Chapter Text
It was even worse than Alfred had described over the phone. Though thinking back to it, Clark ought to have taken that as a warning. The butler had brushed off earlier attempts to swing by, met every offer of one of Ma’s casseroles and cakes with polite but chipped dismissals and any and all questions about how they were coping were simply turned aside. Clark could see why now.
Every drape was shut, closed tight like a clenched fist. Wayne Manor was always dark, it was true, but Clark never recalled it cast in such a pall. Clark could almost smell it in the air, that thick silence that accompanied funerals back home and those hallways of emergency wings after missions that came with hollow victories. He expected it, along with the darkness, and the trail of the discarded suit outside the shut door, torn away and cast aside. He half expected the door to hold when he gave the handle some pressure but it opened with a soft click. The room was in near darkness, that was to be expected.
But Clark did not expect to find him as he did, curled up there on top of the sheets, in pyjamas, unshaven, folded inward as if to protect his centre from an incoming blow, head resting on a pillow and staring at the wall. Not as he would at the Watchtower, when considering every outcome of every possible move, playing mental chess against threats that nobody else would contemplate nor even the sort of stare he would bestow upon his city, that look of determined he settled over the grief and the anger like a cowl or the fatigue he shouldered like that armour he buckled himself inside. No, this look sent a chill through Clark, because in that blue, that blue of his eyes, there was almost nothing. That was more terrifying than anything.
Clark sank onto the mattress, resting his hip a hair's breadth from Bruce's folded knees. Careful not to touch him but unable to halt himself in reaching out, Clark settled a hand on the sheets, leaning forward a little, tuning into that slow, steady thrum-dum-thrum-dum of Bruce's heart. Still going, still strong though missing a beat. Grief could do that to humans, even this one. "Hey."
Bruce didn't answer. But he shifted a little, knees resting against Clark's hip. Whether that was accidental or intentional, it was enough for Clark to try to break the silence again.
"Bruce," Clark kept his voice even, not wanting to send him shirking away from him, like he had the rest of the world. "I'm sorry, I am so sorry."
Bruce said nothing. He didn't even lift his eyes to shoot Clark one of his signature glowers that sent rogues running scared or the critical glances that often fooled Clark into thinking that Bruce was the one that possessed x-ray vision.
Clark wondered then whether Bruce could even hear him. Alfred had confessed that Bruce had been near catatonic since the funeral, never replying when spoken to, refusing to see anybody, even Dick. Even Dick. Clark had been there when Dick heard the news, coming from a successful mission, smiling as brightly as he did as the eight year old Clark had first met all those years ago. Clark still recalled that look on his face, wonderfully surprised before that sound, that guttural animalistic sound burst from his chest and took the strength out of his legs. It had reminded Clark too much of Bruce's sob, the one that had woken him that night, that had sent him across the world to find...
"He's gone."
Clark tried to quell that flicker of relief in him. Victory as it was to hear Bruce speak, his first words since the funeral, it was hardly something to cheer; his best friend, his... Bruce admitting, finally, that his son, that his Jason was dead, that he was truly gone.
Clark moved his hand, letting it rest on Bruce's knee reflexively. Immediately he went to remove it but Bruce set his hand over his, tucking his fingers into his palm, nails resting on the calluses there,
"It was my fault. We fought, I knew he was struggling. This wasn’t the same for him as it was Dick, he always… But I... Kept putting him on the back burner. All he wanted was a mother. I should have helped him. He left to find her... That woman," Bruce swallowed as if choking back something unpleasant. "And I didn’t even think twice about it because I was chasing the Joker."
"You had a lead on a threat-"
"And I let Jason leave this house and didn't even think about him until we ran into each other there. Even then I just… I let him go. I didn't even try to stop him, I just... Jason was always so independent, always fighting back. I messed up with Dick, I know that I was too overbearing and that’s why he left, that’s why he felt he had to." Bruce was rushing his words then, as if trying to make sense of them himself. "I let Jason go. Then, then he was in that warehouse and I tried, I tried to save him and then..."
Clark squeezed his hand, tight enough for Bruce's gasping to hitch a little. In the space between he hushed him, trying to smooth the ragged words spilling from his lips, to cool the tears rolling down his cheeks. When Bruce was finally in control, Clark found himself sat closer, Bruce's knees at his back and his hands clasped on his lap.
"He was so small, Clark. He was so worried that he would never get taller, you know? He agonised over it. He was so little when he came to us, smaller than Dick had been. Twelve years old and he was what 50lbs soaking wet? There were times, there were times when I wanted to strangle Catherine and Willis with my bare hands. How could they let that happen? How could they," Bruce's voice hit that edge. "How could I let anything happen to him?
