Bruce had been successful. Clark was once again ensconced in the sheets next to him the following morning. Though this time Clark did not sleep through Alfred's knock at the door. It jolted him to consciousness, and he looked to Bruce in confusion.

Bruce gestured for him to remain where he was.

Opened and shut the door behind him, to stand out in the hall once again with his interfering butler, and when he returned, Clark was sitting up in evident shock.

"Did Alfred just call me 'Master Clark?'"

"And we are being served brunch in half an hour," was Bruce's confirmation, and though part of him wanted to simply say yes, he found himself as uncomfortable as Clark, who gave nothing more than a nod as he numbly got out of the bed, and a tad overwhelmed, at the implications of that title, as he indicated for Clark to use the master bathroom.

Eventually, he would like to join him, in the marble tiled shower that could easily accommodate two, to wash away the salt that had cooled and dried on their skin, yet Clark's mute retreat towards it told him Clark once again required time alone to compose himself, and frankly, so did Bruce, so the two of them groomed and dressed themselves separately, only reuniting to walk, out the door and down the halls, to the top of the stairs, where Clark once again stopped, at the portrait of Bruce's parents, and Bruce wondered what it was Clark was thinking. Did he wonder, just as Bruce had of the Kent's, if the Wayne's would have approved of this relationship, if they had lived to see the day?

Even Bruce himself could not be sure of that. He strongly suspected they would have. Though if they had been alive, he would never have become Batman, and this relationship would never have existed in the first place.

Just as if somehow, Jor-El had managed to convince the ruling council of Krypton of the peril they faced, Clark would never have been sent to Earth at all, let alone become Superman.

There was still a part of him, that resented Clark for all this. It was not rational, and he was not proud of it. This coursing, impossibly difficult to navigate river, that made him give into demands when giving into demands went against everything he stood for.

Yet he did. Last night and the night before it, in the Arctic and in Metropolis, he gave in. Already disruptive, but also time-consuming, since every time the two of them touched needed to be choreographed. They could not come into contact casually. Ironic, how an invulnerable man could be so sensitive, for though Bruce experienced Clark as an almost unbearable live-wire, a startling display of force and nature, Clark seemed to experience him as an almost unbearable intrusion, one he needed to be expressly ready to receive.

And he thought that was why Clark did not reach out to him, during this second long march to the kitchen, and why Bruce did not reach out to him, only pushing in the double doors just as he had done yesterday.

He wouldn't hold it against Clark if part of him resented Bruce. Maybe the change in his demeanor, from nervously friendly, to genially detached, was his way of expressing that, as they sat down with Alfred. It was reminiscent of Superman in action. He was still unfailingly polite, but without Clark Kent's sweetness; still kind, but remote. It gave Bruce the impression he always got after witnessing Clark launch himself into the air.

That he was unreachable.

Nevertheless, Clark maintained a steady stream of conversation – necessary for him, his business was stories – just as he was capable of doing as Superman, something he in fact often had to do as Superman, since his appearance often struck people dumb with amazement.

The only thing that gave him away, was as the meal was coming to a close, Clark once again made a move to clean the dishes, that neither Bruce nor Alfred had the ability to stop.

This time, Alfred could not keep the alarm off his face at Clark's handling of them, so clumsy was he, and Alfred looked to Bruce helplessly at the thought of Clark inadvertently breaking the family china.

Bruce could not help but feel vindicated: he had warned him. That Clark might have a startling reaction to Alfred's new address of him.

However, he mouthed to Alfred that he would deal with it – Bruce also did not want the family china broken; Clark would never forgive himself – and once the whirlwind of Clark's motion ceased, the dishes miraculously intact and safely back on the counter shining, and after Clark bid Alfred farewell, they retraced their steps, back the way they came, and Bruce felt it begin in force.

He wasn't sure what it was, that made Bruce want to push and pull, and Clark distance and defend, that this would be their particular dance, and Bruce could appreciate the irony of it, their wholly unexpected reversal of roles. There were many women in Bruce's past – and to be frank his present – who had hoped he would chase them, and here was Clark, in his home, gazing up at the portrait of Bruce's parents for a third time, Bruce standing right beside him, and he almost wanted to shake him, to make Clark to tell him what he saw, or what he was looking for there.

And when they entered the master suite, and Clark was gathering his few things, Bruce so wanted to gather him, back to the bed, where Clark was not so far, where he could not keep Bruce at bay, to recreate the mutual agony, that was the two of them coming together, and Clark's ardent whisperings afterwards, in the dead language Bruce was beginning to understand, the phrase that still caused goosebumps to appear on his skin and his hair stand on end, that still caused his awareness to condense and collapse, until it was only Clark, even though it had been only Clark throughout, and it was another agony, all of its own, for Clark, to say it, and the possibility of Bruce not understanding, so he'd repeat it, over and over, until Bruce heard him, until Bruce caught his breath enough to say it back to him, and the reaction that always elicited from Clark, the way he would clutch his shoulders, or, if he was still inside, as he sometimes was, too tired and too pleased with where he was to move, the way Clark would involuntarily hold him tighter there, and at that point, Bruce would want him all over again. And then, he was not resentful of Clark, merely amazed he could elicit such passion from him.

But for now, Bruce reigned himself in.

They had a long night, and he could tell Clark was not ready for a long afternoon immediately following it.

But he did kiss him goodbye, after Clark changed into the Superman costume, then let Clark know to leave the dishes alone, that it was an insult to Alfred, and despite his general dislike of high society and manners, it was an insult to him, that as a host he was not in the habit of letting his houseguests do the cleaning, and as Clark should have figured out by now, he was significantly more than a houseguest.

And Clark replied, rather bemused, that Bruce later relayed to Alfred, that was something he had done for his mother, when her hands started getting more and more arthritic, it was something he had done whenever he'd dined at the home of his high school sweetheart, it was even something he'd done when he met Lois' parents for the first time, and he'd meant no disrespect.

"Did you really have to tell him it was an insult, Master Bruce?" Alfred asked later, beleaguered that even after all these years living with Bruce, he still managed to shock with his lack of tact.

Bruce responded honestly. Alfred could at least appreciate that.

"I was insulted."