Archive of Our Own

Bruce wouldn’t ordinarily do this— at least not here— but it’s been a long month, and he is feeling… tense.

As he makes his way out of the labs, Batman checks the Watchtower’s monitor duty log and sees that Wonder Woman’s on-duty next. That’s good, because if it were Superman— He couldn’t do this for multiple reasons then. One of them being super-hearing, the other, well… not. It wouldn’t feel right to try for some release with Clark around. He won’t risk potentially exposing his friend— for that is what the man is, Bruce’s friend— to that. It would be unacceptable. Inappropriate. A violation. But after five hours of work in the Watchtower’s labs, Bruce is tired, and tense, and he had checked the monitor duty log.

So why is Clark knocking on his door?

Bruce slowly withdraws his hand from his boxers, closes his eyes, and inhales deeply.

“Bruce, can I talk to you?” comes Clark’s muffled voice through the door.

He inhales deeply once more, then calls, grateful for his voice’s steadiness, “Give me a second.” Thankfully (frustratingly) he hadn’t got that far, so any lingering… clues should be easily hidden by a baggy pair of sweatpants, of which there are many in his quarters. Any other hints as to what he’d been doing, well. Bruce will just have to hope that Clark is polite (or, more likely, not attuned to Bruce’s biochemistry enough) to overlook them. He goes into the bathroom, washes his hands, and splashes his face with cold water anyway.

Then he flicks on the overhead lights and opens the door. “Yes?”

Clark’s nostrils flare ever so slightly, and his gaze roves over Bruce, seeming to linger a second longer than perhaps necessary on his lower half. Then his eyes go past Bruce’s shoulder to the (slightly rumpled) bed. “Oh, I’m sorry. Were you asleep?

Bruce hesitates for a half-second, awkwardly clearing his throat. He wills himself not to blush. This whole scenario is like something out of a bad porno, only it’s not one. “I was in bed; but that’s unimportant. What do you need?” Technically speaking, it isn’t a lie. He was in bed. He just hadn’t been sleeping. Clark licks his lips nervously, and then— is he? Yes, he is blushing. Fuck.

“What do you need?” Bruce repeats, a little more firmly than before. If he doesn’t say anything about it, he doubts that Clark will either, and this whole… incident can be steamrolled over, like so many other unpleasant conversations in his life. Bruce’s pride might never recover, but that’s something he can deal with later.

“Er, well. There were some weird readings on the monitors, and I thought you… might want to take a look,” Clark replies. He’s still blushing.

Bruce holds back a sigh. That’s a valid reason. He reminds himself that it isn’t Clark’s fault that he’s interrupted things. “Alright, give me a few minutes to get dressed, and I’ll be right there.”

Clark steps back from the door. “Right,” he agrees absently, avoiding Bruce’s gaze. “See you in a few.” It is only after he shuts the door that Bruce realizes what Clark thinks he is going to do in those next few minutes. He grimaces. Fuck.

Bruce keeps a bottle of cologne in the drawer of his bedside table in case he needs to Brucie up in the Watchtower, and he applies it liberally before redonning the Batsuit, in order to save Clark from any further reminders of what he’d accidentally walked in on. Not quite sure if he should walk faster than normal, or slower, Batman strides through the Watchtower’s empty halls to the monitor room.

Superman is sitting in the left chair, and gets to his feet as soon as Batman strides through the sliding automatic doors. “Show me those scans you were talking about, Superman,” he orders briskly as he reaches the monitors. Clark opens his mouth to reply, and coughs. His nose wrinkles. He shuts his mouth, swallows, and tries again. He coughs again. “Kal?”

Finally, Clark regains control of himself, and side-eyes Bruce. “What are you wearing? Is that— is that cologne?”

As if this situation needs to be any worse. “Yes. I assume from your expression, and general reaction, that I might have overdone it.”

Clark winces, and he begins to turn an awful shade of pink. “You did. And Bruce, really, it wasn’t necessary to—”

“Unusual readings. That you saw. Point them out to me. On. The. Map.” Clark obliges. Bruce leans forward to inspect, and for a few minutes, there is blissful silence.

Then Clark clears his throat. “I’m really sorry. If I had known—”

“I should be the one apologizing since you can’t seem to drop the subject. I thought Diana was on monitor-duty tonight. That’s the only reason why I… let my guard down. So that you wouldn’t inadvertently become… involved.” Bruce carefully keeps his attention on the screen before him as he loops back the readings to about half an hour ago. There does seem to be something… off there. Right over Eastern Europe. Superman remains silent. Bruce’s rigid shoulders drop.

“Well, we all have needs—”

Bruce straightens up, and knows that his face is flushed. Blushing. “Jesus Christ, Kal! I’m not a teenager, and you are not my father. Please, can we just drop it already? And you were right about those readings. See, right there over Croatia.” He points at the small red blip with one black gauntleted hand.

Clark steps closer, and coughs. But he doesn’t make a fuss about it, merely frowns thoughtfully at the large screen. “Hmm. What do you suppose it might be?”

“I don’t know. But we should probably try and find out.”

An hour of investigation later, they are no closer to solving the mystery. But, seeing as nothing terrible happens within that time, Bruce and Clark conclude that this is likely to be a problem which can wait a while longer. Bruce bids an awkward goodbye to Clark, and teleports back to the Cave. As it’s nearly two in the morning, he is unsurprised to find it empty. Good.

With brutal efficiency, Bruce rids himself of the armor, leaving bits and pieces of it strewn across the locker room area, and marches to the showers. He strips out of his boxers, leaving them in a wrinkled pile next to the shower stall, and turns the water on hot. As soon as steam starts to fill the space, he steps inside, already half-hard and tense. Withing a few minutes, he’s fully erect and leaking. Bruce leans his forehead against the cool, wet tile and closes his eyes, shuddering.

Unbidden, an image of Clark— as he had been when he’d caught on to Bruce’s indiscretion— appears in his mind. Clark, flustered, nostrils slightly flared, eyes lowered toward the aching, engorged signifier of his state. Only this time, in his mind, Clark’s flush isn’t from embarrassment but interest. Bruce sucks in a breath, dexterous fingers moving rapidly. He groans once and, with a full-body tensing, cums. He leans back against the shower wall, panting. After a moment, he tries to focus only on the warm water cascading over his body to calm down.

“Shit.” This might be more of a problem than he’d thought.

Clark is stiff and awkward with him, even around other league-members. But only Diana calls him on it. “What’s wrong, Kal? You seem… tense.”

“N-nothing, Diana. I’m fine,” Clark replies, eyes narrowly skipping over Bruce, who’s leaning against the conference room’s doorway.

“Hmm. If you say so,” she replies doubtfully, eyeing Bruce. He raises one shoulder minutely. Diana looks away again. “Until next time, boys.” He steps aside as Diana passes.

“For Christ’s sake, Clark. Get ahold of yourself,” Bruce mutters, stalking away as well. It’s only later that he realizes his awful double-entendre. Damn it.

There are several problems with what he wants. Several variables which render his hypothetical imaginings impossible. Several reasons not to pursue this.

One of them is not that Clark is straight, and therefore inherently uninterested in him. For one, Bruce saw, clearly, the brief flicker of— something, certainly not distaste— which appeared on Clark’s face that night. But there’s more than that. The existence of Pete Ross, for example. There are no photos of them kissing, or doing other blatantly-couple things but their closeness seems familiar in a way which doesn’t point to straightness. Bruce experienced a similar closeness with certain male individuals during his youth. Further research turns up a few nameless men, one short-lived dating profile. Lois Lane, as far as he can tell, is just a good friend.

So Clark being straight is not a reason.

Bruce being uninterested is a laughable concept at this point. Even if he hadn’t stimulated himself to orgasm, helped along by his visualization of Clark’s face, that would not be a problem, or a reason not to pursue this. He’s clearly, obviously, painfully interested.

