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I want to know if you have touched the centre of your own sorrow, if you have been opened by life's betrayals or have become shrivelled and closed from fear of further pain.
“There’s a room upstairs.”
Bruce's tone is deceptively neutral, bordering on indifference. He’s choosing to keep his eyes averted as he strips down to his black underlayer first, then to bare skin. His fingers are pink and clumsy with cold as he works to rid himself of his damp suit.
“There’s probably a hundred rooms upstairs,” Clark returns easily, without thinking. His tank is empty after the League’s latest mission: an arduous off-world slog filled with sleepless nights and debate-filled days. Half his efforts alone probably went into keeping Hal out of yet another diplomatic incident.
The last item on the agenda was assisting Bruce in offloading the myriad of samples he’d taken from the alien planet. Clark’s warm, cramped apartment called to him, but he finds that lately, he just can’t say no to Bruce.
A sleepless week is exactly why it takes an additional five seconds before the meaning registers—
Stay here. Spend the night. It clicks so suddenly, and Clark is struck dumb.
Well, geez, Bruce might as well have unpinned a grenade and tossed it to him.
A proper East Coast blizzard blusters outside. It saps the cave of its little heat, and howling winds echo throughout the caverns. Along the wall of the cave’s screens, muted reporters from Channel 52 to GTV6 all stand knee-deep in the snow, bundled and red-faced, gesturing to the mounds of white blanketing the streets.
And while Clark surely can’t die of the cold, flying home through a blizzard would fully suck. On top of the exhaustion and the storm, there’s this…thing—
This thing that’s been happening. Between him and Bruce.
It started—no, Clark isn’t sure when or how it really started. He had been quietly watching Bruce tinker, one of the more frequent ways they’ve spent time together, and Clark’s eyes had just…wandered. From Bruce’s deft fingers, to the pale blue veins in his wrist, up to his forearms, corded with muscle. He’d been dressed in his version of casual: a slate gray shirt that perfectly matched his eyes, the top button undone, and the sleeves neatly rolled up.
Nothing special, nothing Clark hadn't seen before, but his eyes had followed the elegant line of Bruce’s collarbone anyway. He hadn’t even tried to stop himself.
By the time Clark’s leisurely look made its way up to Bruce’s face—
Crap—Bruce was looking right at him. Before Clark could muster an apology, face sweltering—because no way he’d been checking his friend out, for Pete’s sake, what’s gotten into him—the corner of Bruce’s mouth had turned up. His concentrated expression had warmed, and Bruce, he’d looked…sly, satisfied, like—
Like he’d liked that.
Without a word, Bruce returned to his project, while Clark’s heart tried to beat clean out of his sternum.
Without meaning to, giving in to that dumb, idle urge, it had opened the floodgates.
He would turn to Bruce during League meetings, surprised (pleased) to find a meaningful look waiting for him. Working together on missions, sometimes it felt like they didn’t even need the comms—their eyes would meet, and somehow, Clark would understand perfectly what he needed to do. Crossing the door’s threshold, Clark would find himself completely helpless against the urge to turn back one last time to catch Bruce’s lingering gaze.
It was electrifying.
And now, now, Bruce is asking him to—
To spend the night.
“Oh.” Cheeks going ruddy, Clark finds himself concentrating on a spot on the floor. “I mean, I wouldn’t want to put you out.” He quietly kicks himself for that—the reflex to be polite. It’s about to screw him out of—
Out of what exactly? That’s so…presumptuous. Surely, they’re not going to—well, if they did, they’d be skipping a step or ten. Just the thought is enough for heat to prickle up the back of his neck to the tips of his ears.
There’s a million, billion miles between sharing stolen glances and spending the night. Together. Maybe—no, he’s definitely reading too deeply into it. Of course, like usual, Bruce is only being pragmatic and generous. He’s obviously offering Clark one of the many unoccupied rooms for the night, so he doesn’t have to fly home in the storm. Maybe it’s a ‘thank you’ for all of Clark’s help, since outright saying it would probably kill him.
“It’s no trouble,” Bruce assures him. And no matter how hard Clark listens, Bruce’s voice betrays nothing, nothing at all.
