from the harsh flashes of lightning. Instead he endured one last time.
Heard Clark's stuttering apology from a distance. Waited for him to leave. Stared at the then closed elevator doors with unseeing eyes. Willed himself to press the down button. Willed himself to walk to the stairs, when that did not work.
Willed himself to do anything but what every fiber of his being was screaming at him to do: follow that fool back to his bedroom.
Didn't actually remember the moment. When he moved. Only that he was charging on a war-path, and that he was not thinking in words, convinced his hand on Clark's wrist should give him all the information he needed.
The decision, if one could even call it that, to throw him over his shoulder was based on pure need. A need for action, for taut muscles and pumping adrenaline to have an outlet.
Also, because he could.
He could and did throw Clark over his shoulder to get him on the bed, an action that again, should have spoke everything he needed to say, along with the removal of his shirt, until he looked back to see how Clark had landed and had wide blue eyes looking back at him.
Read what was written there, and realized Clark had a point. It was one thing to exchange a kiss in the library, no matter how heated that may have become. Or the hallway. It was another thing entirely what they were doing now.
Yet, neither of them seemed able to stop. Or neither of them were willing. Or maybe will had been destroyed and tossed out the window entirely. He couldn't accurately say. Only that it was enough for him to ask Clark once more if he was sure.
Hated the question, since he himself wasn't sure. Only sure that he couldn't stop.
And only sure, after Clark's response, that he was just as helpless to this as Bruce was.
How did they not see this coming? He had no satisfying answers then, and he had no satisfying answers now. And, that question wasn't really the point.
"Clark, you're avoiding the obvious. We ended up in bed. That is a fact. I am here at your apartment. I have told you I want to continue this. You can tell me yes, you can tell me no, you can tell me anything really, I just need an answer. I do see the irony in this though. You would not be out of line to shoot me with heat beams right now for sheer hypocrisy. But which is it?"
"...What… what are you proposing?" This question could have easily been written off as another deflection, except the small glimmer of hope that had crept in to Clark's voice let Bruce know he was serious. He really wanted to know.
"How do I see this relationship going?"
Clark nodded, allowing Bruce to salvage some of his plans for this meeting. Of what he had meant to say.
"I hate Metropolis. I'd prefer you come to me at the Manor. Obviously… this won't be anything like what you had with Lois. There's no real chance of us settling down. We can't be seen in public together. And you know my reputation: you would have to be alright with me being seen out in public with women."
Clark took a moment to process that. He was difficult to gauge.
Superman he could read like an open book. Knew his values, knew what he would do in any given situation.
Clark personally was a different story. And this was incredibly personal.
"Well, Lois never stopped flirting when we were together either." Bruce smiled. That was not the answer he was expecting. Though having been on the receiving end of Lois' charms himself, he couldn't say that particular piece of information was surprising. Only that Clark would say it now.
"Did that really help her get information, or did she just enjoy it?" Bruce questioned, with a hint of levity, enough that Clark would understand he was not teasing, and Clark smiled too.
"I think it was a bit of both."
"And was that a problem for you two?" As blunt as it was, it would be better to know now. He was well known in public for his flirting, and he could not change his role so drastically.
"I always told her… I didn't care, as long as I knew I was the one she was coming home to."
So that wasn't it. What caused their relationship to end. That was a mystery for another day. And regardless of his curiosity, he needed to focus on the relationship at hand. The one he was a participant in.
"I can hold to that."
The flirting need not go any further, yet Clark looked surprised. It was the first time he relaxed, yet his eyes stayed wide. The first glimpse for Clark, perhaps, of how serious Bruce was. If this hadn't been so fraught a conversation, Bruce would be inclined to make a joke.
When was he anything but serious.
"What about… you and Catwoman? And Miss Selina Kyle." Clark asked, hesitantly, but that was kind of him. Bruce had no doubt he suspected they were one and the same. And that he knew Bruce would not confirm it.
Perhaps another case of being hypocritical. He found out her identity long before she revealed it to him. If Clark wanted to, he could easily discover it. That he had not, in some strange way, Bruce respected. That he had, and was allowing her now, that privacy. That he had always left her criminal business up to Bruce, to deal with as he would, and that he was apparently continuing the trend.
"What about them?"
"Is there any truth to the press? That you two are settling down?"
"No."
"And you and Catwoman?"
"Does Catwoman seem like the type who would settle down to you?"
"...No."