So there are really three reasons why he shouldn’t pursue this: there is no guarantee that they will stay compatible, Clark may only experience physical attraction (Bruce, emotionally-stunted as he is, recognizes that he feels something more), and if they do pursue this, it will fundamentally alter the league’s dynamics.

His own ability to be seen as rational, neutral— already dangerously thin because of Batman and Superman’s (in)famous friendship— will be destroyed. The league having faith in Batman’s leadership is vital, and something already difficult to maintain as he’s one of the few non-meta members (Green Arrow’s recent induction had changed that). Bruce can’t afford further damage to his reputation. Or to Clark’s. Most of the leaguers, and the general public, either dislike Batman or are apathetic. Their reaction to Superman is quite different. They adore the Kryptonian. Or they (Luthor) despise him. And if word got out that Superman had a vulnerable human lover, then the villains would stop at nothing to find and destroy them. Bruce obviously can’t let that happen— he wouldn’t want Clark or his children to get hurt, or risk Batman’s capacity to protect Gotham.

If Clark does want him and admits to it— already a big if— then there is the possibility that he won’t want a relationship. Bruce has had enough one night stands and friends-with-benefits to know what it takes to make it work. The most fundamental ingredient to a successful semi-regular sexual encounter is distance. He already knows that is impossible to achieve with Clark. Perhaps years ago, before they were friends… but now? No. It’s too late for that. If Clark only wanted him like that, it’d be worse than if he had nothing.

While Bruce may be good at compartmentalizing, he recognizes that not everyone (Clark) is. If he and Superman were to get together, and break up, their interpersonal relationship would suffer. Perhaps permanently. Batman and Superman’s ability to work together is too vital to global security to permit this to happen. And knowing himself, Bruce would only end up driving Clark away, as he’s done with everyone else. So why risk those consequences for what will be, if he’s extremely lucky, a few months’ happiness? It would be irresponsible.

A fourth reason why pursuing this is wrong is the risk to their civilian identities. Linking any of the founding members would be a mistake. If, somehow, Clark wants this too, he’ll stop at nothing to get it if he finds out that Bruce feels the same. He simply won’t allow Clark to risk his own safety pursing Bruce. Therefore, although there still aren’t by-laws stopping league-members from dating one another, it would be a terrible idea to pursue Clark.

“If you keep staring at Superman’s ass like that, he’s gonna notice eventually.”

Bruce jerks his attention away from Clark, feeling a rush of irritation. Lantern. “I wasn’t—”

“You totally were, Spooky. So when’s the big day— or do I owe you two a card already?” Hal asks snidely.

He feels his hackles rise. “Fuck off, Lantern. We aren’t even together.” Unfortunately, the second half of that statement comes out a lot more bitter than he’d intended. Bruce purses his lips, and starts walking away. The meeting is over, so it would be weird for him to stay here— especially weird for him to do so with Hal Jordan. Batman is yanked to a stop as someone grabs a handful of his cape.

He spins around and glares. Hal holds up his hands and steps away.

“You have one minute,” Bruce growls.

Hal’s gaze briefly flickers to the door, where Superman had been lingering, discussing something with Wonder Woman. “So you really aren’t hitting that—”

“Your minute is almost up, get to the point.”

“But you’d like to be. Why not?”

Bruce brings a gauntlet up and presses it over his mouth, and closes his eyes, feeling extremely exasperated. “I… that’s none of your business, Jordan.”

“You’re afraid.”

His eyes snap open, to find Hal leaning against the table, arms crossed, wearing a knowing smirk. Batman’s eyes narrow. “Yes, tell me more about how I’m afraid, Jordan, when you’ve been pining after the Flash for how many years now?”

Hal’s expression darkens, and he swiftly moves away from the table to invade Bruce’s personal space. He jabs a finger at his chest. “That’s different. Barry’s straight, and he’s married.”

They’re both quiet for an uncomfortable minute or so.

Finally, Bruce swallows. “I… I’m sorry. I didn’t mean—”

Hal sighs. “It’s fine, Spooky. I know you’ve already done your research if you’re willing to risk sneaking a peek.”

Bruce blinks, taking in the question behind the innocuous statement. He’s asking if I’ve confirmed that Clark’s gay. “That’s none of your business.”

“Right, nice chat. See you Saturday.” Hal winks, then walks away.

It’s only after Green Lantern leaves that Bruce asks himself: Wait. What’s happening on Saturday?

Saturday, as it turns out, is a dinner celebrating the recent partnership between Wayne Enterprises and Ferris Industries on their multi-million dollar satellite. Aerospace is newer territory for W.E., but not so much for F.I., which is the reason for their collaboration. Although Hal Jordan is not involved in the project, he’s been invited by Carol herself. As Bruce scans through an email chain with his event coordinator, he finds the finalized attendance list.

Hal will be there, and so will Clark Kent, investigative reporter at The Daily Planet.

Bruce does his best to avoid Hal, which doesn’t turn out to be all that difficult. The manor is absolutely packed with important people from various organizations, along with their underlings and members of the press. Bruce is kept busy as he moves between different social circles, gathering information, chatting, and greeting acquaintances whom he hasn’t seen in a while. Then dinner happens, and he’s busy then too. Hal isn’t a problem because of the seating arrangements. But that changes after the meal.

Bruce is by the refreshments table, grabbing himself another glass of champagne, when he hears an awfully familiar throat-clearing. Repressing a sigh— because Brucie Wayne doesn’t sigh— he turns around, and offers Hal a patented grin. “Mr. Jordan. Carol told me you might be attending. How are you?”

Hal smiles back. “Oh, I’m very good, Mr. Wayne,” he says smoothly, reaching past Bruce for a glass. “Although I’m more of a plane man myself, I’m glad we were able to cooperate on the project.”

Bruce nods, following Hal as he makes his way to a less-occupied corner of the room. Perhaps he has something important to tell Bruce— or rather, Batman. “Of course. And with luck, there will be more cooperation in the future.” He raises his glass to toast Hal, and that’s when Jordan shoves him. Not very much, and not in a way which would be obvious, but it’s enough.

Bruce might have been able to avoid it, but Brucie wouldn’t, and furthermore, Bruce is distracted— they’ve never come to blows even during their most heated arguments, so being pushed isn’t something he expects— and he stumbles sideways. Into a large body. In the process, he spills his half-raised glass all over the unfortunate person he’s collided with.

“I am terribly sorry! I must’ve had a few too many,” Bruce apologizes, taking in the hopelessly soaked shirt, stained jacket. “Let me make it up to y— Clark.”

“Bruce?” He blinks, eyes briefly fixating on how his hand is resting on Clark’s shoulder. Bruce is careful not to drop his empty glass. Over Clark’s shoulder, he sees Hal slinking away. He meets Bruce’s gaze, and winks. That bastard. That absolute bastard. “Bruce?” Clark asks again, sounding concerned.

“Sorry.” He sighs, removes his hand from Clark’s shoulder, and absently steps back. “But really, that must be uncomfortable. Let’s get you something to change into.”

“Yeah, alright.” Bruce turns around and begins weaving through the crowd. Clark follows discretely behind him.

As soon as they exit the ballroom, Bruce breathes a sigh of relief. The heat and murmur of voices drops off and it is refreshingly quiet. He sets his glass on the hallway table and waits for Clark to catch up. He ducks through the door a moment later, and then they stand a few feet apart, observing one another. Eventually, Bruce tears his eyes away, and starts walking down the hall. Clark follows, equally silent.

They skirt the main routes until they reach the kitchen. Then, after making sure that they won’t be seen, he takes Clark up the main stairway. His pulse is a bit fast for some reason, and Bruce chides himself for it. Clark is still silent. He makes a confused sound as they reach Bruce’s closed bedroom door. “Where else did you think I could find a spare outfit, Clark?” he mutters.

They slip into the darkened room, and Bruce immediately goes to his closet. Clark follows him in, turning on the light. “I— I need to make sure it at least looks somewhat like what I was wearing before, Bruce,” he explains. Oh right. Can’t do to have Clark Kent mysteriously reappear in different clothes after disappearing with Bruce Wayne. That would make people talk. Ha.

