They were busy, at first: Bruce with charity events and detective work; Clark with the goings on in Metropolis, both reporting and making the news. Saving citizens mostly from themselves. Unlike Batman, a lot of Superman's work involved preventing transportation accidents and attending to equipment malfunctions.

The first week he wasn't particularly bothered. Business as usual.

The second week he was. Acknowledging his own reticence, in seeing Clark again, after their last visit. After what they had done; after what they had said. It was too much, and it was too raw.

He'd needed time apart to process it all. Maybe Clark did too, since he did not stop by. And Bruce could admit to himself, as shameful as it was, that he did not enjoy how Clark's presence muddled his mind, how he made Bruce's skin itch and burn and his heart rate skyrocket, taking from him all the qualities he had honed over the years, his continuing efforts at mastery over his mind and body.

But despite it being too much, and too raw, he meant what he did, and he meant what he said. And now he was waiting. For the wound to heal over. To feel like some semblance of himself again, the next time he saw Clark, and not an agitated, overly exposed bundle of nerves.

He had returned to Clark, to start this again, thinking it would ease tension, and in some ways it had, and in others it hadn't. That even though there was a casualness to the way they conducted their relationship, the way they both admitted to feeling was not casual.

And if their relationship was not casual, what did that mean for them.

All of it leaving him wondering. How much time was enough time, and who would move first to end this stalemate they had inadvertently found themselves in.

So when nearing the end, of that second week, his alarms alerted him to a guest, as he was finishing up his pre-patrol work-out, Bruce felt a mixture of things: fear, anticipation, relief. But the most predominant feeling was pleasure, and upon hearing the familiar whoosh behind him, a small smile came to his face, and he turned to face his guest, only to then witness something he never really had with Clark, a cheer that was false, a smile that was fake. A stance that suggested stability, leaning against one of Bruce's work-tables, his uniform bright as always and not a hair out of place – how Clark managed this, he did not know – yet coming across as anything but.

All in all, Clark appeared a pale and mediocre imitation of himself, and though he was not at all used to Clark masking himself in this way, Bruce found, to his astonishment – normally he hated when people tried to conceal things from him – he did not care. Knew what it was because he'd been living with it these last days too.

The wound that wouldn't quite close, the center he just couldn't find. His smile may have fallen slightly, and Clark may have noticed, revealing a terrible uncertainty of his own, only for a moment, before his false smile was back in place, and even still Bruce did not care.

Simply knew Clark was hurting in the same way he was hurting, and still he had come here. Superman had bested him once again.

"Am I interrupting anything? I thought you'd have a few minutes before going out."

The false cheer in Clark's voice was actually the strangest of it all, nevertheless, Bruce gestured for Clark to follow him, as he got some water and the two of them made awkward small-talk, not due to its silences, Clark did not allow any, but for the fact that this is what they were doing after their last visit, the both of them frustrated by this cycle, of closeness then distance they could not seem to break.

They certainly lived up to the old adage of one step forward and two steps back. Bruce had no answers how to resolve this, so he did what he always did when he had no answers. He observed and gathered more information.

And he got some rather quickly, as Clark, in a gesture completely unlike him, reached for and grabbed his hand, nonchalant, without bringing any other attention to it, and though Clark was graceful in the air, Clark personally was not a smooth operator. It was a move right out of Bruce Wayne's playbook, and it was surreal, to have it used on him. The obvious advance and then seemingly ignoring that he had done so, and was continuing to do so.

It often worked, while he was out. He thought women appreciated that he came on strong, but not too strong, that he allowed them some breathing room, time to make up their minds about him.

Also, you could tell a lot, having someone's hand in yours. The firmness of grip, the clamminess or dryness of the skin, but also instinctive knowledge that was difficult to put into words, that essentially boiled down to, "Do I trust this person or not."

He'd shaken Clark's hand before all this. It had always matched with Clark himself. Straight-forward, friendly, genuine.

Bruce trusted him.

The times Clark had reached for his hand lately were in impossibly intimate situations, but it still had those same qualities.

This, on the other hand… there was something inherently wrong about it, just as his cheer continued to be, as he prattled on about this or that, also unlike him. Even the timing of Clark's visit, just as Bruce was heading out the door, the forced casualness, the built in excuse to leave, Clark's attempts to create another safety net for himself.