The elevator ride up to the manor proper is comfortably silent. Bruce isn’t one for idle chatter, and probably shares the bone-deep exhaustion. And Clark isn’t too keen to run his mouth and ruin this either—whatever’s happening. They exit onto the darkened landing together and pad through the halls. Clark spares a glance out of the windows onto the snow-covered grounds. It’s a beautiful sight, and gives him something to focus on that’s not the back of Bruce’s head.
On the second floor, the third door on the right, Bruce pauses, and Clark’s thoughts are so insistent and distracting that he nearly collides with his back.
“Ope! Sorry—”
It's the main bedroom and, good gracious—yep, it’s definitely large enough to fit his own modest living room and kitchen with space to spare. He tamps down on a brief rush of envy.
The bed is draped in red sheets, and plush carpeting adorns the floors. There’s a desk, a nightstand, and an intricately carved headboard—all made with the same expensive, dark wood. The entire right side wall is a window, spanning floor to ceiling. With the patterned curtains opened, Gotham’s lights glitter through the snow, beyond the lake.
He’d been assuming something more…utilitarian. Like military barracks. Or the depressing concrete and monochrome look, the way the wealthy love to do.
But he’s so wrong. He finds that he likes Bruce’s taste in art—Renaissance paintings, abstract pieces, scrolls with cranes and sunsets, and a set of sai mounted above the bed. Strewn about the desk are papers and pens, as if Bruce had left his work in a hurry. There’s a familiar black turtleneck draped over his chair and a book on his bedside table. According to the tassel peeking between the pages, he’s about halfway through.
It’s suddenly too…intimate, such a sobering reminder that Bruce is an actual person, no matter how much he tries to deny it.
Without a word, Bruce drags himself to the bed, pulls back the blanket, and curls up on his side, facing the window. He folds an arm under his head and draws his legs tightly against his body before releasing a weary, end-of-day sigh.
And Clark hovers in the doorway, wringing his hands, waiting to be shown to his own room. Surely, he’s got the wrong idea—
Ah.
No, like usual, Bruce somehow said exactly what he meant without saying it at all. A room upstairs. Just the one.
The nerves—good gracious, the nerves crawling up and down his spine. It takes him a few attempts to swallow it all down as he lingers. The empty space seems Clark-sized, so, one last time, he prays he’s not wrong before he crosses the room with a confidence he doesn't feel. He lies facing Bruce, leaving a wide strip of empty space between them.
The sheets smell of him—his shampoo, his expensive cologne, and something else, clean and human and uniquely him.
And then they’re alone. In bed. Together. Gosh.
Bathed in the pale light from the window, Clark watches the muscles jump in Bruce’s jaw as he clenches and releases. He can hear the near-silent grind of his molars. If Bruce wanted him out, he’d just say it—Clark’s hurt feelings have never stopped him before—so it can’t be that. He hopes it’s not that.
Bruce’s body is curled tight, and his gaze flits between Clark’s eyes and the window behind him. Past the deafening pound of his own heart in his ears, there’s the hum of the cave beneath them, the whisper of the storm outside, the sound of their breathing, and Bruce’s heart, too. It sounds odd—
He rides the jolt of excitement when he realizes that Bruce’s pulse is…elevated. It never does that—not when he lies, not when armed criminals approach him from the darkness, not even in freefall, plummeting to the ground.
But here, where it feels like the entire world is just the two of them, it flutters. Like he’s nervous.
Clark’s overcome with the urge to soothe. He isn’t sure where he gets the nerve, but his hand slides from under the luxurious sheets, across the space between them. He places the pads of his fingers on the back of Bruce’s clenched fist, and Bruce startles. His eyes find Clark’s in the gloom, wilder and wider than he’s ever seen and—
And then he shuts them, squeezes them tightly. He breathes in a purposeful, meditative rhythm, and slowly, slowly the strained cords in his neck begin to ease. His shoulders fall from his ears, and his hand begins to unfurl under Clark’s. Only a stubborn crease between his brows remains. Clark waits patiently for their gazes to meet in the gloom again. Waits even longer for Bruce’s eyes to say, okay.