Clark said nothing, just ran his fingers through Bruce's hair just over his ear. It always calmed him but now, it felt like some sort of magic, as if every stroke was allowing Bruce to unravel those knots within him.
“I know he was stubborn and rough around the edges, I know that his mouth got him into trouble and he was too quick to pick a fight but you didn't know him, nobody knew him. Really knew him. That’s all I could think when the priest was going on and on about how good Jason was, how clever and young he was. How much of a tragedy it was. But he didn't know him, he didn’t understand. He was sweet. He hated people thinking he was soft. But he was. He was so sweet, he loved too much, too deeply and he was kind."
He was right, Clark hadn't known Jason as well as he knew Dick. Jason hadn't shown him the barest interest of trust, understandable considering their first encounter. But Clark had admired the boy, perhaps because he had reminded him so much of Bruce, reserved but underneath that, simmering with feelings too big for his body or too complex to articulate. Clark often wondered what the kid was thinking. He was as much of an enigma as Bruce was. But Clark had guessed that the kid often felt as if he played second fiddle to Dick, that was an important cape to fill after all. The kid just needed to be assured, to be reminded that he was important in his own right, to be seen for himself, not as Robin or the son of the Bat but Jason Todd. Clark was always getting around to it. Now... now, all he could do was to comfort his grieving father.
"Bruce, you need help."
Bruce was shaking his head before Clark even finished, his eyes shining. "No, I just need... I want..."
"Tell me," Clark slipped himself over the side of the bed to kneel before Bruce, to look him in the eyes, clasping his hands like a supplicant, awaiting his desire so he may see to it. "What do you need? I will give you anything, the world if you want, the Joker's head on a platter, the moon, name it, Bruce. Name it, I will deliver it, because I cannot watch you do this to yourself any more. How can I help you?"
"I just want my baby."
Clark went still, Bruce's eyes were on his, still wet with tears but his hand went to his stomach as if staunching some hidden wound there. Clark knew even with x-ray vision that if he searched for the source of that pain, he wouldn't find it. But it was real enough, it was threatening to bleed Bruce out. "Bruce..."
Bruce's face crumpled.
Clark rose and took Bruce in his arms, letting him sag against his chest. His own eyes began to prickle, itching to spill his own pain and grief but he held back. Bruce was all that mattered, Bruce was every sun of every colour and he was breaking and it was all Clark could do to hold him together.
When the kiss came, Clark was not surprised. He gave in for a beat of Bruce's heart, allowing himself to delight in the new experience of the other man's stubble against his skin, before tilting his mouth away slightly to break the kiss, the lingering salt of Bruce's tears on his lips. "This won't help you."
Bruce rested his forehead against Clark's, eyes closed. "Maybe not," the words were whispered, hot against Clark's cheek. "But it's what I want."
Clark hesitated for what felt like a lifespan, then he lowered his lips to Bruce's, taking them in that slow, lingering and gentle way that he used to soften the Bat, If Bruce would change his mind, he needed to know, to know that whatever he chose, Clark would follow his lead.
Bruce turned the kiss into something more desperate, reminiscent of the kisses they had shared in the Watchtower on nights they drew shifts together or late nights at the Planet, those stolen moments together on Clark’s desk. That was always fast, desperate, quick, a race to feed that beast they both had in them before it consumed them. It was never that they were afraid of being caught then, only that if they wavered that they may lose their nerve. That had happened before and they had survived it. Heck, Clark thought. They survived it because they knew, no matter what, where or who they would come right back to this. To each other.
Bruce was in his lap then, thighs bracketed on either side of Clark's, his hands buried in his hair. Clark stifled the groan building in his throat at the roll of Bruce's hips against him, closing his eyes against the urge to flip them both over here and now, to have Bruce under him, to touch him until he was begging for it.
But this was not their clandestine meetings where they were quenching a thirst, a burn they needed to soothe. Bruce was hurting, he was grieving and Clark was not about to allow this to become that. If this is what Bruce needed, Clark was going to ensure this was going to be all he deserved.
"Bruce," Clark's tone was more commanding than he would have liked but it had the desired effect, Bruce's hips stilled at once. His attention was on him, something almost heartbreaking about his expression as if afraid of being told off. Clark's hands went to his hips, resting there a moment before sliding them up the curve of his waist to his chest, fingers resting on the buttons of his shirt.
Bruce tensed, awaiting the scatter of buttons perhaps or tear of linen. A shudder tickled up his back when Clark's fingers freed the buttons, one by one by one by one, filling the seconds with the graze of his lips down his sternum, chasing the exposure of flesh. Bruce watched the descent, his hands on Clark's shoulders. His own shoulders flexed as Clark worked the shirt from them, letting it fall to the ground. Clark would do it now, push him back, mount him and it would all make sense for those long minutes, he would feel like himself again and not this... God, he hadn't even brushed his teeth, how could Clark bear to...