"Neither am I, really... And we've always been on opposite sides of the law. I cannot deny we enjoy each other's company. But our relationship is casual at best."
"...Do you still want to see her? That's what I'm asking. Would you… see us both."
A valid question. One he had not thought Clark would ask, but a valid question. Bruce lately had preferred making his public appearances with Selina. It made things easier. She enjoyed it too: the pomp and circumstance; the thrill of mingling with the rich and famous, many of whom she had robbed from, and them being none the wiser. They could continue to do that, but refrain from going to bed afterwards, as they usually did.
She had even joked with him. Was there someone else. Maybe she knew long before he did, that abstaining with Clark would not work out. Though she did not know it was he Bruce was abstaining from.
"She and I tend to run into each other occasionally, but what I propose is we try this, and I will be exclusive. I expect you to do the same. If it doesn't work out, we end it. Simple. At least in theory."
"You just don't want to deal with an angry Superman." Had to smirk at that. Couldn't say it hadn't crossed his mind though.
"That too."
"You… really want to try this, with me?" Bruce normally had a low tolerance for unnecessary questions, but he would temper himself in this case. These were unusual circumstances, ones that had taken him time to wrap his mind around as well.
"Yes."
He was prepared to keep talking, but instead, Clark, in a motion both slow and sudden, was in front of him, wrapping his arms around his shoulders, heavy with both want and fatigue. As though he too had fought a long battle, and had finally lost.
Clark had a little on him in height, enough for this to be his preferred method of embracing, and Bruce wrapped his own arms, immediately and automatically, also heavy with both want and fatigue, around his back, pulling him closer. He did not want to admit how much he had missed this, craved it in the days and weeks that had passed, despite only having had it for one night.
Could tell there was some part of Clark that didn't believe. That this was a good idea, that Bruce was even here doing this. That if he moved at all, if he opened his eyes, it would all be gone, and because of that, he would not be moving any time soon.
That he would probably be content to stay standing here, holding on as long as he could before it all fell apart again.
When Bruce grabbed the back of his head, he couldn't say his motives were entirely altruistic, pulling Clark's back just enough to angle his mouth to his. It wasn't entirely to reassure him, that this was a good idea, or that it wouldn't all fall apart again. It was that the temptation was too much, and the effect on Clark was instantaneous, the shudder that went through him, one that seemed to both make him want to come closer and retreat, but this time Bruce wouldn't make the mistake of letting him walk away twice.
Knew Clark was tentative, despite his responses, yet when Bruce held him stronger, Clark reciprocated, got a slightly firmer grip around Bruce's shoulders. Still, there was something sloppy to Clark's movements, almost drunken, in their slowness. But Bruce could not control the shudder that went through him, when Clark managed only one word, not quite whispered but not quite spoken either, that, regardless of whatever tentativeness he had, was a clear indication of what he wanted.
"Bed."
It wasn't hard to find it. And it didn't take long to get there, unlike the Manor. A quick walk through the living room. Wasn't much there that interested him: a desk tucked in the corner; a coffee table in front of a couch; a small television that Bruce doubted got much use. More for show than anything else.
The bedroom was more interesting. Not only because of present activities. It was more personally decorated, more telling of the man who had done it.
Bruce imagined it was like stepping back into Smallville: a braided rug covering rough wood floor boards; a rustic wood dresser; a painting of fields and flowers; and a simple wood frame bed, adorned with a folksy, colorful patchwork quilt, one he was sure Ma Kent had put together, and had given her son when he left the farm for the city.
Unlike Lois, Bruce did not have such strong associations between Clark and Kansas. His first impression was the unknown, the alien.
Superman, not the man.
Not Clark Kent.
Was actually surprised, Clark had no objections to this based on his upbringing. As open-minded as the Kents had to have been, to take an alien child into their home, Bruce doubted homosexuality was a much talked about topic in Smallville.
Even in the relatively more open cities of Gotham, or Metropolis, for that matter, it was tucked away in districts and sections. It was easy to claim tolerance for something one never had to see.
Yet, if Clark had a problem with this on any level, he would not allow Bruce's fingers gripping into his waist and wouldn't be gripping Bruce's back in turn. He would not have shut his eyes, would not attempt to be learning this dance together, of who moved when, or sighing softly into Bruce's mouth when Bruce angled his lips against his at a more severe angle.
Would not have flipped up that patchwork quilt to reveal plain white cotton sheets, would not have sat down, would not have lied down when Bruce pushed him back, head resting on matching white pillow cases.