He draws random patterns along the back of Bruce’s hand first. Traces a faint white scar that runs from there to his forearm. Further, Clark pauses on the healed bullet wound on his shoulder. Feather-soft, he follows the line of Bruce’s collarbone, where he’s only been allowed to look until now.
And he’s drinking it in—every nervous bob of Bruce’s Adam’s apple, the brief moments of searing eye contact, the thrum of Bruce’s pulse in the hollow of his throat, the expanding capillaries darkening his cheeks, the way goosebumps ripple along the exposed skin—
Mesmerizing.
Bruce’s stubble prickles his fingertips when Clark traces the line of his throat, up to his jawline. It’s delightful. He’s swiping a thumb along Bruce’s sharp cheekbones, relishing the brush of long, dark lashes against his hand. Reverently, Clark traces the slightly crooked bridge of Bruce’s nose, up to his eyebrows, where he rubs the divot between them until it melts away. He releases a pleased sigh, and Clark’s mouth runs dry.
Bruce’s eyes flutter open, bleary, but simmering with warmth, and so, so soft—
There’s an answering whisper of fabric, and Bruce’s hand begins to inch toward him. Clark swallows around the hot, throbbing knot in his throat. Bruce’s hand hovers above his cheek, close enough to feel the radiating warmth. The furrow returns with a vengeance. Bruce is suspended there, unsure, and his lips purse into a thin line. Clark feels the barest brush of his fingertips against his cheek—
Bruce pulls his hand away like he’s touched a hot stove, tucks the appendage against his chest like it betrayed him. Clark watches his face grow pinched with—what, anger? Frustration? For a moment, there’s something burning—no, raging—in his eyes. An apology is poised on the tip of Clark’s tongue—no, he’s sorry, honest, he’d pushed too hard, expected too much too soon. Before he can get it out, Bruce’s expression smooths into frustrating blankness.
And he rolls onto his back, severing the contact between them. Clark aches, he aches, but he lets his hand fall away.
“Goodnight,” Bruce murmurs, staring at the ceiling. There’s no heat in it, no annoyance or anger, nothing—and that’s somehow worse. He promptly rolls onto his other side, exposing the scarred expanse of his back to Clark.
And—gosh, Clark is left lying awake in the darkness for a while. His cheek tingles where Bruce’s fingertips so barely touched him, and his body runs hot under the blankets.
His heart throbs and aches so, so strangely.
─────
I want to know if you can live with failure, yours and mine, and still stand at the edge of the lake and shout to the silver of the full moon, 'Yes.'
“It was dangerous, first off. Reckless. Selfish, too—”
Oh boy, he’s really laying into Bruce now. Clark counts each offense on a finger, red-faced and lips pursed. Diana—bless her heart—the last lingering League member, has left them both to it, satisfied with the quality of Bruce’s treatment and his guaranteed recovery. This chewing out had bubbled and broiled inside of Clark the entire time, and as soon as the door shut, he had started talking, which somehow turned into yelling, and he's not a cusser, but—
“—the nerve of you, jumping in without considering what anyone else thinks or—”
“At the risk of offending you,” Bruce starts, and it fans Clark’s temper anew.
“Oh, no, you’re certainly gonna—”
“—what you thought in that moment wasn't important. We were overwhelmed. I had a plan. I made an executive decision,” he explains flatly, like it’s obvious, like Clark should get it by now.
“You’re—so arrogant, you know that?” He jabs a finger in Bruce’s direction and gets regarded with a look like he’s a particularly tantrum-prone toddler. “Let me break it down for you, genius: we work. On a team. When you act like that, it—you’re saying it doesn't matter what your team member thought.”
“Precisely,” Bruce says emphatically. “I value some of your opinions—” That's rich. Clark scoffs at that. “—but every action isn’t a group discussion. I had a solution to our problem and a plan to execute it.” A beat, a pointed stare from Bruce. “Which I did successfully, by the way.”
And it freaking chafes Clark to admit it, but Bruce was (mostly) right. A well-placed EMP device was the best way to take the giant automaton down. And, of course, Batman must have thought himself the best, and only, person for the job.