Bruce could understand though. When Clark fell, he fell spectacularly.

Still, Clark had done the most difficult part, by reaching out, coming back in the first place. His courage inspired Bruce's, as it so often did, so Bruce would try to coax him out, create another safety net of sorts, something he had to do anyway, so he once again gestured for Clark to follow him, to where he kept his uniform. He was patrolling tonight after all, and he kept an eye on Clark, as he stripped himself of his t-shirt and replaced it with a chest plate, exchanged sweat pants for shin guards and a visible face for a cloaked one, as finally, the familiar and for him altogether comfortable cowl settled into place.

And he felt altogether more equipped to deal with Clark now, who had stumbled, faltered, in his smiling and his prattling, as Bruce had guessed he would. Trying to make this undressing and redressing more casual than it was, not after Bruce had had Clark in both of his bedrooms and nearly had him in one upstairs.

And perhaps Clark was about to get unsuspectingly tangled in his safety net, this limited time, because Bruce could already feel his mindset changing, settling down and narrowing in, the single-mindedness he needed to do his work, and also the need to rid himself of unnecessary thoughts and distractions, so this stalemate of theirs needed to end, and what better way to end the stand-off then to move forward, and to cease any further nervous chatter from Clark than to cover Clark's lips with his, but for the two of them, that act always seemed to have unforeseeable consequences, and Bruce found he was not leaving, to go out on patrol, and Clark was not flying back out into the night, Clark was pressed against the wall of Bruce's dressing room, getting literally tangled in his cape, unlike his own that hung obediently behind him, obscuring the both of them from prying eyes that did not exist down here, and it was slow and it was heavy, the way the moved against each other, like getting dragged underwater, and it all seemed rather foolish to him now, that he had not contacted Clark sooner, that he had needlessly deprived himself of this, the way Clark bowed his head against his, when he was particularly moved by what Bruce as doing, and the way that Clark instantly became more honest with him, perhaps more honest than Clark ever wanted to be, judging by the whimper that escaped from him, that Bruce had impossibly intimate access to, with his tongue languidly halfway down Clark's throat, and its escape triggered a not altogether surprising, but nevertheless unwanted pushing away from Clark, and Bruce was reminded just how powerful Clark could be, as he was out of Bruce's reach almost faster than he could comprehend, though Clark did not go far, at least not as far as he could have, out of the dressing room but still within sight, his back turned to Bruce, showing the gold encased version of his family crest.

Bruce took a few steps towards him, but allowed Clark silence to make up his mind, whether he was staying or going, whether he would explain or not – though his upset had precedence, his hesitation to lie down, in the room stories above, and even after he had, his abrupt reversal of position in that fortress of his – that there was something about this that triggered in Clark fight or flight.

Fortunately for Bruce, it was flight, yet Bruce had always maintained Clark's true strength came not from his powers, but from his heart, however it was that same heart, along with Bruce's that was hurting now, for when Clark did turn around, he did so misty eyed, and he did try to explain: how he worried he could not make Bruce happy, or give him what he deserved, that he lived on a newspaper man's salary and how intimidating that was when dating one of the world's richest men, and even within that newspaper he would probably never rise up the ranks, not with his other job that never gave him a moment's rest, that he had wanted to come by sooner but was embarrassed to say so, that he did not know when he was crowding Bruce or when staying away too long.

That even though they had agreed to this long-distance, unconventional relationship of sorts, he wanted to do things couples did together, wanted to have meals together, to go to sleep and wake up beside him.

That just as he had worried with Lois, in a reveal that Bruce sensed was a major part of why they had broken up, and not necessarily Lois', but Clark's: his own sense of inadequacy. That by some supreme irony, he was shamed by one of the few things the planet's strongest man could not provide.

A child.

That he feared Bruce was wasting his time, when someday he might want to pass down his family name, and he could instead be courting any number of interested women, but particularly a one Miss Selina Kyle, who also might want a child of her own someday, and his own hypocrisy in worrying about this, when he himself had been raised by a couple who were incapable of conceiving a child, who had passed down their family name regardless.