Frowned though, when that actually seemed necessary, for Clark to have rest. Remembered how Clark had looked as though he were heading to bed when Bruce had first arrived.
Lois had mentioned a theory to him, one that he had entertained himself. Could Clark actually be ill? They truly knew very little of his physiology. Just because it had never happened didn't mean it never could. Some lingering effect of the kryptonite? Some tipping point, too many times he had been shot or poisoned with it? Again, just because he had always recovered, did not mean he always would.
He was going to suggest Clark get checked at the Tower – another thing about this that hadn't gone according to plan. He still would, later, when he could better focus, when he wasn't straddling Clark, his knees pressed tight against Clark's hips, and when he wasn't shrugging off his jacket and Clark's finger tips weren't featherlight on his torso, pushing up the hem of his sweater, the sweater that Bruce eventually rid of himself, and when he was not grabbing at Clark's sweatshirt, Clark having started taking it off, but taking too long with it.
The fact that Clark was attempting this lying on his back, with Bruce giving him no breathing room was no excuse.
Clark didn't have to breath.
Yet he was breathing now, and looking away with a bashfulness that was both obnoxious for a man with god-like powers, and totally believable for the man behind those god-like powers, when Bruce undid his belt buckle, undid the front of his trousers, removing them efficiently, more efficiently than Clark had been with his sweatshirt, and most likely more efficient than Clark would have been removing his sweatpants, except Bruce did not give him the luxury of doing it himself.
Simply reached for the band himself, tugged them down, and would have shaken his head at the ridiculous notion that Clark could be self-conscious, despite obvious evidence he was, his reddening ears most prominent, except he was more interested in simply admiring him.
And then in quelling his desire to possess, to lay some claim to him, for they were rapidly approaching where they had left off. The point of no return, he supposed. The very reason he had walked away that morning.
He wasn't going to walk away again.
And Clark was beautiful. It was the only part of this he could never truly deny.
It was not the kind of beauty he was often attracted too. Selina could drive him to distraction simply standing, then add how incredibly alluring her every movement was. Nimble, graceful, feline.
The gleam of her smile, so bright in her midnight black suit, the one that hugged every curve. Her obvious amusement and enjoyment of the games they played, the excitement and mystery of her plans.
Talia was more withdrawn. Oh, his fury, that he had been scouted to marry the daughter of one of his most dangerous villains, only to be truly attracted to her. He knew it the moment he saw her. An outer softness in sharp contrast to a stance like steel. Eyes that saw everything. Eyes that he felt could see straight past his mask, his costume, straight into the depths of his soul.
He recognized in her the thing he recognized in himself. The tight rope they both walked, day in and day out. Between the light and the dark. One that Dick, despite being the one kidnapped, despite their similar pasts, and despite being able to walk actual tight ropes with ease, had never struggled with. Not to this extent. That he had always remained firmly on the side of the light.
Robin. The bird whose call first heralded the coming spring.
Even his chosen name. Nightwing. He continued to fly in the dark. But Dick could just as easily fly during the day. He did not need to roost in dark places. He did not need be nocturnal.
Batman did though. In fact, Batman thrived in the dark.
And in that odd contradiction, simultaneously loving and hating the dark, Talia and he understood each other completely. As no one in his life ever had.
Probably why Dick had to set off, on his own.
He needed more light.
It took Bruce a long time to accept that. That even though he and Dick had experienced the same thing, they were not the same people. The difference between nature and nurture. Or in their case, between nature and torture.
He had discussed this with Alfred, and Alfred had proposed a different theory.
"Master Bruce, did it ever occur to you Master Dick is different because you nurtured him? That perhaps you succeeded? You saved him from the dark."
Perhaps.
Or perhaps Dick was like Clark. He had grown up under the glaring lights under the Big Top, accustomed to warmth of the spotlight, just as Clark had grown up under big open skies, accustomed to the warmth of the sun on his skin, working out in the fields with his father and walking down endless country roads.
Yet now it was night, Bruce's preferred domain. Not as dark as he was used to, Metropolis never turned off its lights, and all the glass reflected it around, yet tonight he was grateful, it gave him enough light to see by – what Clark's cheap blinds could not shut out.
Enough light for him to be blinded, by Clark and his kind of beauty, the kind he was not normally attracted to. The pure beauty of the rising sun, of the night sky full of stars. Two sights he often got to see merged together, a moment of rare peace for him, at that juncture commonly known as dawn, when the sun had not quite risen, and the stars had not quite set. The signal that it was time to retire for the evening.