So, he’d swooped in while Clark was occupied with grunt work and civilian protection, easily ducking and rolling around swings of its massive metal fist, and stuck the EMP against the weak spot at the base of its spine. He was quick about it, but obviously not quick enough—and Clark couldn’t see when the hit made contact, all he heard was the rush of air being knocked from Bruce’s lungs and a sickening, wet crunch—
Thinking of the sound nauseates him.
And Clark hates to give him credit—he refuses to, actually, because if it were anyone else, Batman would be tearing them a new hole, injuries be damned—but Bruce had eliminated the threat, and saved the remains of the city, and preserved the advanced tech for further research. The smug, know-it-all jerk; this is exactly what his ego needs.
“Successfully, riiight.” Clark’s nodding, furrowing his brows. “Except for two broken ribs, a dislocated shoulder, a concussion—”
“I read the chart, too, thanks,” Bruce snipes.
“You're always talking about ‘calculated risks’,” Clark says, pacing to the door and back to the gurney, making air quotes and mimicking the gruff timbre of Bruce’s voice, “when you clearly haven't calculated how much losing you would—”
Hurt—dammit, it would be hellish, it would be agony, doesn’t he understand? Only Clark can't force it out; his throat is too tight and too hot, his eyes are prickling, his face warming.
In the silence, instead of responding, Bruce openly scrutinizes the expression. Whatever he sees, his slightly pained grimace and the single brow raised in annoyance quickly disappear. They’re smoothed over with practiced ease into something controlled, something neutral.
There’s the hum of the Watchtower and the sound of Clark’s heart pounding in righteous anger, in fear, in grief. He breathes, paces more to dispel the energy, runs his hands through his already wild hair, until the hot vice around his throat finally releases.
“I’m sorry I yelled,” Clark finally mutters, gaze dropping to the floor. “I am, honest, I just—the thought of something happening to you…I don’t know if I could take it.”
Bruce regards him blankly, silently. His jaw tenses, like he wants to say something, but can't bring himself to. Clark feels his frustration waning as he watches Bruce…struggle. The League, they’ve all shared a joke or two about his emotional constipation—sometimes Batman’s the least human of us all, har har, what a gas—but Clark…doesn’t find it very funny now.
No. Now he wants to know how to help, if Bruce will let him.
He takes a deliberately measured step towards the gurney, mindful not to corner him or loom, careful to allow Bruce enough time to smoothly extricate himself if he pleases. He doesn't. And while Bruce’s bruised face remains perfectly controlled, his pesky nervous system betrays him as Clark reaches for his good hand.
Their hands meet, and Bruce doesn’t pull away.
“I don’t know what I’d do,” Clark says softly, gently twining their fingers.
Bruce glances down at their joined hands, swallows. “You’d be fine,” he says evenly.
“A mess,” Clark insists. He finds Bruce’s eyes, and with his cheeks warming, he mutters, “Because I really care about you.”
At that, Bruce’s eyes grow flinty. He trains the full force of his penetrating gaze on Clark’s face, picking him apart, down to the bones. Searching for—what? A lie? Keep looking—and Clark lets himself be rummaged through. Bruce’s brows begin to draw together. He parts his lips, his voice barely above a murmur.
“I don’t know how to do this.”
Oh.
“I’ll show you,” Clark promises, ensouling his words with all the sincerity he can muster, his dimples deepening as he grins. He cups Bruce’s purple mottled jaw, gingerly tilting his face up to allow the barest brush of their lips.
Bruce stiffens, and Clark almost pulls away—gosh darn it, too much, too fast, again—
And then he melts, meeting Clark with firm, deliberate pressure. For a glorious moment, when their lips slot together, it’s a perfect fit. Honeyed heat unfurls in Clark’s chest. Bruce is warm (and alive, thank goodness), his lips are chapped and eager, his good hand wandering along the planes of Clark’s back, up through his hair.