Some of this was understandable to Bruce, his own doubts echoed back to him. Some of it was inconceivable, yet he responded in measured tones, that he could not speak for the future, he could only speak for now, and that he nor Catwoman, for they were indeed one and the same, separately or together wanted a child at this time. That one of the many luxuries of money was getting to find out firsthand having it did not solve all one's problems, regardless, he was more than capable and willing to support all of Clark's expenses, even if something should happen to that measly newspaper man's salary, and even if he found himself without that matchbox of an apartment, there were enough rooms in the Manor they could go about their days and never see each other. However, if Clark wanted to sleep and wake together, he would need to become well acquainted with sighting the balcony on the third floor, for that was connected to the master suite, and if he had been willing commute to Metropolis from the Arctic, commuting from Gotham would be easy in comparison, and in fact, he invited Clark to make his way there later this evening, that he would meet him, after Batman was done patrolling, but to be warned in advance, if he was anticipating sleep tonight, he would not find it there.

Bruce strode up the curving staircase, past the second floor, and up to the third. Blood still singing, after a satisfying night of stopping muggings and thieves, and singing in anticipation, of who he hoped to find on his balcony.

And he was there, when Bruce opened the door, but not in the guise he was expecting, not the blue tights and red cape he had finally hoped to see on his floor, but dressed in casual slacks and a button down shirt, a small overnight bag in hand, bearing a particularly winsome smile, sans the glasses, he had omitted those, but all in all, he was here as Clark, not as Superman, as Bruce was here as himself, and they were not meeting down in the Cave but here in the bedroom Bruce had hated to occupy, when he had returned home from his studies and travels, but Alfred had insisted was high time. He was master of this estate. Ever since his parents were killed in Crime Alley, one of its too many victims. Maybe Clark felt similarly about his fortress up north.

Bruce had felt better about it, when Dick was living here. That somehow things were as they should be. And then he was simply used to it, that it was his, yet it was different now, seeing Clark looking at it with fresh eyes, the furniture a hold out from his parents, that often Bruce gazed at unseeingly, both comforted and pained by its presence, exactly how he remembered it all arranged growing up, mornings he would barge in unannounced and make his parents greet the day. Ironic, since as an adult he adopted a mostly nocturnal schedule, and did not take kindly to Alfred trying to wake him before noon.

Even the photographs on display were the same, the ones Clark had now gravitated towards, and though his parents were public figures, as he himself came to be, and there were many images of them in the archives, these photographs were of their private lives: when the two of them first started seeing each other; their wedding photos; his mother pregnant with him, and then her holding him in her arms, tightly wrapped and form indistinguishable. But then he became distinguishable, the photos showing him growing, including one of him in a regrettable sailor outfit that Dick had not been able to contain his amusement about when he'd first seen it, and that Bruce had to allow, since he felt the same, but there were also photos of holidays and birthdays, posed family portraits and impromptu ones. Alfred was there too, before he had lost his hair.

But there was another series of photos, of another young man growing up: Dick and his parents in their circus garb. Bruce thought of them often, wondering if he had done the right thing, taking Robin under his wing, if they would approve. They had also been drawn into a risky business, and he thought that they might be able to understand, more than others, why he felt compelled to do this, and why Dick might feel similarly. And Dick certainly put the talents they had taught him to use while doing it. To this day, Dick's movements contained the artistic, theatrical flair his parents had instilled in him. That was something Bruce had never had to explain to him. That part of their work was analysis and detection, part of it was the athleticism to pull it off, but another great part of it was show, and Dick really did know how to put on a show.

Despite Dick's early propensity for costumes, there was another photo of him looking decidedly uncomfortable in his private school outfit, on his first day of classes there, the same school Bruce himself had attended, but he had taken well to the publicity of being Bruce Wayne's ward, already accustomed to performance on the public stage, and there were some photos of him accompanying Bruce to various events as a young teenager. There was his prom with Barbra, his high school graduation, he with his arm around Alfred, hair long gone at this point – if Bruce as a child, the sudden death of the Wayne's and that particular aftermath had all been partly responsible, then Dick and his antics were the final, finishing blow to Alfred's follicles.

Alfred loved him though. And so did Bruce, despite all their disagreements. If he had to chose, whether he'd do it all over again, he would. Instantly and absolutely.

