Chapter Text
He's got this, he's got this, he's got this. Diana and Alfred have faith in him. His mom and Lois have faith in him. And he's Superman. Symbol of hope to the world. Making dinner for Bruce should be a piece of cake, right?
Right?
Which, of course, does nothing to quell the butterflies in his stomach as he knocks on the front door of the lake house, cradling a bag of groceries and one of Mom's pies in one hand.
"You're early," Alfred says, in clear approval, as he ushers Clark inside.
"Yeah, I just...thought I'd get a head start," Clark replies, following Alfred into the kitchen. There are various pots and dishes already on the island.
"I took the liberty of setting out everything you'd need."
"Ah, thanks, Alfred," Clark says. "That's...very kind." And saves him from having to rummage around for the right thing.
Clark busies himself with unpacking the groceries and takes stock, mentally girding himself for all possible outcomes. Bruce may not want company, he could hate Clark's cooking, he may not be interested in pursuing anything romantic or sexual, he might kick Clark off the team, he could –
"Master Wayne gets that same furrow when he's thinking too hard, you know," Alfred observes, cutting into Clark's thoughts.
"What furrow?"
"The one you have right now." Alfred nimbly plucks the bottle of wine from Clark's unresisting grip. "I won't presume to know your thoughts, but if I may offer a word of advice?"
Clark offers a weak smile. "Please."
"Master Wayne is a man intimately acquainted with futility. With the dark underbelly of society and all of the ways men hurt each other, just because they can," Alfred says, with a small, sad smile. "All of those years fighting crime...they've hardened him."
"And yet, he sings lullabies to small children and supports a medical facility single-handedly and visited my mom while I was gone and...take that painting he did, the one in the hallway..." Clark spreads his hands out, because he's got a pretty good idea about what Alfred's trying to tell him. "I mean...he can't be that immune to the beauty of life and create something like that. Right?"
"Ah, you noticed." Alfred beams at him, pleased. Clark has the feeling he's passed a test – an important one – when Alfred nods. "Well, unless you need anything else, I'll be off."
"No, I think I'm good," Clark tells him, with his own smile. "Thank you, Alfred."
"No, Mr. Kent, thank you," he says, and leaves Clark, a virtual stranger, alone in Bruce's house.
Clark isn't about to let that show of trust go to waste.
"Right," he says out loud to himself. "Let's do it."
He loses himself in the rhythm of chopping and mixing, humming along to the classical music piping through the speakers, and tries to push everything else out of his mind. He's committed himself to trying, so the least he can do is give himself a chance to succeed. Thirty minutes later, he's pulled the salmon out of the oven to cool, and is blanching the kale before he heats it for the salad when he hears the front door open.
"Whatever it is you're cooking, Clark, it smells amazing!"
Showtime, Clark tells himself, quelling the resurgent butterflies, and walks into the living room. Bruce is unbuttoning the top two buttons of his dress shirt, and loosening his tie. (Clark may or may not take an extra second to appreciate the view.) "It should only be about..." He stops, as Bruce's earlier words catch up to him. "Wait, how'd you know it was me cooking and not Alfred?" he asks.
Bruce just arches an imperious eyebrow. "I'm Batman."
He says it so seriously that it takes Clark a moment to see the way Bruce's eyes are twinkling. "Alfred told you I was coming over, didn't he."
"The Gotham Bat never reveals his sources," Bruce replies, with a quick wink that absolutely does not wreck Clark's equilibrium in any way, shape or form. "So, what's for dinner?"
"Um..." It takes Clark a second to process the question. "It's...salmon over warm kale salad. I tried to keep it simple," he says. "I didn't think you'd appreciate a heavy meal before going off on patrol."
"Sounds delicious," Bruce says, and walks over to the bar, lifting one of the decanters. "Do you want a drink?"
"I...well..." Clark gestures towards the kitchen "...I brought wine." Had agonized over it for an hour, in fact. He'd done enough research online that he's pretty sure he's at least a mild expert in the best wines that pair with salmon. "It's a Gamay."
"Bold choice, I approve," Bruce says, and Clark all but sags in relief. "Let's save it for dinner."
"Um, okay." Clark walks over to the bar. "In that case, I'll have whatever you're having."