Dimly, he considers Bruce’s injuries, the unsecured door, the mandatory bed rest that definitely does not include the tentative touch of tongues that drives a dagger of heat into Clark’s gut—
When Bruce goes rigid again, freezing against him, Clark is prepared. Every inch of his skin is singing when he pulls his mouth away.
“It’s okay,” he says quickly, the simmer of desire ebbing at Bruce’s familiar pinched expression.
“It’s not okay,” Bruce grits out. “I cannot. Control myself. Around you. It’s…”
While he searches for what to say, mute with frustration, unbidden images flash through Clark’s mind. It’s like soaring over the endless open ocean. Or freefall through the clouds. Lying under a starry summer night in Kansas. Basking in a beam of sunlight. Letting go; it’s like freedom, and they could—
“A liability.”
Ah. Face falling, the deep, strange ache returns to Clark’s chest as Bruce untwines their (warm) fingers. When he slides off the gurney, he winces, pushing Clark to the side. Now, it's Bruce’s turn to pace, and his injured body gingerly obeys as he crosses the room, corner to corner. Clark bites back the urge to tell him to sit down.
“This is… inadvisable. It’s against our code of conduct,” he continues quietly to himself. “Completely inappropriate.”
Hot waves of embarrassment crash over Clark, again and again, and he silently rides his way through it until it fades. Facing away now, Bruce leans against the counter with his good arm, head hanging low. The staccato of his heart is deafening. Clark’s lips are still tingling.
“I can’t argue with you there,” Clark concedes with a nervous smile. “And it’s not like that—I mean, I’m not like that. We can go back to normal if that’s what you really want.” A little fib. Bruce might be able to do it with no problem, but his heart is made of softer stuff, always has been. Yep, this one might hurt for a while. “But, honestly, B? I think you’re just…”
“You think I’m what?” From over his shoulder, Bruce levels him with a lethal glare, eyes narrowed and dark with anger. It’s the kind of look that could easily burn a lesser man to a crisp. And while it does inspire a moment of hesitation, ultimately, he takes a deep breath and pushes onward.
“I think you’re scared.”
The hurt that flashes across his features is unexpected and quick as lightning. He turns away, offers no confirmation, no denial, only the tense line of his back. More churns inside Clark, all of it rising up from his nervous belly to his throat, past his lips before he can stop it.
“But you don’t have to be.” His cheeks tingle with warmth, and he’s sure Bruce can hear the dopey smile in his voice. “First, you’re my best friend, so I’d take care of you every day. And—we’d go as slow as you need, I promise.”
“Don’t,” Bruce urges, stressing every letter.
“You carry such a heavy weight on your shoulders, I wish you’d let me—”
“Get out.”
Clark’s mouth snaps shut, his teeth clicking together. He’s familiar with that tone—it’s the very, very last warning he’s granted before Bruce lances an insult so hurtful through him he’ll think of it for weeks. And he’s pushed past this point before, wrapped them up in spiraling, blowout arguments, but…
“I’ll let you get some rest,” he says instead. The back of Bruce’s head dips in a curt nod.
When the door slides open, Clark wrestles with the urge to check one last time, to see if Bruce is finally looking. He lingers, and his hand finds the doorframe. There’s a phantom prickle along the back of his neck, he swears, but he resists. The victory is hollow, and the door shuts behind him.
─────
It doesn't interest me who you know or how you came to be here. I want to know if you will stand in the centre of the fire with me and not shrink back.
Radio silence.
That’s fine, he tells himself, over and over. It only stings every single time he thinks about it. Clark does himself a favor and stops counting how many times he’s opened his messages, typed something, and deleted it. Because what would be the point? It’s a showdown with the grandmaster of avoidance; he’s bound to lose. And he doesn't want to push, it’s just—
It’s been several miserable weeks now.
Lois and Jimmy both have noticed him moping about the office, and they’re great to him, truly, but the lunch invitations and coffee runs haven’t done much to improve his mood. Now he has two more things to feel guilty about.
He misses Bruce’s dry, not-quite-jokes. The companionable silence between them. Watching him work. Alfred bringing tea and snacks down to the cave as they poured over a case together, well into the wee hours of the morning. The smell of his expensive cologne. The way his eyes would light, just a little, upon his arrival at the manor, like he was welcome.
