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It starts with something small.
So small that Clark doesn’t even register it at first, like the way you don’t consciously think about breathing until someone points it out.
It’s just a quiet, thoughtless thing.
He’s in the kitchen of the Batcave, waiting for Bruce to finish running through the latest patrol reports, standing beside him in the way one does when they’ve long since stopped feeling the need to ask for permission. The space between them is effortless, comfortable.
Clark has a coffee in one hand, a paper bag from Alfred in the other, the scent of warm sugar and chocolate wafting up with the steam of his drink. When he reaches into the bag, his fingers brush against the unexpected shape of an extra cookie--one he hadn’t asked for, but one Alfred must’ve slipped in anyway, because Alfred always seems to know things before they happen.
And without thinking, without even registering the moment as anything significant, Clark breaks the cookie in half.
It’s muscle memory, a habit so deeply ingrained it happens before logic catches up to it.
His fingers automatically reach for the bigger piece, because he’s never been one to hoard good things for himself, and before he even looks up, he’s already holding it out in Bruce’s direction.
Bruce takes it.
No hesitation. No questioning. No sharp glance or furrowed brow.
He just accepts it like he’d been expecting it, like it’s a given .
Clark still isn’t thinking about it--his brain is running a dozen different tracks at once, mulling over news reports and League missions and what he needs to pick up on his way home--but something in the back of his mind flickers at the ease of it. At the way Bruce plucks the cookie from his fingers without looking up from his holoscreen, never missing a beat as he continues reading.
And then he does something that should make Clark stop. Something that, in hindsight, should’ve sent a little warning bell through his brain.
Bruce lifts the cookie to his mouth and takes a bite.
And then--
He hums.
Not loudly. Not exaggerated. Just a small, almost imperceptible sound of approval, barely more than a breath, the kind of noise someone makes when they’re content without realizing it.
Clark should have noticed the warning signs right then.
Because Bruce Wayne doesn’t do sugar.
Bruce Wayne doesn’t do sharing.
Bruce Wayne definitely doesn’t hum over dessert like it’s the best thing to happen to him all morning.
But he does now.
Like it’s normal .
Like it’s nothing .
And Clark--distracted, oblivious, stupidly in love Clark--doesn’t question it.
Not yet.
On the next late patrol, somewhere between the third rooftop chase and the silent glide of Bruce’s cape cutting through the skyline, it happens again.
Clark doesn’t expect it--he never does. He’s perched beside Bruce on the ledge of a high-rise, the city sprawling out beneath them in a wash of golden streetlights and neon reflections. The air is thick with summer heat, Gotham’s ever-present hum vibrating through the pavement beneath their feet. It’s a quiet moment, the kind that only exists between battles, where the adrenaline fades and exhaustion creeps in at the edges.
Bruce shifts beside him. Clark hears the faint crinkle of foil, the rustle of gloves against packaging as Bruce tears open one of his awful protein bars. The ones that taste like sawdust and regret, packed with just enough nutrients to keep him running on fumes for another few hours.
And then--
Bruce breaks it in half.
Clark barely has time to process before a piece is being shoved into his palm, fingers brushing against his own for the briefest second before Bruce pulls away, like the whole motion is nothing. Like it’s casual.
Clark blinks down at it, warmth from Bruce’s hand still lingering against his skin.
“I thought you hated sharing,” he says, light, teasing.
Bruce doesn’t look up, just bites into his own half without hesitation. “You talk too much when you’re hungry.”
Clark laughs, shaking his head, but deep down, something in his chest pulls. Because he knows that’s a lie.
Bruce doesn’t share.
Not the way other people do, with careless generosity, with automatic ease. He doesn’t offer up what’s his--doesn’t hand things over without a reason.
Bruce hoards. He strategizes. He plans.
He keeps his resources close, his weapons closer, and his trust buried under layers of reinforced titanium.
His food is no different.
Clark has seen it before--the way Bruce keeps his plate protected at galas, the way he methodically portions out his meals, ensuring every bite is accounted for. It’s not paranoia, not in the way people might assume. It’s just Bruce. He guards his things, his space, his life, because that’s what it’s always taken to survive.