Bruce pours them both a glass of scotch – this time, Clark can taste notes of honey and raisins and nuts. "Very smooth," he comments, impressed. "Creamy, almost, but with a hint of spice. Aged in port barrels, right?"
"Perceptive. You've got a good palate," Bruce observes, raising his glass to his lips. "I'd love to run some tests someday, figure out how your taste buds are different than a human's."
Clark shrugs and takes another sip. "Sure, whenever you want."
"You'd let me?" There's surprise in Bruce's voice, and more than a little caution. Like he's not sure he's heard Clark correctly.
"Of course I would," Clark replies, and going on instinct, steps forward and places a hand on Bruce's shoulder. "I trust you."
Bruce's lashes lower to half-mast, the length of them almost absurd as he glances at Clark from under them. "I'm not sure I've done anything to deserve it," he says, soft and serious, "but thank you. It means a lot."
Clark licks dry lips, the spike of want spearing through him painful in its intensity. It's an effort not to close the distance between them, to tug gently on Bruce's lower lip with his teeth and see if he can get Bruce's lashes to flutter in a far more pleasurable manner. His voice is rough-edged when he speaks. "I'm not sure exactly what I've done to earn yours, so...I guess we're even."
"No, I don't think we are." Bruce sets his glass on the bar, and maybe it's Clark's imagination, but he could swear Bruce's glance drifts ever so slightly to his lips.
"We are," Clark assures him, and sways forward, already anticipating the feel of Bruce's mouth against his, when Bruce jerks back as if scalded. Clark stumbles before he rights himself, and then winces. "Sorry," he says, carefully setting his tumbler next to Bruce's. He can feel the hot blush of embarrassment work its way across his cheeks. "That was...I think maybe I should go."
Before he humiliates himself further. Before Bruce says something cutting – or worse, lets him down gently. He's not sure he could handle pity, not when he'd thought –
"Clark, wait."
He could leave, he tells himself, and there's nothing Bruce can do to stop it. He could be out the door and across the world – across the solar system – in the time it would take Bruce to say another word. It's only the thought of the disappointment on his mom's face – and the one on Alfred's – that keeps him in place.
When he opens his eyes, Bruce is staring at him intently, like he's searching for something. But his face is as closed off as ever, inscrutable to the last. Which is an odd sort of comfort, Clark thinks. For the first time he can remember, he doesn't want to know what Bruce is thinking.
Bruce opens his mouth, closes it, and sighs, the sound coming from deep within him. And when he speaks, he sounds exhausted. "Listen, I...I'm flattered, I am, but...I don't want to hurt you."
Clark scoffs, the sound ugly and raw even to his own ears. "I don't need you to patronize me. I'm a big boy, I can handle rejection."
He's hurt and more than a little disappointed, he won't lie, but he should have known better than to think he had a shot. How could he have been foolish enough to think that Bruce would want this? Would want him? They're far too different, move in such disparate worlds. Under normal circumstances, a man like Clark Kent wouldn't be let within a thousand yards of Bruce Wayne.
"It's not..." Bruce pinches the bridge of his nose. Clark can't ever recall a time when he's seen Bruce looking this uncomfortable inside his own skin. "It's not rejection, it's –"
"Not rejection?" Clark can feel the familiar anger building inside him, and he welcomes it. Anything is better than the pain. "Are you trying to send me mixed signals, or is this just some weird, innate quality you have?"
"I don't want to hurt you." Bruce's voice is low now, fevered, the look on his face begging Clark to...what, Clark isn't entirely sure. Agree with him? Understand him?
"If you don't want me, that's fine, but –"
"Of course I fucking want you!" Bruce snaps, effectively stopping Clark in his tracks. "That's the problem."
"You...I'm sorry, could you repeat that?" Clark asks, now completely lost. "You what?"
Bruce's lips turn up, the smile wry. "Would you like me to call Diana? I can swear on her lasso if it'll make you feel better," he offers.
"No, it's alright. I believe you." Clark rocks back on his heels. Then he picks up his glass and drains it in one gulp, letting the burn of the alcohol clear his throat. Not for the first time, he wishes he could get drunk. "So...just so I have this right. You want me, I want you, and that's a problem, why?"