And, even worse, now that he’s had it, he aches for Bruce’s touch, too. The moments where he looks at Clark so intently, like he's the only other person in the universe. Deeply, selfishly, in a way he’s never felt before, he wants more.
He’s staring at his screen, watching the cursor blink, when Lois sits herself on his desk and pushes his untouched keyboard away. “Hey—”
She leans in, levels him with a stone-cold stare, and presses a manicured finger against the wood. Says, “Fix it.” Another finger, “Or suck it up.”
Indignation flares up inside him, but she places the same hand up, palm facing him. “Bup, bup, bup.”
He deflates.
“You’ve been sulking around forever, and we’re kinda sick of it.” Despite the lingering gloom, a genuine smile pulls at his lips. He can always count on her to be honest.
“Sorry, Lo,” he mutters under the rush of the bullpen. She accepts his apology with a roll of her eyes.
“Don’t be sorry, be proactive.”
“I—I don’t know what to do.” It sounds lame and helpless, even to his own ears.
“Literally anything,” she counters, bone-dry.
“I’m…” He sighs and runs a hand through his hair, lowers his voice below the ringing phones and chattering voices. “I’m scared, okay? I might’ve messed everything up.”
Her lips purse, but her eyes soften a tad. “You’re the bravest guy I know. Go and talk to him about it. If he tells you to fuck off,” she shrugs, “then fine. At least you tried.”
“You make it sound so easy.”
“It is.” She hops off his desk and smooths her skirt down. “Now get that to editing before Perry has your hide.”
He salutes, and when he returns to his article, he’s relieved to find himself…galvanized, like he can actually get through the rest of the day. He brainstorms while he works—literally anything, she said. He has a hundred ideas, and then a thousand, and he shuffles through them all until he clocks out, throughout the drive home, until he’s turning the key in his lock and kicking his shoes off.
Simple, he decides. Simple and honest.
So, he waits for the sun to sink below the horizon, for the traffic to clear, and the golden squares of apartment lights to start darkening. When the world is mostly quiet, and the moon hangs bright over the city, Clark leaves his apartment from the fire escape, crossing the bay. The bite of cold air is refreshing against his burning face. His wandering mind reminds him of lying awake in Bruce’s bed, staring at his back. Their kiss, how good it felt. The sound of Bruce’s racing heart.
He makes one brief stop at an all-night bodega for two coffees. One black, and the other light and sweet, just like he likes it.
Bruce’s heartbeat is a beacon, so clear that Clark easily picks it out through Gotham’s ambient noise. Near the docks, the sign for Serling’s Warehouse bathes its rooftop in neon red light. He spots Batman down there, hunched and still, like a gargoyle.
Clark whistles at him, one sharp note to get his attention. When he glances up at Clark, he quietly sucks his teeth. Yeah, try avoiding this.
“Batman.” Clark lands with what he hopes is a comfortable distance between them. “How’s hunting?”
A grunt. A great start. Gives Clark hope for the rest of the conversation. He holds out one of the paper cups—an olive branch. Silently, Bruce draws to his full height, and Clark refuses to cower under his stare.
“It's getting cold,” he urges. Nothing. His arm remains outstretched. A prickle of awkwardness creeps along his skin. But Bruce isn't the only stubborn one; he could do this all night.
Maybe it’s the cold or the pleading look in Clark’s eyes, but Bruce finally, mercifully breaks. When he takes his coffee, he avoids the casual brush of their fingers, and Clark endures a pang in his chest. It’s still a victory, darn it.
When Bruce begins to retreat, for a helpless moment, Clark’s sure he’s going to grapple to the next building and leave. Instead, he stops. Sits himself cross-legged under the buzzing neon sign, cradling his drink.
He’s left a space next to him.
With his heart drumming against his ribs, he tentatively joins Bruce, legs dangling off the edge. Bruce sips from his cup and remains stubbornly, frustratingly quiet.
“It’s good to see you, too,” Clark says wryly. Bruce is just out of reach, too far for a playful elbow, but he releases a huff of air through his nose. It's the closest thing to a laugh Clark can get. He stifles his smile and reminds himself to keep it cool, lest he spook Bruce back into his shell.