Bruce swallows, cognizant of every inch of space absent between them. His muscles are tense, and his heart is racing. “Of course.” He turns slightly to remind himself of what exactly Clark is wearing, and. Clark is right there. Behind him. If they weren’t the same height, he’d be looming over Bruce, given how he seems to want to press Bruce into the wall. He inhales shakily, and swallows.

“Bruce?” Clark asks slowly. His eyes are narrowed, and he looks confused. But not upset. And he can’t speak, merely stares at Clark as he leans in, murmurs, “Let me know if you don’t like this, okay?” and kisses him.

Bruce is fully pressed against the wall now, back supported by his hangered clothing. Clark’s mouth is like a suction cup, draining all his rational thought away. He makes a small, approving noise, and Clark’s hands start wandering. Bruce deepens the kiss, and it’s only when his own wandering hands hit a sticky patch of champagne that he realizes his eyes have closed. Bruce stills, and gently pushes at Clark’s chest. He steps back instantly.

“Your— we need to get you out of that,” Bruce says distractedly. Clark, who had looked upset at Bruce stopping the kiss, blushes. Both eyebrows rise. “No, that’s not what I— We need to get you into dry clothes,” he clarifies. Clark laughs, and leans in to run one affectionate thumb over Bruce’s flushed cheek.

“Alright. But can I come back later?”

Caught up in the hopeful, warm way that Clark is looking at him, Bruce murmurs, “Sure.”

He regrets it as soon as Clark is dressed in a new suit and they’ve returned to the hallway.

Letting his libido control him is a Brucie Wayne maneuver, it’s not— he shouldn’t be... To have said yes to Clark’s proposition is a mistake, and Bruce knows it. But despite the fact that it’s not too late to say no, to let Clark down gently, and privately, he doesn’t. He can’t. If he has to, Bruce can, he will, let Clark down later. But he doesn’t know if Clark wants more, and… Bruce can let himself enjoy this, even if it’s just for one night.

Clark Kent, responsible and fun-adverse reporter that he is, leaves when the gathering becomes social. He makes sure to meet Bruce’s gaze across the room as he goes.

Brucie Wayne doesn’t care if this work function turns into something else, and he gets progressively ‘drunker’ alongside the remaining guests. He kicks the last stragglers out at 11 p.m. with the excuse that “I have a board meeting tomorrow, and Alfred says I’ve gotta go. Can’t meet with investors if I’m sleep-deprived.” The manor goes quiet. Only he, Alfred, and the cleaning staff remain. When all non-residents are gone, Bruce heads down to the Cave and prepares for patrol.

Once he hits the streets, Bruce briefly contemplates staying out longer than usual, or perhaps retreating to the penthouse when he’s done for the night. He can still say no to Clark’s offer, after all, and the most efficient way— save for going back in time and rejecting it earlier— would be to simply not show up. That would make things perfectly clear, if also damaging their friendship.

But the problem with this idea is two-fold.

One is that while Clark Kent might get the message to back off, Superman won’t. He is perfectly capable of finding Batman pretty much anywhere. And Bruce really doesn’t want to have that conversation in the suit. So avoiding Clark is out. Second is the fact of his weakness. Bruce doesn’t want to give Clark the cold shoulder, at least not tonight. Surely there are better, kinder, ways to reject him than outright avoidance.

So Bruce calls it a night far earlier than he normally would, and returns to the Cave, a strange mixture of dread and buzzing anticipation swirling in his gut.

As soon as he gets out of the car, Superman is there, floating several feet in front of the hood, arms crossed loosely across his chest. His expression is neutral, but Batman can tell he’s nervous by how the Kryptonian bobs up and down a few inches. It’s Kal El’s version of a nervous fidget. “Superman,” Batman rasps.

“Batman.” Bruce’s mouth twitches, and, apparently, that proves to be too much for Clark.

Suddenly all six feet of super-powered alien are floating in front of him, parallel to the stone floor. Superman gently presses his lips to Bruce’s, and when he responds, Clark lands. One of his hands cups the back of the cowl and the other runs down Bruce’s side. He makes a frustrated noise at the armor’s interference. Bruce breaks away from the kiss, already feeling somewhat breathless, and closes his eyes. When he’s regained some control, he opens them.

“I need to shower. Think of this as an opportunity to practice being patient,” Bruce tells Clark, chuckling. He steps back, and removes the cowl. Clark seems unamused. He floats back up, and silently glides alongside Bruce as he walks toward the lockers and the shower. He wonders absently how long Superman’s pouting is going to last, and does his best to ignore it.

The next time Clark makes his presence known, Bruce has stripped down to the compression shorts and short-sleeved shirt he wears under the suit. He’s sweaty, and his skin prickles from Superman’s silent observation. Bruce swallows, feeling a little distracted as he puts one foot on the bench to take off his right boot. He abruptly notices that Clark is standing right behind him. Bruce finishes removing the boot and shifts, bringing his left leg up. He— not entirely by accident— brushes against Clark. Bruce removes the other boot and straightens up, turning around.

Clark’s gaze is hungry, and it sends a jolt of heat straight through Bruce’s center. He feels his cock stirring to life, and, evidently, Clark must cue in on his growing interest because he steps forward and kisses Bruce. Bruce rests his hands loosely on Clark’s hips and kisses back. If he could do this, just this, for the rest of the night, he’d be happy.

However, it seems this isn’t what Clark is thinking, because one of his hands moves from Bruce’s lower back, and then he’s— Oh. Bruce squeezes his eyes shut, breath stuttering, as Clark presses the heel of his hand firmly, yet gently, against the obvious bulge in Bruce’s thin, elastic shorts. He keeps kissing Bruce too. And that hand is still rubbing slowly, so slowly, but with enough pressure that he’s really starting to get distracted now.

“Mmm. Clark—” Bruce starts breathily. He bites down on the groan which wants to escape his lips as Clark switches hands, and his left thumb begins to rub a in circle over his erection. The firm, repetitive pressure, and the fabric’s friction are driving him crazy. He inhales deeply, and, regretfully, places his hand atop Clark’s, stopping him. “Trust me, this will be better for both of us if I’m not sweaty— well, already sweaty.” He steps back from those dangerous hands for good measure.

Clark sighs disappointedly, and Bruce takes a moment to look down. Ah. It seems that he isn’t the only one who’s been getting excited. “Alright. But make it quick.” Clark presses a quick kiss to his cheek, and steps back. “And Bruce?” Clark calls after he’s walked away. Bruce stops, and looks back. Superman’s got his arms crossed again, and his expression is firm. “If you do anything in there, I’ll know.”

Christ. Bruce’s mouth is quite dry suddenly, and walking the rest of the way to the shower is going to be very difficult. He swallows. “Understood.”

Bruce doesn’t bother getting dressed after he steps out of the shower. Instead he dries off, and wraps a towel around his waist, then pads barefoot out into the Cave. He blinks. Superman is nowhere to be seen, but Clark is. He looks up, and his eyes— hidden behind thick black glasses— seem to eat Bruce alive. His arousal, which had been on a backburner, roars to life. Clark stands. “Where do you want to do this, Bruce?” he asks.

“Upstairs.”

“Can I—”

“Yes.” The world blurs, and then, abruptly, he is standing in his room, beside the bed. The lamp bathes everything in a soft glow.

Bruce surges forward, absently dropping the towel, and then he is kissing Clark. Clark, who makes a delicious muffled sound, and brings a hand up to cup his cheek, resting the other against Bruce’s naked shoulder. He stops. Bruce, feeling his tension, withdraws. “I need to— let me get undressed,” Clark requests.

Bruce nods, watching the other man fumble with his buttons for a moment before he goes to hang the damp towel up. After some consideration, he flicks on the bathroom light, opens the medicine cabinet, and takes out the bottle of lube and several condoms. He grabs a washcloth too. When he walks back out, Clark is sitting awkwardly on the edge of the bed, in nothing but his boxers and glasses.