"Like I said, I don't want to hurt you," Bruce repeats, slower this time, like that will help any of this make more sense. "And if we do this, I will."
"Do...what is it exactly, that we're doing?" Clark asks, probing now, because he'll be damned if he makes another assumption where Bruce is concerned.
But Bruce, predictably, doesn't rise to the bait. "Don't play coy, it doesn't suit you."
Clark's gaze drops, then he swallows. "I...I don't know what you want me to say here."
"You don't have to say anything." Bruce lets out another soft sigh. He looks so tired, tired and lonely, and so lost that Clark aches – all over, right down to his bones – just watching him. "Just know that I'm sorry for everything I put you through, for everything I did, and I know I'm not –"
"Bruce. Just...enough, okay. Stop with the self-flagellation. It's not your fault I died." Somehow, finally saying the word is freeing, gives him the courage to take a chance, and take a step forward. "I seem to remember telling you – not that long ago – that you don't have to apologize."
"You're right, you did," Bruce says, and Clark is a seasoned reporter, able to quickly read body language and to pick up on the subtle, unspoken clues people so often unwittingly let slip. But right now, he can't read Bruce at all.
"So why are you?" he asks.
"Why are you here?" Bruce counters, pouring himself another fingerful of scotch.
Clark's brows come together. Is Bruce baiting him? Testing him? "Pretty sure it's obvious," he answers, slowly.
"Humor me." It's not a request.
"Okay," Clark says, drawing out the word. "I'm making us dinner. Mom baked a pie. I thought...well, that it'd be nice for us to get to know each other."
"Why?"
"Why would I want to get to know you better?" Clark asks, mystified. "Is this a test?"
"If you want," Bruce replies, shrugging. But the tense line of his shoulders belies his easy tone.
"Alright, I'll play along." Clark has no idea what is going through Bruce's mind, but he gets the distinct impression that, if he leaves now, he'll have lost his chance forever. And that's not a risk he's willing to take. "You fascinate me. You've fascinated me from the start. All of your knowledge, all of these skills, all of the ways you help people, and yet you refuse to take anything for yourself. To take anyone for yourself."
"And you want to be that person?" Bruce asks, his voice now gravely and raw.
"Well, I'd like to be," Clark replies, honestly, because at this point, he figures he's got nothing else to lose. "But that's up to you."
"And it doesn't bother you that I've hurt people and enjoyed it? That I've hurt you?" Bruce asks, motioning towards him. "I keep Kryptonite on me at all times, just in case. I have contingency plans to incapacitate Diana and Arthur if needed, and ones for Victor and Barry. I'm paranoid and distrustful and emotionally stunted and Alfred would tell you – correctly, I might add – that I am unhealthily addicted to being The Batman. I'm not a good person, Clark...hell, most days, I'm not much of a person at all."
"That's bullshit, and you know it," Clark argues. "I mean, I won't lie, your paranoia is...well, it's a bit much sometimes, but it's not a deal-breaker."
"And what about the fact that I'm a criminal and a –" Bruce starts, but Clark doesn't give him a chance to finish.
"Look, if you don't want to figure out –" he shrugs, unsure how to phrase it "– what we could be – just tell me. But don't turn me down out of some weird sense of misplaced guilt or because you don't think you deserve something good in your life. Because you do."
Bruce is silent for a painfully long time. Long enough Clark starts to think he's pushed too hard, been too honest, backed Bruce into a corner. He's trying to come up with the words to let them both off the hook so they can each have some shred of dignity in place the next time they're together when Bruce lets out a long, careful breath.
"How does anyone say no to you," he murmurs, so soft it barely stirs the air, but he knows – he has to know – that Clark can hear it as clearly as if Bruce had shouted it.
Clark feels the first faint flutter of hope start to beat in his chest. "Well, I'd really like it if you didn't. Say no, that is," he clarifies, because he's not going to give Bruce any wiggle room.
"I don't think saying no to you has been an option since the moment we met," Bruce admits, with a rueful grin that blessedly reaches his eyes. "But I should warn you now, before we...this isn't going to end well."
"Again with the mixed signals," Clark says, shaking his head. "You know, for a playboy, you're really bad at saying yes," he teases, and lifts his hand to trail his fingers along the sharp cut of Bruce's jawline. "And here I thought you had a reputation."