That it was time to return home.
He had resisted coming to Clark's home, or inviting Clark back to his own. For reasons both practical, but also personal. He had needed to be sure, that the physical attraction would hold, for that was another form of beauty he was not normally attracted to; a physique hemming close to his own, in height and width, in the strength of his jawline, there was no delicacy there, nor was there any curve to his hips, or his chest, other than what was provided by muscle alone. Though Bruce actually had to work for and put his to use; why or how Clark even maintained his physique Bruce could not accurately say.
Something encoded, he supposed, yet another gift of his heritage, nevertheless, a solidity he was not used to.
Clark carried the weight of the world on those shoulders, after all.
A modern day Atlas.
Who worked at the Daily Planet, of all things.
Sometimes he wondered if Clark was trying to be ironic.
Except he knew he wasn't. That career choice was a genuine belief that words could change people, and therefore change the world.
In Clark's case, that old adage, "The pen is mightier than the sword," was a moot point. Clark may not have the widest reach with his pen, but the strength of his sword was unmatched, and in his use of both, and in how he treated people, he demonstrated a beauty that, cliché as it was, was not entirely physical. One that first started within.
And now that Bruce had decided, he coveted that beauty for himself, for even though they were alone in the apartment and the door to the bedroom was closed, even though the lights were dim and the blinds were drawn, even though Clark was not effected by the cool air on his skin, he still wanted him, wanted them, hidden, so he grabbed those white cotton sheets and that home-made quilt, planted his forearm above Clark's head as he had done at the Manor, and leaned down.
He knew Clark even still was somewhat reticent. It would be strange if he wasn't. Bruce had shown up with no forewarning, and was not known for declarations of affection. It was why he had gone as slowly as he had. He was waiting, until he knew Clark was sure, until he gave into him, as he had that stormy night, until his body curved up into his, until Clark pulled him down, with an arm around his shoulders or with fingers though his hair, or as it turned out, hooking his knees on Bruce's hips, first one, then the other, then came the arms around his shoulders, and finally, arching his back to press flush against him, and even still, he waited, because he wanted to hear it, the sound that had haunted him ever since he'd first heard it, Clark's moan in the library, and the yelp in the bedroom, that Bruce was still proud to have elicited. It was difficult to startle a man with a movement, when he regularly dove and free fell through the atmosphere.
So he pushed back, pushed Clark further down into the bed, grabbed his knees to shift their location, to secure Clark's legs around his waist, kissed him longer, harder until he finally heard it, a whine that turned into a whimper, then an urgent whisper. Was just a syllable, as though he couldn't manage his full name.
"B."
Something clenched in his abdomen, tore into his chest. Also caused him to abruptly change position, unhooking Clark's legs and setting him back down onto the bed so that he could tear down his final waistband and finally grab hold of him, causing a fluster the likes of which he had never seen with Clark, that scrambled his limbs, until they steadied themselves above his head, gripping the pillow behind him, and Bruce had planned to temper himself, to limit themselves to this, but in line with the rest of the evening, he could not maintain his original course, and he grabbed hold of Clark's hip to push him up onto his side, and situated himself behind, all the while tearing down his own waistband and maintaining that grip on Clark's hip, steadying himself on his elbow, and preparing to thrust.
Clark looked over his shoulder, possibly to protest, so Bruce provided as quick an explanation as possible.
"Not here." With a purposeful hand on the curve of Clark's backside, then drawing it down to the top of his thigh. "Here."
Clark twisted and turned, his free arm scrambling for purchase once again, to his side, when Bruce pushed through between his thighs, he bit down into the pillow when the two of them finally met, and as the friction and the heat grew unbearable between them, when he knew Clark was close, barely holding on, Bruce leaned over to bite him on the shoulder in turn, and, as predicted, he could not help be proud of his assessment, it was their first time together, Clark went limp as a rag doll against him, even the hand clutching at the pillow gave out.
The bite would not remain on Clark's skin for any length of time. It was not meant to be a mark for others to see. Still, Bruce soothed it with his tongue, as the spacing between Clark's breaths grew longer. Was surprised when Clark's hand reached around, searching in vain for his.