Bruce sets the supplies down on the bedside table, and murmurs, “You should probably take those glasses off.”

Clark smirks. “Why don’t you do it for me?”

He steps forward so that they’re almost touching, leans over, hesitating with his lips millimeters away from Clark’s. Bruce removes the glasses, setting them carefully on the table with everything else. Clark— just Clark— blinks up at him. Bruce bends down for a kiss. Then Clark’s arms are on his lower back, and he pulls Bruce forward. He stumbles, and falls on top of him. Clark goes with the motion, invulnerable arms wrapped protectively around Bruce so that he doesn’t get jostled too badly.

The kiss deepens, and Clark opens his mouth, giving Bruce more access. His hands begin wandering across the scarred expanse of Bruce’s back, sending sparks of sensation through his nerves. Bruce adjusts his position, so his elbows are supporting his weight instead of Clark’s chest (not that Superman should find this uncomfortable). The slight change brings their groins into further contact and Bruce honestly isn’t sure which of them it is who moans.

But it is definitely Clark who widens his legs beneath Bruce, and angles his hips up.

He squeezes his eyes shut, and slowly pushes himself up, supporting his weight with one palm. Beneath him, Clark already looks half destroyed, gaze somewhat unfocused. He feels his pulse throb in his cock as gravity pushes them together, providing firm, torturous, pressure. After another breath, Bruce opens his eyes, careful not to move, and demands, “Tell me what you want, Clark.”

Clark sucks in a sharp breath. His face is slightly pink, and his pupils are dilated. “This. This is fine. Just. Let me—” one arm wraps protectively around him, and then Clark pushes his hips off the bed, and he’s holding all two hundred-odd pounds of Bruce effortlessly atop himself as he tugs off his underwear. Bruce’s breath stutters, and it’s probably a good thing that Clark’s got a hold of him, as his jostling inevitably presses them deliciously together, and the drag of fabric across Bruce’s penis and his balls feels divine. God, he hasn’t been this hard in ages. He hasn’t done this— just kissing and… and grinding— since he was around eighteen or nineteen. Bruce groans.

He hears the soft sound of fabric dropping to the floor, then Clark’s hard, hot, naked cock rubs against his own. “Fuck,” Bruce mutters, leaning down for another kiss. Clark’s hold is stable, and as Bruce shifts about, he realizes he shouldn’t be able to— the bed should prevent it. He breaks off the kiss and looks down. They’re floating about a foot in the air. He closes his eyes.

“S-sorry. Just… give me a second, and I—”

“No. It- it’s fine, Clark. Stay still.” Carefully telegraphing his movements so that Clark releases his hold, Bruce sits up. He places a steadying hand on Clark’s chest, admiring the way his eyes go half-lidded, the unblemished expanse of his skin. Then Bruce wraps his legs around Clark’s waist and squeezes his thighs, pressing them together more. Slowly, he shifts side to side, up and down, sending a bright zing of pleasure up his spine and through the length of his aching, twitching cock. Clark shudders beneath him.

“Oh fuck, Bruce! Don-don’t stop.” Bruce’s breath catches at the hoarseness of Clark’s voice, and he repeats the motion.

At some point, Clark takes it upon himself to do some of the work. Bruce is barely holding himself up, arms trebling, fingers gripping Clark’s shoulders. His head is bowed, and if he leaned forward a few inches, he could kiss Clark. Clark’s hands are at his hips, anchoring Bruce in place as he moves beneath him, rubbing them together. By this point, they’re both leaking steadily; everything is hot and slick and throbbing, and it feels so good. He shudders as his abdominal muscles clench involuntarily.

“Cl-Clark ungh. I’m go-going to… going to—” Bruce’s jaw goes slack as Clark’s hands hold him down, more firmly than they have tonight, and then, with one more delicious grind, Bruce’s cock pulses, and he rests his forehead against Clark’s, panting as orgasm crashes through him in a stab of sharp bliss. Absently, a few moments later, he feels a surge hot wetness as Clark comes too.

After he calms down, Bruce looks around, realizing that Clark’s back is against the bed. He rolls off of him, and lies there, simply allowing himself to drift for a moment. Then the weight of the day’s events crashes over him, and he blinks blearily, feeling tired. “Bruce?” Clark’s voice breaks him out of his daze. Bruce looks over at him, and sits up.

Clark looks just about as wrecked as him— more so, really. The planes of his stomach are coated in their mess, and he’s sweaty and flushed. Glorious, Bruce thinks. He leans over and kisses him gently. Clark cups his cheek and one kiss turns into three, five— “How about a shower?” Bruce breaks away, covering his mouth with a hand as he yawns. He reaches over to the bedside table and hands Clark the washcloth. “Think you need this more than I do.”

Clark takes the cloth gratefully, a small smile on his face. “Guess I do.”

Once they’re done with the first round of clean up, they decide to shower together— nothing they haven’t done before on off-world missions, and it would be absurd to maintain that kind of boundary now, considering what they’ve been doing— and Bruce feels even more tired after he’s stood under the warm water. Clark is unusually quiet, and the half of Bruce’s brain that’s still functional wonders about it, but the rest of him decides that if it’s important enough, Clark will tell him; he’s never been shy about speaking his mind to Bruce.

After they get out of the shower, Bruce discovers why Clark’s being so quiet. It happens when Bruce is bent over— wrapped in a towel, of course— looking for a spare toothbrush. He finds one, and holds it out to Clark. “Toothbrush?” Clark, also wrapped in a towel, raises an eyebrow. “What?”

Clark sucks in a breath. “So I can stay?”

Bruce blinks, a bit surprised. ‘Do you not want to?’ he almost asks. “If you want.”

Clark smiles, and takes the toothbrush.

The problem of clothes turns out to be a non-issue. Because, in addition to changing out of the uniform, Clark brought a bag. Bruce just hadn’t noticed it because his mind had been… elsewhere. When he pulls it out from beneath one of the armchairs, Bruce laughs. “What?” Clark asks. He’s become bold now that he has permission to stay. “I didn’t want to make any assumptions, but I also didn’t want to be unprepared.” He just shakes his head.

When they do finally get into bed, Bruce feels a painful lump form in his throat. He’s careful not to pay attention to it, for fear that Clark will catch on and ask him what’s wrong. But this becomes more difficult when Clark reaches across the space between them and lightly lays an arm around Bruce, giving him the option to reject it. When he doesn’t, the arm becomes heavier, becomes all of Clark pressed behind him. They’re cuddling. Christ.

“Good night, Bruce.”

“Night, Clark.” For all that it hurts, Bruce can’t say he regrets his decision.

Bruce wakes to golden morning light, with the warmth of another body beside him. He squints at the brightness, momentarily confused. Then he blinks, feeling instantly alert. Clark is still here. Bruce sits up slowly, trying not to displace his bedmate. Of course, it doesn’t work. Clark stirs, pushing back the sheets. When he sees Bruce looking, he smiles radiantly. “Hey.”

“Morning,” Bruce replies, giving Clark’s hand a squeeze. As soon as he does, Clark leans in, and presses a gentle kiss to his cheek. The lump in his throat returns with a vengeance. They sit there, awkwardly, before he notices the bulge in Clark’s boxers, and smirks. Bruce slowly climbs across the bed. “Mm. Looks like someone is awake.”

Clark groans. “Aren’t you hungry?” he asks, already sounding a bit distracted.

Bruce smiles wickedly. “I could eat.” He reaches forward and gives Clark a squeeze.

Things quickly progress from there, and soon enough, they’re both naked, and Clark has his hands fisted in the sheets, legs spread wide to give Bruce access. His head is thrown back, and his lips are parted. His shoulders move rapidly as he takes in air that he doesn’t really need. Bruce is crouched before him, Clark’s cock hard and hot in his mouth. “Ghh B-Bruce, come on… please.”