But with Clark?
With Clark, Bruce doesn’t hesitate.
With Clark, Bruce breaks his protein bar clean in two and hands over the first bite like it means nothing at all.
Clark presses his lips together, staring at the half in his palm.
It means something.
He knows it does.
Then it becomes a thing.
Not a decision. Not something they talk about. Just a quiet, unspoken thing.
It slips into the rhythm of their days the way all habits do--slowly at first, subtly, until it’s everywhere. Until it’s second nature.
Clark notices it in small moments, the kind that sneak up on him when he’s not looking. The way Bruce, without ever acknowledging it, starts leaving space for him.
At dinner, Bruce will slide his plate just a fraction closer, the last bite sitting at the edge, within easy reach. A silent offering. A rule neither of them ever wrote but both of them follow.
And Clark--Clark, who is hopeless, who has been falling for Bruce Wayne in a way that feels both inevitable and impossible--starts playing along.
He doesn’t think about it. Doesn’t have to.
It’s just natural.
He starts handing over the last fry on his plate without hesitation, nudging it toward Bruce with the easy expectation that it’ll be taken. And Bruce always takes it, no questions, no protests, like it was his to begin with.
Clark starts holding out the first spoonful of dessert instead of taking it for himself, like it’s not even a choice, like the very idea of not doing it feels wrong.
He forgets to make his own coffee sometimes, too caught up in early morning League debriefs, and before he can even realize it, Bruce is already offering his own cup. Not saying a word, not looking up, just holding it out, like Clark drinking from his mug is some kind of foregone conclusion.
And it should be weird.
It should feel like something, this constant, casual sharing of space, of food, of habits that should belong to just one person but somehow don’t anymore.
But it’s not weird. It’s never weird.
Because every single time, Bruce takes what Clark offers like it’s owed to him.
Like Clark is just following a rule neither of them ever spoke out loud.
And Clark--stupid, head-over-heels Clark--lets him.
Alfred notices first, but, ever the professional, he says nothing.
He merely raises a knowing eyebrow whenever Bruce slides a plate closer to Clark, the corners of his mouth twitching in the faintest ghost of a smirk when Clark, without hesitation, hands over the first spoonful of dessert. But he doesn’t comment. Not yet.
Barry, however, is not Alfred.
Barry is Barry. And Barry is loud .
It happens at the Watchtower, during one of their usual post-mission meals. The League is scattered around the communal dining area, bruised but victorious, half-heartedly engaging in conversation as they refuel. Clark is sitting next to Bruce, because of course he is--because that’s where he always ends up, without thinking, without trying, like some kind of stupid, hopeless magnetism--and across from them, Barry watches.
He watches as Bruce, without looking up, pushes the last piece of his steak onto Clark’s plate.
Clark, equally as effortless, stabs the piece with his fork and takes a bite without hesitation, as if the motion is as natural as breathing.
Barry’s head tilts. His eyes narrow. Then--
“Okay, I gotta ask.”
Clark pauses mid-chew. Bruce doesn’t even look up.
Barry gestures vaguely between them, leaning forward. “What is this?”
Bruce finally glances at him, gaze flat. “Dinner.”
Barry squints. “No, no, no. This thing . The feeding ritual. Every time you guys eat together, one of you gives the other the first or last bite. It’s weird.” He pauses, eyes narrowing further. “Are you--” he waves a hand, searching for the right words. Then, abruptly, his expression shifts. His face lights up with sudden realization.
“Oh my God,” he gasps. “Is this, like, some old-fashioned courting thing ?”
Clark chokes.
Actually chokes on his drink, coughing violently as he scrambles for composure.
Bruce, on the other hand, doesn’t even blink.
He just levels Barry with a blank, unimpressed stare and says, voice perfectly even--
“Go away.”
Which, of course, does not help.
Barry points at him. “I knew it! You didn’t even deny it!”
Clark is still coughing, face burning, trying to act normal even as his stupid, traitorous heart does something ridiculous in his chest.
Bruce?
Bruce just cuts another bite of steak.
Completely unaffected.
Like it’s nothing.