He imagined Alfred felt similarly about him. And though Alfred had suggested that Dick had turned out differently because Bruce had saved him from the darkness, that he had reached out a hand to him because of what he went through as a child, Bruce's ability to do that equally, or perhaps more, stemmed from Alfred showing him the way, for being that steady hand for him.

That it was possible.

And now, somehow, Clark was here in this house, in this room, looking over these snapshots of Bruce's life with an overnight bag in hand, that Bruce, gracious host that he was, took from him, placing it out of the way, and even that simple brushing of hands, was enough to create a need for more, and Clark reached out for his hand a second time tonight, and Bruce was relieved it did not feel the same as before, none of the falsity, no hiding, the hand in his was jittery and nervous and happy all at once, and affectionate to the point of being overwhelming.

Though, he had not been planning on suggesting this, he was not prepared. It had been a long time since he had invited anyone back to his bedroom. His real one, not the one at his penthouse downtown. And though he had truly suspected Clark would take him up on his offer tonight, that he would be out on his balcony, when Bruce returned, his pride had not allowed him to come in hand with the necessary implements, only to find no use for them. Only till he was sure he would have need of them, did he want to retrieve them, so he excused himself, and at the confused look on Clark's face, he gave further direction.

He was aware Lois often kidded Clark about his poor choice of threads. He had all too willingly joined in. It was partly the joke one would expect from someone like him, but it was also true. Unlike Bruce, who hid his secret identity extravagantly in plain sight, Clark's disguise was his mild manners, his unnoticeable fashion, and his ability, truly astonishing for a man of his height and stature, to blend in, to go unnoticed and unseen.

People thought his ability to act was astounding, but he found Clark's the more astonishing of the two. Even knowing the truth, when he had occasion to see Clark in public, it was difficult to connect him to his alter ego. Just like Bruce, he changed the way he spoke, the voice he spoke in, the way he stood and the way he moved.

Nevertheless, as he approached Clark, grabbed the collar of his shirt, rubbed the rough fabric between his fingers to confirm what he already knew, he thought this might be going to far. The man had saved the world many times over. He could at least have the luxury of wearing a shirt that didn't scratch.

"Still don't like my clothes, B?"

"I expect them to be off when I get back."

He didn't need to go far, only to the master bath. He was not completely unprepared. Yet he took his time, and yet, he was still somehow astonished that when he returned, Clark's offensive clothes were nowhere in sight, and he was finally provided the view he had been craving for sometime now, and it stopped him dead, dead in his tracks, Clark lounging atop his still perfectly made bed, long legs splayed out in front of him, propped up against the pillows and leaning back against the headrest, with one arm draped dramatically up alongside it, with a smile that didn't quite manage to be seductive, but playfully acknowledged the beefcake position.

There had been many times, too many to count, when he had seen women flirt with Superman, including fellow super-heroines, and all he had given in return was a gracious, if somewhat bemused smile, before politely changing the subject. He had to know he was attractive, but Bruce had never seen him use it to his advantage, unlike some of their other fellow superheroes. A particular Green Lantern, who he would also not mention by name, came to mind, and out in public, Bruce was no better.

This was so unlike him. It was so profoundly unlike him, and yet he was so profoundly beautiful, even in this cheesy pose straight out of a Playgirl magazine, that Bruce could not come back to life, could not step forward, couldn't make a sound, couldn't even take a breath, because it wasn't a centerfold, it was Clark, who had flown here and was laying on Bruce's bed in Bruce's bedroom, who had stripped his clothes and was posing for him and only him, even though when Bruce had said that, he hadn't truly expected Clark to comply.

And he knew Clark was waiting for him to say something, getting more and more anxious by the second, and then, for any reaction at all, to him doing this, and when he still didn't get one, he ducked his head, unsuccessfully hiding his quickly reddening face, and maneuvered a pillow in front of himself.

"Sorry… Guess you were joking."

Bruce was still having difficulty, but he tossed the condoms and lube he had just retrieved on the bed, in lieu of a better answer, and decided to put on a show of his own. He had always chided Clark about his lack of showmanship, though he supposed when one could literally fly and had the strength to punch holes through mountains, a whole lot more showmanship wasn't really required.