Bruce pops off Clark’s cock, and gives it a flick. Clark whimpers. “Patience,” he murmurs. “Good things come to those who wait.”

Clark groans again, a mix of pleasure and annoyance as Bruce bends back down and resumes the blowjob. “Tha-that was… terrible.” Spitefully, he hums, and brings his tongue up to swirl around the head of Clark’s cock. “Ohh, fuck. Do-don’t stop.” He can feel Clark’s legs shaking, and his cock twitches dangerously.

He opens his mouth, takes a deep breath, swiping a thumb across Clark’s length as he does. Then Bruce swallows Clark down with renewed enthusiasm, and sets a relentless pace. How long can Superman resist cumming like this? Distantly, he notices his own cock is half-hard, getting pleasure from Clark’s pleasure. It’s not so bad that he needs to get off himself, but still. Best to finish this quickly.

He hollows out his cheeks, sucking with all he’s got. Small pulses run through Clark’s cock and sure enough, the man himself warns Bruce, “Unnh I. I’m—” before his mouth is filled. Bruce swallows, and sits up.

Clark is still panting, hands limp, and as Bruce moves away, his legs fall flat against the bed. He looks drained. Bruce smirks privately. Clark blinks, licks his lips, and starts to ask, “Do you need me to—”

“No,” Bruce answers, tugging on his boxers. “Would you like some breakfast?”

By some miracle, they don’t run into Alfred or any of the boys. Bruce gets out the pancake mix and manages to produce enough edible specimens (with Clark’s careful guidance) to satisfy their appetites. Clark makes coffee while he cooks, and Bruce happily accepts a large mug. He drinks steadily as they eat. Clark, from the glances he sneaks, seems vibrant and happy. The scene is oddly domestic. He feels the tension from after they first woke up return.

They finish eating around the same time, and Clark offers to clean up. Bruce silently drinks more coffee, watching as Clark washes the dishes. He’s trying to think of something to say— something that won’t make this hurt as badly, or maybe something that will make it hurt just enough. But then, Clark looks up from what he’s doing, and says, “You know, I’d be a pretty terrible houseguest if I didn’t buy my host a gift.”

Bruce sets down his mostly-empty mug. “Oh?”

“How about I return your favor?”

They barely get the bedroom door shut before Clark is kissing him insistently— they already seem to be learning how the other likes to be kissed— and his hands start roaming over Bruce’s body, cupping his cheek, running through his hair, resting on his lower back, pressing Bruce to him. Something about his reaction must give him away because Bruce feels Clark smile against his lips, and then, slowly, Superman lifts off the ground, and sets Bruce gently on the bed.

Bruce relines against the headboard, and Clark just floats above him. After a second or two, he lowers a bit to kiss Bruce, and anchors himself in place by holding the headboard with one hand. The other cups Bruce through his sweatpants. Bruce makes an approving noise, and spreads his legs. But Clark ignores his less-than-subtle hint, seeming content to float above him, slowly rubbing Bruce’s erection. His hands ache to touch, but Bruce doesn’t want to risk making Clark stop whatever this is.

The teasing is nearly unbearable, and there is a sizeable wet patch soaking through his underwear— the sweatpants will probably need washing too— and Bruce thinks that he may go mad. He doesn’t quite know whether to lean forward, in hopes that Clark will touch him more— enough to send him over the edge— or away to alleviate some of the near-painful pressure of his cock. Clark still hovers above him, mouthing lazily at his lips. But at least he lets Bruce loops his arms around his neck, and hold him loosely.

By now, Bruce’s legs have spread as far apart as they’re able, and it takes every ounce of his remaining self-control to keep from trying to pull Clark down on top of him and hold him there until he cums. He pulls his face away from Clark’s and gasps. “Cl-Clark… mmmh sto-stop teasing.”

Clark stills, and removes his hands. Bruce whines. “Oh. That’s right,” he says casually. “I forgot that you’re still dressed.”

Bruce squeezes his eyes shut, feeling a sharp stab of exasperation. He exhales, and does his best to gather his remaining brain cells. “Jesus Christ! Would you please—” he cuts himself off as Clark suddenly reaches down and removes both his boxers and his sweatpants with a few firm tugs. Bruce sucks in a breath, head falling against the wall from the sheer relief of having his cock freed. From somewhere above him, Clark chuckles.

Bruce opens his eyes when he hears the bottle of lube being squirted.

Clark smiles deviously, and then he finally, finally, sinks onto the bed. He opens his legs, and says lowly, “Come here.” Bruce moves closer, and Clark tugs him to his chest. He tilts his head up, seeking out Clark’s lips, and they meet in a demanding kiss. Bruce breaks away, gasping, as Clark’s lubricated hand closes around him. “Shit!” Without meaning to, he goes limp against Clark, eyes closed.

Clark slowly slides his hand up and down. “That feel good?” he murmurs when Bruce whines.

“Ah— yes.” Clark’s hand stills, but he doesn’t remove it. It just rests, teasing and warm and firm against his cock, and he twitches. So close. So close. If he would just— Clark’s fingers close around him again, slowly, slowly, and he moves his hand up with agonizing firmness and Bruce’s entire body tenses, stomach clenching, chest heaving, and Clark’s thumb rests against the head of his wet, dripping cock and— pauses.

He whines, opening bleary eyes. Clark’s not even looking at him. In fact, his face is angled away, toward the window, and Bruce frowns as Clark releases him. Why is he…?

Clark looks down apologetically. “Fuck. I’m really, really sorry, but I— there’s—”

Bruce grits his teeth, and purses his lips for a long moment. He exhales sharply. “Go,” he rasps. Clark hesitates. “Just… fucking… Go.”

Clark sighs, and then Bruce is leaning awkwardly against the headboard once more, still painfully hard, and half out of his mind with it. In a blur of motion, Clark Kent disappears, and Superman appears before him. He pauses halfway out the window, meets Bruce’s gaze, and says firmly, “Don’t do anything. I’ll be back.” He waits long enough for Bruce to nod jerkily, and then he’s gone.

Bruce slides down onto his pillow, and stares at the ceiling. “Goddamnit.”

When he’s calmed down some, Bruce finds the tv remote and turns on the news. He does his best to ignore the steady throb of his cock, and several times his hand hovers over it, aching to touch, but he stops himself, remembering Clark’s words. “Christ,” Bruce mutters, exhaling sharply. He counts back from thirty, and turns his attention to the screen. Superman appears, quickly rescuing several people from the burning building. Somewhat pettily, Bruce changes the channel to a documentary, letting the meaningless words run over him soothingly.

It isn’t enough.

A dozen— two dozen, maybe— minutes later, he hears the window opening. And then Superman floats through sheepishly, like a kid sneaking back into the house after curfew. Bruce is not amused. While the situation down south has greatly improved, the ghost of his earlier ache, his desire, lingers. He feels it rekindle as the Kryptonian’s eyes rove over him.

“Hey,” Clark says. “Sorry, Bruce. I—”

“Don’t,” he interrupts. “It’s fine. I understand. You did good work today; I saw the news.”

“Do you still want to…”

Oh absolutely. “Yes.”

Clark takes a minute to rinse off— now that he’s paying attention, Superman does look a little sooty— and comes back in a pair of jeans and a light gray t-shirt. Bruce is already sitting back where he was earlier, legs spread out flat before him— it’s probably best if he doesn’t try to move too much at this point. Clark’s expression turns absolutely sinful. “Now where were we?”

“Oh— Christ. Fuck, Clark,” Bruce blurts, honestly not very cognizant of what he’s saying. Clark leans down to kiss him, hand continuing to stroke Bruce firmly. Every repetitive motion feels like a brush of liquid flame, and the pleasure pulses, white-hot, behind his eyelids. He distantly realizes that his mouth has fallen open, and he’s panting. “Aha ah ahh—” his fingers curl into the sheets, and his hips jerk as he cums, and cums, and cums.