"You are the most beautiful thing I ever set eyes on," Clark was murmuring, head bowed against Bruce's belly, hands still on his hips. "Nothing in the known universe compares to you."
Bruce, speechless at the reverence of Clark's voice, could only bask in the worship of the hands on his body. Not the pulling and dragging of those he was used to taking in this very bed, demanding, rough and often hurried. This was slow, firm and careful. He was dizzy by the time he had enough, trembling when he rested his lips against the shell of Clark's ear, "Are you ever going to fuck me?"
"No, but I will make love to you, if that is what you still want." Babies were made from love, Clark thought. That's what his mother always told him. It seemed as good logic as any.
Make love, Bruce almost laughed. This bed was made for fucking, for mindlessness with reckless choices. At least, that’s what he imagined it would make of itself, some altar of self deprecation and shame. He never let Clark have him here, always citing the threat of Alfred or the boys overhearing but it wasn’t that.
Clark indulged Bruce with more caresses, pulling him back into that daze, that calm that was neither grief or nothing or anything that could tear him apart. As gently as he could, he canted his hips upward, sending a jolt through Bruce as he straightened himself. One arm rested under Bruce's lower back, softening his descent to the pillows.
Bruce lay back, watching Clark shrug from his own shirt, his hands clasped together on his chest. Clark caught the nervous twist of his fingers and paused, looking to him for confirmation.
Bruce sat up, hands on Clark's waist and nodded briefly before lifting his lips to Clark, working a low sound from his throat. His endeavours were successful, Clark's fingers where busy with the tie of his pyjama bottoms, tugging the knot free. Bruce lifted his hips as Clark's hands drew the bottoms down, fingers hooked in his underwear. He let himself flop back against the pillows again while Clark freed his legs from the tangle of cotton and silk.
Clark beheld the sight of Bruce beneath him, naked, somehow so vulnerable though he knew how formidable his Bat could be. Bare Bruce, without a thread to hide behind was honestly the most beautiful sight he ever laid eyes on, reddened eyes and all. He lowered his head, hand supporting Bruce's leg as he pressed a kiss to the inside of his thigh, his other hand reaching for Bruce's cock, stiff as a bar under Clark's attentions. By the time Clark broke the spell of his kiss to that most secret part of Bruce, Bruce was gasping, his hips lifting off of the sheets.
"Bruce, my love, I'm going to need-"
Bruce just shook his head. That was to be expected. Clark raised his fingers to his own mouth, sucked on them, lathering as much moisture as he could.
Bruce started to rise, to turn to give Clark the better angle.
Clark settled him with a hand on his hip, shaking his head. If they would do this here, he would look in Bruce's eyes, let him see his own face.
Bruce did as he was bid, back against the pillows, his legs apart as Clark began to work him open. Usually he did it for them, he could guage how much he stretch he needed. It was strange to have this much attention paid to this, what he always viewed as a chore, the time spent to acclimatise him to every finger, to make it all easier for him. It drove him crazy, he needed it to end, for what came next as soon as possible. But if it ended, Bruce would wish for his dissolution and the world along with him.
"Clark," Bruce whined, almost sobbing with need, hips rolling again to hurry Clark up. "Please, I need, I need you."
Clark was not a sadist but any other time, he might have left this go on longer, for to hear Bruce Wayne, that unobtainable beauty the world thirsted for, the fucking Batman, desperate from him, begging him to fuck him into the mattress was music to his ears. But not tonight, no, this was something else. Clark just nodded, withdrew his fingers and sat himself up to work himself from his jeans. They could have been woven with Kryptonite the way they resisted his attempts to free himself, stimming him at every turn. In the end, he tore them, breaking the seam and tossing the fabric aside somewhere. Naked, so hard it hurt, he took a second to study Bruce the way he was, splayed out against the pillows, breathing heavily from nothing but Clark's fingers, flushed and beautiful, so fucking beautiful...
Clark moved forward, hand on his cock, giving it a cursory tug - though by Rao, he didn’t need it - before guiding himself to Bruce's entrance. The first inch was heavenly, the heat of Bruce’s walls shooting to his brain, setting every nerve alight with the urge to thrust forward, to claim, to mark, to breed but he made it last. It was nothing to be rushed. He moved tentatively, one hand by Bruce's head, eyes on his face, watching the ecstasy, the strain and the subtle movement of his features as Clark fed him every inch.