Diana, seated across from them, watches the exchange with the long-suffering patience of a warrior who has endured far too much of their nonsense.
She lets the moment settle, lets Barry’s dramatics fade into the background, before sighing and setting down her utensils with deliberate care. Her expression is unreadable, but there’s something in her eyes--something knowing.
“You do realize,” she says, voice calm, too calm, “that in some cultures, offering the first bite of food is an act of devotion.”
The room feels too quiet all of a sudden.
Clark stills.
Bruce takes a slow sip of his coffee, the picture of indifference.
Diana doesn’t look away. She levels them both with a gaze so piercing, so deeply unimpressed, that it cuts through any pretense.
“And you do it,” she continues, tone mild but pointed, “every single time.”
Clark shifts in his seat, suddenly aware of how close his knee is to brushing Bruce’s. “It’s just a habit,” he says, but even he doesn’t sound convinced.
Diana arches a single, elegant brow. “Right.”
The weight of her stare lingers for a moment longer, before she gracefully picks up her utensils again and resumes her meal, like she hasn’t just shattered Clark’s entire grasp on reality in one sentence.
Bruce, ever the master of ignoring absolutely everything, goes back to eating like nothing happened.
Clark, however--
Clark suddenly doesn’t know what to do with his hands.
Or his thoughts.
Or the way his heart is currently hammering against his ribs like it’s trying to escape his chest.
Clark tells himself it’s just a thing they do.
A habit.
Like muscle memory.
Like breathing.
Nothing more.
But then Bruce gets hurt.
It’s nothing major--nothing that should make Clark feel like the floor has shifted beneath his feet--but the sight of blood on Bruce’s suit still sends something tight and cold curling in his stomach.
A bruised rib. A deep gash along his shoulder. Minor injuries, technically. Nothing that should make Clark feel like his entire body is vibrating with the need to fix it, to fix him, to shield him from the very concept of harm itself.
But then Bruce stumbles--just slightly--as he steps out of the Batmobile, one hand pressing against his side.
And Clark stops breathing.
Alfred is already there, the perfect picture of exasperated efficiency, sighing as he catches Bruce by the arm and forces him into a chair.
“Honestly, Master Wayne,” Alfred tuts, setting out his medical supplies. “You would think after all these years, you’d have learned how to avoid getting yourself battered like an old rug.”
Bruce exhales, long-suffering, but doesn’t argue. Which is how Clark knows he’s actually in pain.
Clark, standing off to the side, arms crossed over his chest, watches intently. Too intently.
With the full force of Concerned Boyfriend Energy.
(Not that he’s thinking that word, obviously.)
No, because that would be insane.
Because Clark is not Bruce’s boyfriend.
Bruce is just--Bruce is just Bruce.
Bruce is just the person Clark gravitates toward in every room. The person Clark seeks out at every meal. The person Clark lets steal the last bite of dessert without protest. The person Clark watches, right now, with the kind of overwhelming, gut-deep worry that makes his fists clench and his pulse pound in his ears.
It’s fine.
It’s normal.
It’s not a thing.
…Right?
“Are you staying for dinner, Master Kent?” Alfred asks, voice smooth as ever as he cleans off a needle, already knowing the answer.
Clark nods without hesitation. “Yeah.”
Alfred hums in approval, giving Bruce a pointed look. “Good. That way someone will actually make sure he eats properly.”
Bruce exhales through his nose, unimpressed. “I eat fine.”
Alfred levels him with the kind of stare that could command armies. “Yes. Like a raccoon rummaging through someone’s discarded takeout.”
Clark chokes on a laugh.
Bruce rolls his eyes but, notably, doesn’t argue.
Fifteen minutes later, dinner is served.
The Batcave is quiet now--warm, in a way it probably shouldn’t be, given that they’re sitting at the sleek, modern dining table near Bruce’s workstation, the cavern still humming with the sound of the Batcomputer.
But Clark feels it anyway.
He feels it in the gentle clink of Alfred setting their plates down, in the soft lighting that makes Bruce look less like Gotham’s untouchable sentinel and more like a man who is just very, very tired. He feels it in the way Bruce doesn’t even look at his food, too worn out to focus, shoulders still stiff with lingering tension.