Under these circumstances, Bruce did not deny him, and Clark pulled their entwined hands back around to his chest, held them there, rubbing his fingers against Bruce's, and at first he was not sure, what Clark was looking for in this movement, until the limpness gave way to a gentle shuddering. He wanted to turn Clark to face him, but after all the liberties he had taken, he would grant Clark this privacy, and instead would keep moving his fingers against his, and when that ceased to amuse him, he began kissing the back, then the side, and ultimately moving to the front of his neck, until he finally got a response.
"B?"
Clark sometimes called him B while they were in uniform. He was the only one to use that particular nickname. It implied a level of closeness that the Bat did not. He would probably glare at anyone else who tried. He had glared at Clark, the first time he had tried, who had remained unfazed. Just smiled at him. He had hoped that would be enough to dissuade him, but Clark continued, and Bruce ultimately decided to concede. To pick one's battles wisely.
The fact that Clark was virtually invulnerable may also have been a factor.
Though that shift marked the true start of their friendship. That they had moved beyond simply colleagues. It was interesting to Bruce that Clark was using it now. At yet another shift in their relationship.
He paused what he was doing and gripped Clark's hand tighter, to let him know he was listening.
"Can you… can you stay awhile?"
At that he had a terrible temptation, to push Clark's hip away from him and down onto the bed, to make him lie down on his front, to then grab both his hips with both hands, raise them up and get behind him.
Another time.
For now:
"I was planning to."
Bruce was no stranger to little sleep. He could function with very little of it, yet in this regard, Clark would always outmatch him. Clark needed no sleep at all.
Yet it irked him to find that when he woke, Clark was awake beside him. Still laying down. Dozing, pondering, resting, but not sleeping.
It was still full dark out. He didn't think it was the devil's hour just yet. It had a certain feel to it, and it was his personal favorite. Three in the morning was a frightening hour, even for the underworld. And a perfect hour to have Batman add even more terror to it.
He rose up, slowly, carefully, waiting to see what Clark would do, and sure enough, he rose as well, slowly, carefully, till they mirrored each other, sitting up in the bed.
It was a tight fit. Clark's full size mattress was partly to blame. Bruce thought it was more a nostalgic decision than a practical one. That's what the frame would fit.
The frame from the farm; he was sure of it.
Found himself wishing he'd had a chance to meet the Kents. To see the fabled farm where Clark had grown up. That that would help him to understand, where he now found himself with Clark, this room that seemed separate from time and from the city surrounding it, separate from the alien who occupied it yet part of him regardless.
Wondered what Clark's parents would have thought. His father, from all accounts, one of the greatest scientific minds Krypton had ever known, and his son had been raised by farmers.
Salt of the earth, good people. But Bruce had seen the Fortress of Solitude, and had not even begun to crack its secrets.
He had never asked Clark, when he had found out his origins. When the Kents had to reveal the spaceship that had brought him to Earth, why they had to break the news to him.
That he was not human.
Bruce knew Clark generally thought of himself as human, and despite Bruce's insistence that he wasn't, he could understand why.
Clark had thought he was human for a time.
But it had never been more striking to Bruce as it was here, that Clark was adrift, between worlds, just as he seemed adrift with Bruce now, stuck between their working friendship and what they had just done, unsure now of what to say or do, in the dark stillness, and his reticence caused Bruce some of his own.
It wasn't that Clark was overly chatty normally. He didn't talk a mile a minute like someone in the League who would not be mentioned by name. Nor was he prone to grand speeches, as their resident royals were. Wasn't one to make a lot of wise-cracks as he worked either, as Robin, as Nightwing did.
It was more that in all the time Bruce had known him, Clark had never been truly nervous to speak in his company.
And now he was.
And it wasn't as though Bruce couldn't hazard a guess why.
It was one thing to have a casual comment ignored, or to have his eyes never leave his monitoring screens during a conversation, as often happened in the Cave.
Clark did not know if any gesture or words of affection would be returned in this case, so he was choosing silence. Bruce was actually somewhat surprised – he had always figured Clark to be a rather foolish romantic – but Clark seemed wise to the fact that Bruce would not suddenly change his habits or his personality because of their new relationship.
That no magical transformation occurred…. Except the still as of yet unexplained magic that had occurred the first time they had attempted this.
That still bothered him.
Maybe Clark would be more willing to talk about it now.
Nevertheless, he'd had his own doubts about this. Was he capable of providing Clark what he wanted in this relationship, a degree of intimacy far greater than Selina or even Talia had ever expected from him.