"You matter," Bruce replies, simply, and Clark's heart just melts, right into a puddle at Bruce's feet.
"Oh," he whispers, every bit of breath punched right out of his lungs.
"But I also want us walking in with eyes wide open on how this will end," Bruce continues, still so determined to throw cold water on Clark's emotions. "Because we both know it will end badly."
"No, we don't know," Clark tells him. "Unless your superpower is seeing into the future?"
"Funny." Bruce smiles, but it's far too sad for Clark's liking. "I may be only human, but I know people. I know me. I'll drag you down into the abyss eventually, and when that day happens, I want you to get out. I swear right now, I won't hold it against you."
Clark's lips twitch. Bruce is impossible, stubborn, willfully self-destructive, and so self-sacrificing it's a wonder he hasn't suffocated under the weight of it. And Clark is stupidly, dizzyingly, crazy about him.
"Breaking us up before we've even really gotten together," he comments, with a tsk. "Sounds very nihilistic. And like so much bullshit," he adds, because he may as well get right to the point. "Look, I know this won't be easy. But my parents taught me to fight for something if I think it's worth it. And I think this is worth it. You're worth it."
"I've got a lot of baggage," Bruce warns, but his voice has lost some of the conviction it had had earlier.
"I can lift planets, I think I'll be okay," Clark says, with a triumphant smile. If Bruce is reduced to pendantic arguments, he's already on board. Bruce wants this. He wants Clark. They can deal with everything else as it comes up.
"I'm serious."
"So am I. Because you're not the only one with demons, you know," he says, then continues, confessing his own truth. It's past time Bruce understands he's not alone, and never was. "You know, Lois, she told me once that she wasn't sure if I could be me and...be with her at the same time. That the cost of it...well, that loving her came with a price I might not be able to pay."
Bruce's look is commiserate. "I had an ex-girlfriend once tell me the same thing. That happiness wasn't a possibility for Bruce Wayne as long as Gotham needed The Batman."
"She knew about you?" Clark asks, surprised.
"Yeah, she knew." Bruce sighs, soul-deep and weary. "And most days, I think she's got a point."
"I think she's wrong. Your ex. Her and Lo, they're both wrong." He cups Bruce's jaw now, thumb running along the sharp angle of bone. Revels in the roughness of Bruce's facial hair and the heat of his skin. Inhales that earthy, woodsy scent that's all Bruce, and shivers in anticipation. "I think we're allowed to have something for us, or else what are we fighting for?"
"So no one else has to suffer," Bruce says, although his eyes slip closed, and he arches his chin up, baring it for Clark's touch. "That's why we fight."
"That's part of it, sure," Clark agrees. "But without love and laughter and happiness – and great burgers with avocado –" he adds, just to see Bruce smile "– to remind us that the world can be a bright and beautiful place, then you lack the proper context." He brushes a light kiss across Bruce's forehead, right between those furrowed brows. "That's what you give me."
Bruce's cheeks turn a delightful shade of pink. "Clark..."
"I mean it."
"I know. That's the problem."
"Well, I never claimed to fight fair." Clark is sure he has to sound as giddy as he feels. "I think I've finally figured you out. You frustrate and bewilder and annoy me, but you're also one of the bravest people I've ever met. You're brilliant and you care so much about people and you've spent your whole life trying desperately to make Gotham a better place, and you're frankly one of the most attractive men I've ever seen and I would very much like to see where this thing might lead. If that's something you want."
So much of Bruce's life is a carefully constructed lie, an acting job worthy of the greatest performer on any stage, every inch of him cultivated and curated, every minute of his life in service to his cause. The number of people allowed beyond the veil to the truth simmering underneath the surface could be counted on one hand.
And somehow, inexplicably, by some miracle, Clark is one of those people. Bruce may not have gone about it in a normal manner, but he's tried, in his very Bruce-like way, on so many different occasions, to show how much trust he has in Clark. It's humbling, it's exhilarating, it's the biggest rush outside of flying at supersonic speeds. And it's something Clark will never, ever take for granted.
"Promise me," Bruce says, quietly. "Tell me you know what you're getting into and –"
"I promise I want this," Clark vows, then slides his hand up to cup Bruce's cheek. "Now, is it alright if I kiss you finally?"