And then, without a word, Bruce--still sore, still exhausted--simply stabs a piece of chicken with his fork and pushes it toward Clark.
Clark pauses.
Stares at the offered bite.
Something in his chest does something stupid.
Something warm. Something heavy.
And that’s when it hits him.
Oh.
Oh, this isn’t just a habit.
This isn’t just casual sharing.
Bruce, for all his walls and sharp edges, for all his “I work alone” and “I don’t need anyone” and “I don’t do attachments” nonsense--
Bruce Wayne has been feeding him like an old married couple this whole time.
Clark swallows. His face feels warm.
Bruce frowns. “What?”
Clark shakes his head quickly and takes the bite--because obviously Bruce doesn’t realize what he’s doing, and if Clark brings it up, if he acknowledges it, Bruce might stop--
And Clark is absolutely not prepared for that kind of emotional devastation.
Not now.
Not ever.
Bruce watches him carefully, like he’s trying to decipher something, eyes sharp in the dim light. But eventually, he just huffs softly, shakes his head, and goes back to eating.
Clark, meanwhile--
Clark is having a crisis.
And then it gets worse.
Because now, Clark is hyper-aware of it.
It’s like flipping a switch he can’t unflip--suddenly, everything makes sense, and Clark cannot stop noticing it.
He notices how Bruce always--always--nudges the first cup of coffee toward him, even when it’s Bruce’s own cup, even when Clark didn’t ask, even when Bruce has been running on four hours of sleep and pure spite.
He notices how Bruce, without fail, slides the last of his fries onto Clark’s plate without being asked, without a word, without even a glance--just a small, unspoken act like it’s as natural as breathing.
He notices how Bruce cuts things in half--sandwiches, protein bars, even the occasional ridiculously fancy canapé at some boring gala--and always gives Clark the bigger piece.
Even when it’s something Bruce really likes.
Even when it’s something Bruce ordered for himself.
And suddenly, Clark’s entire understanding of Bruce Wayne tilts on its axis.
Because Bruce doesn’t do verbal affection.
He doesn’t do long talks about feelings or easy declarations of love.
But he does this.
Every time.
And Clark, hopelessly in love, starts doing it more too, just to see if Bruce will react.
(Which, to be clear, is insane--Clark knows this. He knows. But he’s past the point of stopping now. He’s too far gone, and Bruce is too much Bruce, and Clark has never been one to back down from a challenge.)
So he steals the last bite of Bruce’s pancakes--just plucks it off his plate with a grin, like a menace.
He slides his milkshake across the table and pointedly raises a brow, waiting.
Bruce eyes him. Stares at the milkshake. Stares at Clark. Then, after a long pause, takes the first sip.
Clark forces the bigger half of a chocolate bar into Bruce’s hand, deliberately making it impossible to refuse.
And every time--every single time--Bruce narrows his eyes, like he knows Clark is messing with him. Like he knows exactly what game is being played.
But he never refuses.
Not once.
Not even when Clark is obnoxiously obvious about it, pushing food toward him like it’s some kind of silent battle of wills, grinning like a fool.
Bruce glares back, steady and unimpressed--but his ears are just slightly pink.
And Clark feels victorious.
And then it finally comes to a head.
It’s late, and they’re sitting in the manor’s kitchen, just the two of them, the world quiet.
Bruce is drinking coffee. Clark is finishing a slice of pie.
There’s only one bite left.
Clark, full but so painfully in love, slides the plate across the counter toward Bruce.
Bruce doesn’t move. Just looks at the bite. Then at Clark.
Clark lifts his chin. “You always give me the last bite.”
Bruce raises a brow. “So?”
“So,” Clark says, “this time it’s yours.”
Bruce hesitates. His fingers tap lightly against his coffee mug.
Clark waits.
Finally, Bruce exhales, then reaches for the fork. Takes the last bite. Eats it.
Clark doesn’t know why it makes his heart do things, but it does.
Bruce gives him a look , something unreadable but soft , then shakes his head and mutters, “Idiot.”
Clark grins, because that’s just Bruce-speak for I love you too .