“What did you need?” Bruce asks. Despite the directness, he sounds about as kind as he's able.
“Well…” Clark rubs the back of his neck. “I was hoping we could talk.”
“Bad time. I'm on patrol.”
“Yeah, you were really beating them off with a stick back there.”
Bruce sucks his teeth again, and Clark has to hide another smile behind a sip of coffee. They lapse back into silence, and this, right here. It's exactly what he was missing. A knot of tension—one he didn't realize he’d been holding all this time—it melts away.
The last thing he wants is to ruin it. Sitting together, it’s leagues easier than an actual conversation. But if they don’t talk about it, Clark is sure they’ll keep circling one another for an eternity, poking each other’s wounds the whole while. Plus, he’s had weeks to stew, and if it exists, he’s sure he's found the perfect combination of words to get through to Bruce.
So, he downs the last sugar crystals at the bottom of his drink, and says, quietly, “I get what you mean. About controlling yourself.”
With a press of two fingers, Bruce mutes his comm.
“When my strength first came, right?” Clark glances over. Even through the cowl, he can feel Bruce’s eyes meeting his. “We were fixing a hole in the roof, and my dad, he let me have the hammer…and I busted a hole all the way through to the attic.”
It cost so much to fix, and the guilt still eats at him sometimes, all these years later. He can still see it—his Pa’s hat in hand, scratching his bald spot, a bewildered look on his face while Clark burned with shame.
“Then, I ripped out all the doorknobs in the house. Bent all the spoons and forks, too. Broke off my key in the lock about a million times.” It’s relieving to say it all aloud. The memories are rushing out of him, fond and painful all at once.
“Oh—I tore the handle off Ma’s good recliner. It got so bad, I couldn’t even write without snapping the pencil. Once, oh man, I crushed the remote—I mean, to smithereens. On Superbowl Sunday.”
Ugh, that was a bad one. The kindness from his parents did nothing except make it worse.
“I felt like…Lennie, y’know? Like I was cursed. Or going insane.” He sets his empty cup down and curls his hand into a fist, watches the muscles and tendons bunch under his skin. “It was…so scary. And humiliating. Isolating.”
He tilts his head back, shuts his eyes, and releases a breath. It fogs above him before dissipating into nothing.
“Good grief,” he mutters. “So, all of that—what I mean is, I get it. I do.”
The answering silence is expected. Clark can hear the cogs turning as Bruce absorbs his story, analyzing every detail, filing it properly in that head of his. And Clark is left sitting there, his heart exposed, waiting.
“How did you overcome it?” Bruce finally asks, mercifully skipping the pity and the platitudes.
“Eggs.” He can’t see it, but he knows Bruce’s brows have bunched up under the cowl. “No, seriously. We had a bunch of chickens, and my Ma would sit me down and give me an egg. Once a day.” Clark holds up a finger. “I held it as long as I could, without breaking it.”
“How many?”
“Two hundred eighty-three.” He remembers each rush of disappointment, every single time his palms would drip with yolk. But Ma would just clean him up and promise they'd try again tomorrow.
Gotham thrums underneath them as Bruce sits on that. The city echoes with distant club music, a souped-up car revving its engine, a group of drunk friends laughing together. When he looks side-long at Bruce, Clark can see the telltale stress in his jaw. Bruce gives a halting breath, then two.
“Wanting you hurts,” he says, barely above a whisper. The admission sends a shiver rippling along Clark’s spine. He rolls it around in his mind, enjoys the taste and feel of it—Bruce wants him. “There are also a host of reasons we shouldn't entertain…this.” He gestures vaguely between them before looking away, toward the skyline. But, Clark thinks, biting down on his smile. But.
“When you're near me,” Bruce murmurs, voice soft with disbelief, “none of it matters anymore. I lose myself, and it’s—” He makes a rumbling, frustrated sound. “I've already hurt you. I’ll do it again. I'll break you.”