Bruce could take it. Had taken it, often prepared only by his own hands, sometimes not even then. But every time Bruce took Clark in, he felt like a virgin - though his own virginity had not been like this, that had been lost at some club, bent over a railing in the middle of some dancefloor, to some older man who barely let him adjust to him before he started up and gave Bruce want he had been asking for. Bruce had wanted that time, as painful as it was and as ashamed as he was after. But not as much as he wanted Clark every time, especially now and like this.
Clark was barely half his length in when he asked himself what the heck he was doing. He had come to comfort Bruce, to help him out of his depression and save him from his grief but look, Clark had him on his back, legs in the air and mewling for more. This was not right, he-
Bruce's hands found their way to Clark's ass, cupping that firm flesh as if he was going to control the pace for himself. But his eyes did all the begging, "Fuck me, Clark. Just fuck me, make me feel something again."
Clark faltered, straining against the urge to do just that but he knew no man nor beast or even Rao himself could have pried him off of Bruce or held him back forever. Clark bottomed out, his hips meeting Bruce's with a snap he was sure could be heard clear across Gotham.
Bruce cried out, in pain or in pleasure, even he could not say. It was both, all at once but he was seeing stars so what did it matter. He grounded himself, tugging at Clark's shoulders. Fuck, he was big, hot too, it was like a rod of iron right up his-
"I hurt you?" Clark's words were slurred as if he were drunk. Yellow sun or not, being inside Bruce, in this bed no less, reminded him of the headiness of being tipsy.
Bruce was shaking his head but Clark couldn't see, his face buried into the pillow over Bruce’s shoulder and began to pull out of him. "No," Bruce's voice was a tear in his throat, raw and primal. "I want it. I want you. Clark, I'll die without you. Please."
Clark halted but only for a beat before he began to move, dragging himself forward, not quite rough but hard enough to make the bed creak. He chased that sound and the delightful little moans coming from Bruce, working to cut one off just as it began. He hiked Bruce's hips up onto his lap, sharpening the angle, searching for that...
"Clark!"
There it was.
Clark hit it again, again, again until Bruce couldn't speak, his mouth was moving but nothing but the sounds of gratification, the lewdness of it all spilling out of him like the precome making that sticky heat between them.
Bruce was clutching at Clark's arms one minute meeting every thrust hard as Clark was dealing it. Then in the next breath, he was on his knees the next thing he knew, arse in the air and Clark behind him, pulling him back for every snap of his hips until Bruce was always cross-eyed.
Clark's hand spanned over the back of Bruce's neck, sliding up to his hair. He laced his fingers in the damp blackness, pulling himself forward to murmur in his ear, hand rough though his voice was laced with affection, "I'm going to put a baby in you, Bruce."
Bruce seized up at that, head tossed back, hand reaching back to lace through Clark's where it rested on his flank. He just nodded, closing his eyes as Clark took up pace again, hard, fast with only that one goal in mind. When he was on his back again, Clark on top of him, pounding into him relentlessly, he came with a cry, head falling back.
Clark kept thrusting, spurned on by the sight of Bruce undone before him, satisfied and strung out on his cock. He put his hand to Bruce's belly, feeling himself through layers of toned muscle, "I'm going to put a baby in you, my love. Our baby. Our little baby. And we will keep him safe, the two of us. Nobody will ever hurt him or you ever again. Do you understand? My love?"
Bruce was crying again. Not from pain or pleasure. Maybe it was the idea of it. A baby of theirs, safe in his belly, then their arms, put there by love. Love that he deserved, love he gave Clark. The idea of one day finding happiness after Jason. Telling their baby about their brother, sweet brave Jason, Jason who still saw magic in a very dark world.
“Believe me. Tell me you believe me.”
“I believe you.” Bruce’s voice was quiet, only for Clark and for himself.
Clark was close now. He set his brow against Bruce's, closing his eyes, letting himself picture it. Of Bruce smiling, not quite healed but living for something beyond Gotham or revenge, cradling a baby in his arms. The thought of it, and of the before, of Bruce... Bruce pregnant with their baby, heavy, content and-
Clark spilled into him, collapsing against Bruce, unable to keep himself up any longer. In the throes of any time with Bruce, he felt he could go forever and yet when Bruce eventually wore him out, he always wanted to go again. Clark began to get up, needing to take in the damage he had done, he had been rough, though Bruce wanted it that way. There would be bruising to attend to, and maybe bleeding but Bruce stopped him, hand on his back.
"No, stay like that. Just to make sure, eh?" Bruce muttered against his ear.
It didn't matter if Bruce was serious or making light of it, there was something in his voice that stilled Clark. He simply smiled, ducked his head and rested it against Bruce's chest, counting his heartbeats until they climbed down to their regular pace. Only then did he follow Bruce into sleep, the two of them still tangled up in each other, waiting for the break of a new dawn.