“Shit,” Bruce says breathily. He can practically hear his heartbeat, his pulse is so rapid. Absently, he notices that Clarks running his fingers through his hair. It feels nice. Bruce lets himself lie there until his legs aren’t shaking anymore. Then he pushes himself up, and away from Clark, with the scattered explanation: “Let me— I need to—”

“Sure.”

After cleaning up, he stumbles back into the bedroom, feeling as if he’s just gone on an all-night hunt for Joker. Clark is still there. He’s got his glasses on, and he’s looking at his phone. Bruce pauses, shirt in hand. “Do you have somewhere to be?”

Clark looks up from his phone, faint smile on his face. “Not particularly.”

Bruce tugs the shirt on, walks over to the windows, and opens one; the room’s a little musty after the past handful of hours they’ve had. “Want some lunch?”

Alfred is still absent when they return to the kitchen, and Bruce suddenly remembers that it’s his shopping day. He and Clark put away the now-dry dishes, and Bruce makes more coffee as Clark looks at what’s in the fridge, concluding that sandwiches are the most do-able. Bruce agrees, taking a long swig of his coffee. Just because his worn-out, sated body wants him to nap doesn’t mean that he’s going to. And future-Bruce will kick him if he lets himself spend these precious remaining hours with Clark being unconscious.

“Since I have you here,” Bruce says, wiping his fingers with a crumpled napkin— Clark makes a mean sandwich— “I could use your eyes on some scans I’ve got running in the Cave.”

Clark finishes chewing, and swallows the rest of his coffee. “Alright,” he agrees mildly.

They end up working for several hours, until it’s nearly dinner-time. This time, Alfred is there, and although he’s a little surprised to see Clark, he is far from disappointed. “It will be no trouble at all to prepare for one more person— especially not if it is Master Clark,” he says. So they—  Alfred, Bruce, Clark, and Tim— end up eating together. It’s nice, if a bit awkward, though only he and Clark know what they’ve been getting up to.

After dinner, Clark follows him back down to the Cave. Bruce is pretty sure he knows what the other man is going to say, and dread pools in his stomach like mercury. “Make it fast, Clark,” he orders, “I’ve got to go on patrol.”

“Right.” Clark clears his throat awkwardly as Bruce changes into the Batsuit. “Well then. I know that we’ve, that I’ve— Do you mind if I come by later?” It’s almost exactly the same question he asked (approximately) twenty-four hours ago.

Like before, Bruce says, “Sure.”

He’s uncertain whether Clark wants to talk or do more, but he’ll be able to figure out what to say in either case on patrol.

Clark is waiting for him in the Cave when he gets back. He’s not in the suit, although Bruce assumes that he’s already done a patrol of Metropolis. This time, Clark doesn’t try to feel him up as he strips, which is a blessing. If he wants to talk, it’ll be awkward if either of them have a boner. And if he doesn’t want to talk, well. The night is young.

After he gets out of the shower, dressed in another pair of sweatpants and old t-shirt, Clark eyes him seriously, and Bruce suppresses his desire to frown. Ah fuck. He was hoping that they wouldn’t have to do this. Still, in case he’s wrong— or Clark can be persuaded to push this discussion off (again)— Bruce asks, “Come upstairs?”

Clark nods, and he wordlessly leads the way.

They sit on Bruce’s bed, which no longer bears evidence of their earlier activities (he changed the sheets), and Bruce leans forward slowly, pressing a light kiss to Clark’s cheek.

“Oh,” Clark murmurs, surprised. Bruce withdraws, disappointed. So that isn’t what he came for then.

“You don’t want to—”

“No, I… I do,” Clark stammers, “although I wanted to talk. But I guess that can wait.”

Bruce picks up his hand and stares Clark in the eye. Just because he’s willing to put this off, perhaps tempt Clark into putting the discussion off, doesn’t mean he wants to make the other man do something he’s uncomfortable with. “Are you sure?”

Clark smiles, and squeezes his hand. “Yes, I’m sure.” He leans in for a kiss, and Bruce can’t help but feel like a proverbial Judas as he kisses back.

Round three— or is it four? He can’t even remember— really gets going when Clark starts talking dirty. “Your ass is a threat to decent society,” he mutters in Bruce’s ear between kisses. “I couldn’t help but look as we were walking up.” Clark’s mouth also gives him ideas.

Although it’s been a while, Clark does a commendable job of opening him up; he’s slow and precise, making sure his fingers are well-lubed. “Want me to use a condom?” he asks, after Bruce decides he’s ready. He half-turns his head to meet the Clark’s eyes, and nods. He doesn’t mind a little mess, but for this— their first time this way— it will be easier.

Clark withdraws his fingers slowly. Bruce waits impatiently, listening to Clark prepare himself. If they had more time, if this weren’t a one-off, he’d like to fuck Clark. But for now, since they don’t have that luxury, he’ll be happy with this. Perfectly happy with this.

The orgasm, in light of all the other orgasms Clark has given him, isn’t that special. Bruce feels like it is anyway— something tells him that this time, this time, is actually, really and truly, the last time, and so he had better enjoy it. Because one way or another, come morning, Clark will have to leave. Tomorrow is Monday— a workday— and they both have busy lives.

Clark doesn’t even ask if he can stay, just strips down, and slides into bed next to Bruce. Like he belongs there.

Bruce is jolted awake by Clark’s alarm at seven a.m. He squints blearily at him for a moment before sitting up. “I take it you’re leaving?”

“Work,” Clark says tersely, back turned to Bruce. He’s pulling on his slacks. “I have to go to work, Bruce.”

Bruce stays silent. Damn it all. I’m a fucking idiot. He knew that this would hurt. He knew it. That’s why he allowed Clark to prolong the fantasy. That’s why he did the same— decreed every touch a triumph, every kiss a conquest, every smile a success, celebrated every additional second he could pretend that having Clark was something he was allowed. But now it’s over. ‘Those were the best forty-odd hours of my life,’ he considers saying.

“I see,” Bruce says instead.

Clark turns around and meets his gaze. There’s something vulnerable— something desperate— in the warmth of his blue eyes. It’s obvious that Bruce isn’t the only one who’s been stalling. The air is heavy, saturated with unsaid things. He waits for Clark to talk first, but he doesn’t. So it’s up to me then, Bruce thinks bitterly. “See you at the next league meeting, Kal.”

That warm, soft, hopeful thing in Clark’s eyes shatters. He squares his shoulders, buttons the last button on his shirt, and throws on a blazer. “See you later, Bruce.”

He watches Clark leave, and feels like something in his chest caves in, leaving a terribly Superman-shaped hole behind.

“You know, I never actually asked how things went that night— get lucky?” Green Lantern asks.

Once again, they are the last ones in the conference room. Hal is in front of him, casually blocking the exit. If Batman really wanted to leave, he could shove the other man aside, but he doesn’t. Bruce won’t be goaded into that level of immaturity. Instead, he grits his teeth and inhales sharply.

Two weeks have passed since that… encounter, and things are still awkward between them. Clark didn’t speak to him for a solid two days after Bruce’s dismissal. Since he’s resumed communications, his messages are clipped, brutally professional. Bruce replies as politely as he can. It feels hollow, compared to what they once had (could have had), but the rejection was necessary. And, with time, Bruce knows that they can— they will— survive this. As the saying goes: “This too shall pass.”

Their relationship is not broken. And that is what matters.

Hal studies him, apparently taking in Bruce’s tenseness. “I see,” he says, a bit more subdued. “Well if you ever feel like company, my door is open; Thursday evenings work best. See you around, Spooky.” He pats Bruce’s shoulder, and steps aside. Bruce considers responding, but he’s not sure whether his voice will be steady enough. So he settles for a curt nod, carefully maneuvers around Hal, and walks away.

Bruce doesn’t know what possesses him to take Hal up on his offer, but he does.

Somehow, for some goddamned reason, he finds himself standing outside Hal Jordan’s apartment around 7 p.m. on a Thursday night, wearing a pair of jeans, sneakers, and a white button down. “Just a second!” Hal calls, voice muffled by the door and the sound of guitar. He vaguely recognizes the song as being something by Nirvana.