That Clark, as aggravating as he was, loved with his whole heart. That he was not capable of shielding himself in a relationship like this. That he would give all of himself or nothing at all.
...Maybe that was it. What had caused the relationship with Lois to fail.
Bruce had always enjoyed Lois personally. She reminded him of the few others he was fond of. A fighter with a heart of steel, obscured by a dainty appearance. Street-wise and wise to the ways of the world. Willing to get her hands dirty. Willing to be unlikeable.
Words were her weapons.
All to get at the truth. She was on a mission, a mission that required so much of her. A mission that Clark could not shield her against. And a mission that often required her to shield her heart in turn.
Maybe they had been too opposing. Maybe she had needed someone more like her. Also, maybe why when she and Bruce had flirted, it had been easy.
But if that were true, it was likely he and Clark's relationship would meet the same end.
And he had thought of this, before he had come here tonight. Knew the risk. It was different though, to see Clark beside him, unsure whether an embrace would be welcomed by Bruce or not. To see his hands subtly wringing the sheets and his downcast eyes.
And he had done it anyway. For the same reason as that first night. The overwhelming attraction, the instinct telling him to move forward, move ahead with this– the same instinct he so often relied upon in his nightly activities, that he knew nothing good would come of it if he denied it – but he could not call what had transpired love-making. He had been too focused on his own needs to truly think of Clark's.
He suspected Clark knew this. That that was why, though he had not been able completely stifle himself, he had stilled his voice. Also why he had been in no hurry to turn around, to let Bruce see his face.
Perhaps he should amend his previous statement.
Clark could shield himself.
He was just terrible at it, just as he was doing a terrible job of it now, but Bruce's loss of both control and courtesy, as well as the fact that Clark so clearly wanted something that Bruce was not adequately prepared to give him almost reddened his face.
Yet Clark lost his own battle as well, to keep his distance, for soon he was moving forward, that same motion that seemed both slow and sudden, gauging, most likely, and Bruce had him in his arms, Clark's arms wrapped around his shoulders once again. Waited to see if Clark would continue, try to move them further, but he did not. Rested his head on Bruce's shoulders, while Bruce found the small of his back, tracing and pressing his fingers over each vertebrae, trying not to be tempted himself, by the sheets that were barely covering Clark's lap, to keep his fingers from going too low down on Clark's back.
He wondered if Clark had any concept of how often he had kept him from sleep these last weeks. Red briefs and blue tights crumpled on the floor, revealing the flesh and blood man underneath, and replaced by a deep red blush and too bright blue eyes. That damn curl long gone, trampled by insistent hands.
Clark pulled away the veil on that illusion, by letting go. He did not go very far, just enough for the two of them to be able to look at each other, and for Clark to ask, "What made you change your mind?"
There were a number of ways to interpret that question. Some of the answers he had already provided, but he had a sense of what Clark was actually asking for now. Reassurance, that Bruce would not change his mind again on this subject as quickly as he had last time.
He was never one for expressing himself with words.
Fortunately, he thought he could get away with only few in this case.
He and Clark had gotten to the point where they could often speak and understand each other without words. He hoped that would hold here as well.
It was the meaning behind those words, that was the important thing. More important than the words themselves.
"You did, Clark."
Clark looked at him in disbelief, but Bruce knew he understood. By the sudden bowing of his head, the misting of his eyes, biting his lip in emotion and surprise.
"Just like you did the first time we met." Bruce felt compelled to add. The friendly greeting he had not trusted, the declaration of similar goals, the hope they could be allies, even work together from time to time that Bruce had immediately and routinely dismissed.
Bruce had needed time to prove those words. And Clark had.
And now Clark was back in his arms, and it occurred to him that Clark's choice to embrace around the shoulders was probably deliberate. That he knew Bruce would feel too caged otherwise, and he had to smirk at that.
He was not the only one accurately reading the other, and then Clark proved him right on another earlier assessment, by muttering.
"I'm so happy. I feel like the luckiest man in the world."
The hopeless romantic had been here all along, only hidden for a time, yet Clark was shockingly sincere in saying this, and Bruce might have to rethink his own assessment of himself, because in this terrifyingly random, chaotic world, a world that often seemed to have gone mad, where even when people were trying their best they still seemed to fail each other, he would try to be worthy of such a foolish sentiment.
Just as how, even though he so often felt he had failed to keep his promise to his parents, to cleanse Gotham City of the evil that had taken their lives, he would not stop trying.