Yet another thing Clark hadn't had to work on, but Bruce removed his t-shirt, revealing all the hard work that had required, and he tossed it to the side, his eyes locked onto Clark's, whose eyes were locked right back on him, at him, as he undid the knot of the drawstring of his sweatpants, and this was showing that one could do a lot with a little, with whatever was on hand, for he didn't have many pieces of clothing to remove, yet he made the most of what he had, and there was no way Clark was going to upstage him here, so Bruce removed his final layer as well, then flung his briefs to the wayside, and he had been silently willing Clark to remove the pillow, to come forward on the bed, to meet him as Bruce made his way to it himself, but he did not, and maybe he was experiencing something similar to what Bruce had, that he was frozen, rooted where he was, unable to move, hand nor arm nor limb, unable to breathe, even when Bruce did breach the edge of the bed, crawling on hands and knees towards him, then grabbing hold of the edge of the pillow himself, and delivering a line with a cocksure smile, both worthy of Bruce Wayne.

"This is my property. I'm taking it back."

And without that final barrier between them, they met, and the temptation was almost too much to withstand, Clark completely bare against him, flushed skin to skin, yet they managed to control themselves, experimentally rolling around and back and forth, hands and arms and limbs constantly shifting places, attaching to shoulders, then backs, then hips, then thighs in a most intimate wrestling match, and they even maintained their control enough to end up back in the position they had been in the Arctic, Clark on his side with Bruce curled behind him, pressing inside, and it was no less thrilling than it was the first time, Clark even turning around for a kiss as he did so, and to feel him quivering not only against his chest, not only against his lips, but around the fingers probing inside him was almost enough to make him forget why he was doing this, that this was not the main event, but only the preparation, and he willed himself to do a good job of it, to make sure Clark was prepared, even when he reached his hand around, to cup Bruce's face, to keep his lips steadier on his but it was a futile battle, Clark's shivering was getting more and more violent, that hand cupping his face just as shaky as the rest of him until Bruce finally eased his fingers out and turned Clark on his back.

Bruce still had reservations about this position, and this time, apparently so did Clark, as he abruptly sat up, while Bruce was working with the protection, and his eyes had that same half panicked look to them that Bruce was unfortunately starting to grow familiar with in these situations, and his breaths became short and haggard, and he was about to say something to him, Clark had explained some of his fears, Bruce hoped maybe he could articulate this particular one as well, except Clark did not give him the chance, he instead approached for yet another kiss, and it was one that Bruce could give his full attention to, letting go of the latex for now, laying Clark back down, eventually moving his attention to his neck after they both became breathless, and he knew Clark was close, close to allowing him to continue, that he had gotten what he needed out this slight reprieve, yet to hear his voice, weak and thready, in conjunction with the hands on his back, that had for awhile now been struggling to keep their purchase, had been loosing ground by the second, finally cave in, fall heavily away to rest on the bed, splayed at his sides.

"Love me."

And he could see and feel Clark's subsequent horror, that he had uttered this, that he had revealed himself to be so in need, and his urge to withdraw, both it and himself, yet then, in what Bruce considered one of the bravest things he had ever seen Clark do, he stopped himself, overrode his urge to withdraw, and said it again. Bruce could barely even call it a whisper, he more just mouthed the words, yet by doing so, confirmed they were no accident, that he had really said them, and this leap of faith of his would not go unrewarded, Bruce had no intention of letting him fall, and he felt Clark's eyes on him, as he finished preparations, looking up at him, as he aligned the two of them, and began to insert himself, inch by painstaking inch, with Clark's muscles going wild against him, clenching and unclenching, spasms that Clark seemed helpless to reign in, that he could only endure with a maddening series of moans, that Bruce could not help adding his own to, and that soon became perfectly aligned to the time and tempo of Bruce's thrusts, and he enjoyed the exquisite torture he wreaked on Clark, and on himself, by changing that tempo, slow to quick to slow, determined to drag this out as long as the two of them could stand, and he hoped Clark understood that in every one of those movements, Bruce was attempting, as best as he was able, to give him exactly what he had asked for. That he would feel Bruce's love for him as powerfully, intensely and unbearably as Bruce felt his.

And that he had no intention of limiting that to this one time. That when they both did finally, blessedly, reach that edge of oblivion, and after they returned to some semblance of their senses, Bruce was going to do this again, and again, and again, and would keep doing so, until Clark begged him to stop.

That he could take no more.

That he had had enough.