The door swings open and Hal is staring at him. He’s wearing jeans and a gray, form-fitting t-shirt with a NASA logo on it. He is barefoot. “Well I’ll be damned, Spooky. You actually showed up!”

Bruce snorts, rolling his eyes. “Are you going to let me in or not?”

Hal smirks as he steps aside, bowing mockingly. “The royal highness may enter, if he so desires.”

Bruce presses his lips together to avoid laughing as he walks past Hal into the apartment. “So this is your palace?” he asks, tone deliberately unimpressed.

Hal flips him off as he heads for the kitchen. “Oh stuff a cock in it, Brucie. We can’t all be rich.”

Bruce’s lips twitch again. “I did,” he replies, solemnly. “That’s the problem.” Hal chokes, nearly spilling his freshly-opened beer down his front. Fortunately for him, he’s standing in front of the sink, so he avoids most of the mess. He rinses off his hands and the bottle, sets it down, and stares at Bruce.

“That bad, huh?” Bruce’s pursed lips and tense shoulders do all the talking.

Hal twists the top off another beer, and hands it to him.

“You want chicken wings with the pizza?”

“Why the hell not?” Bruce mutters.

They’re sitting on the couch, two beers in each. There’s a football game playing on tv, which Hal is watching. Bruce isn’t paying much attention, alternating between watching Hal watch the game and thinking. He listens dispassionately as his host calls in a delivery order for a large pepperoni pizza, with a side of extra-spicy buffalo wings. It’s a miracle that Green Lantern is in as good of shape as he is if he eats like this often. I hope he doesn’t, Bruce thinks absently.

Hal sees him looking, and arches a brow as he listens to the person on the other end of the line. Oh. As soon as Hal hangs up, Bruce turns to him, staring intently. “Was your invitation an attempt to- to seduce me?”

Hal sits up, rolling his eyes. “Relax. I’m not trying to wine and dine you, Bruce. But if you’re interested...”

He purses his lips. “You have to have actual wine for it to be a wine and dine, Jordan, and there is none here. Nor is there fine dining. And I’m not nearly drunk enough to consider— this.” Hal starts to look offended, so Bruce adds, “But I suppose I… appreciate the offer anyway.”

Hal’s expression veers away from ‘incredibly offended’ to ‘contemplative.’ He sighs, leans back against the couch, and takes a long drink from his beer. For a moment, there is silence. Then he asks, “For the sake of my ego, I suppose— hypothetically, if you weren’t already gone on Clark, would you ever consider…”

Bruce sighs. He looks down at his latest half-drunk beer, resting on a coaster atop the coffee table. I don’t think there is any universe in which I am not hopelessly in love with Clark Kent, but— “Hypothetically, yes.” God help me. He takes another swig.

“Huh.” Obviously, Green Lantern can’t read minds, but the sad smile which he sends Bruce makes him feel like Hal knows what he’s thinking anyway. “Thanks, Spooky.”

“You’re welcome, I suppose.”

The pizza box sits empty on the coffee table, surrounded by crumbs. One container of empty ranch dip is open beside it, and there is a pile of used napkins next to that. The tv is still tuned to ESPN, but it’s been muted; a panel of analysists is doing run-down of the latest game. At some point, Hal moved to the small beat-up armchair in the corner so Bruce could prop his feet up on the couch.

Now he’s talking, words slightly slurred, brain feeling like it’s been stuffed under a blanket: “He’s too good for me, Hal. I— I always fuck things, relationships, up. One night stands’re easy, you know? Long term is harder.” Distantly, Bruce realizes he might have drunk too much. He sighs, runs a hand through his hair. “If it weren’t for the fucking league, I may’ve tried it. But—”

Hal, also looking intoxicated, if perhaps not quite to the degree that Bruce is, interrupts: “Why not? Didn’t you already hit that?”

Bruce sighs. “I did—”

“The sex not good?”

“No, it was— fuck, it was fantastic. That’s not the problem. If I tell him that I- if I tell him, and screw it up, then the league’ll go to hell, Jordan.” Bruce scowls, glaring down at his beer as if it is to blame for all his problems. Somewhat shakily, he sets down the bottle. “Besides, I’d rather stay friends than risk that.” I might’ve had a chance for more, but I fucked that up already.

Hal is silent for long enough that Bruce looks up. “You’re real messed up, Spooky. Did you know that?”

Bruce picks up the bottle again, taking a long swig. “Oh, I know,” he mutters. “I know.”

“Bruce?”

“Hn.”

“Bruce, wake up.”

“What?” he snarls. Bruce blinks open his eyes, and sits up. He’s still on Hal’s couch. Fuck.

Hal sways before him. “You… fell asleep. Wanna take the guest room?”

“No.” Bruce tries to stand, but the floor tilts alarmingly. Maybe that’s not such a good idea right now. After shaking his head, he looks around. “Where the hell did I put my phone?” There’s a vague recollection of him setting it down on the kitchen counter the last time he got them more alcohol, but nothing much. “Shit.” Bruce lurches to his feet, and Hal trails after him silently into the kitchen. Thankfully, his phone is where he remembers it being.

Bruce picks it up, squinting at the blurry screen. “Goddamn it.”

“What’s the matter, Spooky?”

“Can’t see the screen.”

“The hell you mean? It’s right there.”

“I don’t have my reading glasses!” And I’m very drunk, Bruce adds mentally.

Hal frowns. “Let me take a look?”

“Sure. Where’s your bathroom?”

“Second door on the left.”

After emptying his bladder and splashing some water on his face, Bruce feels a bit better. That is, until he returns to the kitchen and sees Hal leaning against the island, smiling smugly to himself, arms crossed. His stomach drops. Bruce knows trouble when he sees it. “Who’d you call?”

The smirk intensifies. “You’ll see.”

“Hal. Who the hell did you—” a firm knock interrupts Bruce’s question.

He grabs his phone from the counter, and follows Hal to entrance. As he leans against the wall, scowling, the door opens, revealing— “Clark. About time you got here. Bruce ’n I may’ve had a bit too much to drink. And he didn’t want the guest room. Can you take him home?” Hal asks.

Clark blinks, looking between the two of them. “Alright,” he agrees slowly. Bruce scowls.

They take off from the roof because Superman can’t be seen flying out of Green Lantern’s window holding Batman in his arms.

Initially, it looks like they’ll take the stairs, but Bruce shakes his head as they lurch and pulsate before him. “Can’t. Hand-eye coordination’s shit right now.” Clark nods quietly, and steers him towards the elevator. They, or rather Bruce, stumble out at the top floor, and Clark leans his weight casually against the roof-access door until the lock pops open with a soft clang.

“Think you can manage to hold on, B?” Clark asks, eyeing him doubtfully.

Bruce scowls. “You’d better carry me.”

“I didn’t ask him to call you, y’know.”

“It’s alright, Bruce. Better me than you trying to get home like this”

“No. No, you don’t understand. Hal shouldn’t’ve called you—”

“I really don’t mind—”

Bruce scowls, and covers Clark’s mouth with one hand. He does his best to ignore how warm the man’s lips are. “Shut up. That’s not… what I meant. Didn’t wanna make- make things awkward for you.” Clark sucks in a breath. Bruce lets his hand drop, and rests his head against Superman’s chest. He’s cold, dizzy, tired, and fairly positive that he should stop this conversation before anything else gets said.

But then Clark goes and says something stupid: “Are you talking about us— Bruce, if anything, I’m the one who made it awkward by having assumptions.”

He shakes his head. No, that’s not— you aren’t the only one with assumptions. “No! You- you don’t get it. I like you, Clark, but it never would’ve worked out long-term; or at least… that’s what I told myself.” And now it’s too late. Bruce sighs, and finally lets his eyes close, hoping that it will stop the dizziness.

He never notices how tense and quiet Clark goes at his words, his confession.