Clark ignores the sudden, hot twist, low in his gut. For a moment, there’s nothing more delightful than the thought. Before he can stop himself, he's grinning, leaning into the space between them. He can hear the undeniable sound of Bruce’s pulse picking up, the rush of blood under his skin.
“You can’t break me,” Clark teases. “I’m indestructible.”
And then Bruce’s gauntlets are fisted in his Henley, dragging him closer. Bruce pulls until the fabric pops and stretches, and the space between them disappears.
Alone together under neon lights, Bruce doesn't kiss him—he mauls Clark’s mouth like he’s hungry for it, like he's been waiting for weeks, too. Teeth are biting into Clark’s bottom lip, and there’s the slick slide of their tongues, and gloved fingers in Clark’s curls, tugging them hard—gosh, that's good. Clark moans helplessly between them.
Gracefully, Bruce plants himself onto Clark’s lap, and then he's pushing, and Clark is on his back, cold concrete digging into his shoulder blades. Reverently, Clark grips the well-muscled thighs bracketing his own, craning his neck so their lips fit together like that first perfect kiss weeks ago.
A giddy rush of shame—he’s thankful Bruce can’t feel how hard he is through the layers of his jeans, and the armor. He was supposed to be keeping it cool, not bucking his hips underneath Bruce’s while he gets his tongue sucked on.
And then, like he heard Clark loud and clear, Bruce removes his perfect, filthy mouth. Clark chases his kiss-swollen lips until they're out of reach. Bruce wets them, and Clark watches him openly, hungrily. Their exhales cloud the air together, and Clark wishes so badly that the cowl were gone. He wants to see Bruce’s eyes, glittering black with desire.
His body tenses under Clark’s hands, like he wants to spring away. Like he’s scared again, or like kissing Clark is some grievous oversight that needs to be corrected.
“Don’t,” Clark pleads through tingling lips. “We can stop, it’s okay, just don’t…” Don't shut him out. Not again, he doesn’t think his heart can take it.
Just as smoothly, Bruce rolls himself off Clark’s lap. And Clark catches his breath on his back, head spinning, staring into the cloudy night sky. There’s no whirr of the grappling hook, no silent retreating footsteps. Just the buzzing sign and their pounding hearts. Another victory.
“Good talk,” Clark murmurs, allowing himself a glance. Bruce’s legs are folded again, his spine ramrod straight, and his eyes trained toward the glittering city lights. His lips are pink and pressed into a tight line. Clark turns onto his side, propping his head up, hand-to-cheek. He watches the muscles in Bruce’s jaw tense and release once, twice, three times, before he inhales to speak.
“You have no idea what you’re getting yourself into,” he says, rumbling and dangerous. It gives Clark goosebumps. “I can be…”
“A jerk,” Clark supplies playfully. The line of Bruce’s lips only grows thinner.
“Yes. And…difficult,” he finally says, defeated. Then, quieter, “Damaged.”
The words sink in, wrap around Clark’s heart, and squeeze. He props himself upright and says, “Don’t say that. You’re so selfless, and the smartest guy I know, and—”
“I’m a coward,” he snaps quickly. “I’ve given you mixed signals. I keep losing my nerve.” He sounds angry and a little desperate. “I’ve ignored you for weeks. Don’t you think you deserve better?”
“I don’t want some imaginary perfect person who says and does all the right things all the time,” Clark says, exasperated. “I want you.”
Clark is met with a weary exhale, a shake of the head. “Why are you so undeterred?”
“Because that’s—that’s how love works.”
Bruce whips around to him, struck silent. The first trickles of sunlight are brightening the horizon, lightening the gray rolling clouds. A car alarm sounds, a dog barks, and the word, the l-word, hangs over them, heavy and exhilarating. Clark offers him a shy smile, and gets the barest twist of lips in return.
“Come to home base,” Bruce finally says, standing and parting his cape. The invitation perks Clark right up, and he watches eagerly as Bruce unholsters his grappling gun. A warm and pleasant feeling unfurls in his chest, and he’s smiling so wide it hurts.
“I accept your apology,” Clark says, beaming.
Bruce offers him one of his pleased puffs of air before he’s a blur of whipping black fabric against the sky.