Bruce wakes up the next morning feeling absolutely awful. His head is pounding ferociously, and his memoires of the previous night are fuzzy at best. He realizes that he’s still dressed, save for his shoes. Which means that somebody— Clark— put him to bed. “Fuck. What was I thinking?” He stumbles out of bed and into the bathroom. Once Bruce swallows a large glass of water and some pain-killers, he starts to feel a little more human.

But that process will only be complete once he brushes his teeth, showers, and forgets how many stupid things he probably said to Clark.

As he’s taking off his clothes, something falls out of his pants. Bruce has no memory of putting anything in his pockets. Frowning, he crouches down and picks up the objects, which turn out to be an individually-wrapped condom, and a crumpled piece of paper.

The condom is, apparently, cherry-flavored, and the packaging appears to be undamaged. Bruce checks the expiration date: still good for another month. He sets the packet on the sink and uncrumples the paper. “In case you get lucky,” he reads aloud. “H.J.” There’s a winky face after the initials. Disgusted, he sweeps both items into his trash and finishes stripping. “Un-fucking-believable.”

How can any one person be such an asshole? Bruce wonders as he steps into the shower.

When Clark doesn’t barge in on him, Bruce starts to consider the possibility that he’s in the clear. After all, he was drunk, and had— as best he could— made it clear that he hadn’t wanted to butt into Clark’s life again like that. Hal had made the decision for him. At least, this is what Bruce tells himself, as he waits to see what Clark will do next, if anything.

But thinking about all this also makes Bruce want to ask something else.

Me: WHY? 11:01 P.M.

H. Jordan: WHY WHAT? 11:03 P.M.

Me: WHY HELP ME— HELP US? 11:04 P.M.

Bruce waits as he sees ‘typing,’ genuinely curious. It takes a while for Hal to respond. 

H. Jordan: ONE OF US DESERVES TO BE HAPPY; TRY NOT TO FUCK IT UP. 11:09 P.M.

Me: I WON’T. 11:12 P.M.

Perhaps in a not entirely unexpected move, Clark comes to the manor the next day. And this time, he knocks on the front door. Alfred finds him in the study, and says seriously, “Master Clark is here, Sir. He says that he would like to talk.” His expression is stern. ‘Don’t keep him waiting,’ it says.

Bruce sighs, and powers down his laptop. “Take Clark to the library, please, Alfred. Tell him I’ll be right there.”

He attempts to be stealthy as he walks into the room, but, of course, nothing gets past Superman.

Clark is sitting in one of the two large armchairs by one of the large picture windows. There are two cups of tea on the small table in between the seats, and the afternoon light softens Clark’s features. He looks like something out of a dream. Bruce swallows as Clark looks up, blue eyes narrowed. Oh shit. Clark only looks at him like that when he’s majorly fucked up.

Bruce walks forward silently.

“You know what you’re going to do, Bruce?” Clark asks as soon as he’s seated. Bruce is pretty sure that it’s a rhetorical question, so he stays quiet.

Clark continues, answering his own question: “You are going to sit there, and listen. I have some things to say.” Their eyes meet, and all of Superman’s surety is present in Clark’s gaze. Bruce nods quietly, taking another sip of his tea. It’s quite good— Alfred always goes above and beyond for guests. Especially those he actually likes.

“You said some things the other night which makes me think that we haven’t talked enough,” Clark says, tone much more mild than it was moments ago. “So here’s a theory— I know you like those.” Or maybe not; that last part was definitely sarcastic. “I think you feel something more, in addition to being physically attracted to me. But, like every other time you’ve ever felt an emotion, you decided the best offense was a good defense and went full-asshole. Because you’re scared of wanting more.”

After an extended period of silence, Bruce swallows. “Am I allowed to speak now?”

Clark’s glare doesn’t soften, but he nods.

“I— I think your theory’s pretty good, except the part about emotions; I wouldn’t recognize one if it bit me in the ass,” Bruce says wryly. He pauses for a moment, and sighs. Clark’s expression has gone from angry to annoyed to thoughtful. It’s probably as good a chance as he’s going to get. “Clark, if you’re still willing, if I didn’t fuck things up too much already, I would like to… see where this goes. Try something more; a relationship.”

Clark is silent for a nerve-wracking moment, staring into his cup of tea. Then he smiles, and looks up. “Yeah. Yeah, I think I’d like that.”

“You remember that night— when I interrupted you?” Clark asks. He has Bruce crowded up against the wall just outside the master bedroom. Several hours have passed since Clark first came to the manor, demanding to talk to Bruce, and they’ve managed to clarify some things in that time. It feels good, to have aired everything out, so to speak.

The way Clark has been kissing him sporadically as they make their way upstairs feels even better.

“I do,” Bruce replies.

“What were you doing?”

“I was going to jerk off.”

“Do you want to know what I did when I got home that night?” Clark inquires softly.

“Mmm yes.”

“Ask me then.” Clark kisses him once more, then reaches down to gently squeeze Bruce’s erection. He lets out one choked groan, and breathes.

“What did you— ah did you do… when you got hom-home that night, Clark?”

Clark grins, leans forward, and whispers, breath hot in Bruce’s ear, “I pictured your face, and touched myself until I came.” Bruce squeezes his eyes shut as a full body rush of arousal goes through him. Distantly, he feels his head thunk against the wall, but that doesn’t matter. God, I’ve never been so hard.

Clark chuckles. “I think we’d better get into that bedroom of yours before this goes too far, don’t you, Bruce?” He squeezes once more.

“Ngh— yes.”

Bruce barely manages to shut the door before Clark surges forward and is on him again, seemingly wanting to kiss every inch of Bruce’s bare skin that he can reach. “Mm, Bruce… We should get your clothes off.” His assertiveness— hinted at during some of their earlier times together— is exciting. Fumblingly, they both set to work.

“F-fuck, Clark!” Bruce shouts. He’s lying on the bed, and Clark is straddling him. Only, he’s not really, because the Kryptonian is not nearly as heavy as he ought to be; there’s just enough of his weight to keep Bruce (mostly) in place. And though he can see that Clark is hard the few times he has enough desire to look, he can’t feel the evidence of it. Much as he’d like to.

Once again, Clark seems to want to make an event of this, of Bruce’s undoing.

He’s been alternating between breath-stealing kisses and teasing, firm presses of his palm, his thumb, to Bruce’s straining cock. He feels close now, so close, he’s twitching, leaking steadily, and every touch feels as if it sets him on fire. His legs are trembling, and his fists are clenched, and the need to cum is like a scream, like an itch, like a heartbeat— pounding and instinctual and never ending as it thrums through him. A bead of sweat runs down Bruce’s forehead.

Then all of Clark’s weight is gone, replaced his breath ghosting over Bruce’s lower belly.

He briefly opens his eyes, to find Clark hovering above him, hands bracketing Bruce’s waist. The Kryptonian meets his eyes, and blows unnaturally-cool air over his erection. Bruce whines. And it’s not a moment later that he feels the wet, mind-breaking warmth of Clark’s mouth as he swallows Bruce down. Then Clark sucks, the back of his tongue pushing gently at the head of Bruce’s cock and he’s—

“Clark, oh fuck”—  he’s— “hhh shit. I need”— he’s—

blinded by a wave of pure pleasure, which rushes through him from his lower back up his spine, and he pulses, spilling down Clark’s throat.

Clark eases himself off of Bruce’s cock with an obscenely wet slurp and sits at the edge of the bed. He quietly allows Bruce a few moments to return to (some of) his senses then asks, “You alright, B?”

Bruce inhales shakily, and tries to recall how the English language works. “I— that was— you’ve got a smart mouth, Clark.”

“I’ll take that as a complement.”

“You should.” Clark smiles at him, and leans in for a kiss.

Bruce eagerly obliges, although he has to break away after a moment because he’s still a bit breathless. I suppose I should try and get used to that if Clark’s going to kiss me more often. Bruce laughs at the thought, feeling giddy and blissed-out in all the best possible ways. I think I could get used to a lot of things.