Bruce doesn't reply, but he does jerk out a nod. Clark allows himself a flickering smile in relief, then his lips are on Bruce's, feather-light, demanding nothing. And Bruce, after a second of stillness, shivers and returns it, opening his mouth on a delicate sigh.
Clark can discern the faint remnants of scotch on Bruce's tongue, but under it, there's something more elusive, raw, something he's been craving without ever having had it before. The soft rasp of Bruce's bristles scrapes across his chin like sandpaper. The lips against his own conform to him completely, the kiss deepening until they're both flush together, their bodies straining towards each other, desperate and greedy for more.
Clark only tears away when he can feel Bruce struggle for breath. Right, humans need oxygen, that's important to remember. "Bruce, I..." He falters, stops. Now that they're here, now that they're doing this, he's not sure where to start. He's imagined this moment so many times, but none of his fantasies have left him tongue-tied, aching and yearning to his very bones from something as simple as a kiss.
Bruce just smiles, and tangles their fingers together, the touch grounding Clark to the earth. "Relax," he says, and gives Clark one of those under-the-lashes half-smiles. "This is supposed to be the fun part, remember."
The laughter that bubbles up surprises him, loosens a knot from somewhere deep inside his chest. "Yeah. Yeah, you're right."
"Come on," Bruce says, and tugs on Clark's hand, the meaning unmistakable.
Clark goes, following Bruce as willingly as always, but he figures one of them should at least remember why Clark is ostensibly here. "Dinner will get cold," he warns, thankful he'd at least turned off the oven and wrapped the salmon.
Bruce shrugs and keeps walking. "I don't care if you don't."
Clark really doesn't.
Bruce leads him into the bedroom and the opulent king-sized bed. Plenty of room for both of them, Clark thinks, plenty of room for all of the things he wants to do to Bruce, all of the things he wants Bruce to do to him. And, then he stops thinking altogether as Bruce strips out of his clothing, economical and swift, each piece littering the floor until he's once again completely, beautifully naked. Sun-bronzed skin contrasting with the white of his scars, all of that coiled power and innate grace on display, a work of art for Clark's eyes alone.
His mouth goes bone dry at the sight. "Wow."
"You've seen me naked," Bruce points out, indulgent and amused.
"Yeah, but now it's different," Clark agrees, and lets his gaze linger. "Now I get to look."
"Should I pose or something?" Bruce asks, clearly teasing, but Clark doesn't smile in return. Part of him is itching to explore, to finally get his hands and lips on every inch of Bruce's body, but another part thinks he could look at Bruce the rest of the night and be content with just that.
"The first time I saw you shirtless, I thought about Apollo. The Sun God of Greek mythology," Clark clarifies, although he knows Bruce knows who he's talking about.
Bruce tilts his head, frowning. "Shouldn't that be you?"
"That would be a little narcissistic, don't you think?" he asks, lifting an eyebrow.
"I meant –"
"I know what you meant," Clark says. "And I meant what I said, too."
Bruce's grin is a slow unfurling of the sunrise. "Well, if scars do it for you, then who am I to argue."
"You do it for me, Bruce. Just you," Clark says, and finally allows himself to move into Bruce's space until he's so close, a slip of paper couldn't fit between them.
Bruce grabs the back of Clark's head and yanks him in for a hard kiss, nipping on Clark's bottom lip with sharp teeth. "Less talking, more of your clothes coming off," Bruce growls, impatient now, and Clark can hear the rush of blood in Bruce's veins, can taste the subtle notes of ozone and musk in the air.
"Whatever you say," he says, and noses in, kissing Bruce again, this one slow and impossibly sweet.
And Bruce is right there with him, pressing close, strength to strength, lips against his, asking permission with the flicker of his tongue. Clark opens his mouth, answering with a low moan, and lets go, lets Bruce in. Soft lips traverse from his mouth across his cheek to his eyebrows, and Clark huffs out a hitched breath at the gentleness of the gesture, so at odds with how hard they both are.
Bruce murmurs something indistinct, then moves his hands up, unbuttoning Clark's shirt, taking the time to glide cool fingers across Clark's chest and stomach, stopping to trace each rib, the concave hollow at the top of his abs, following the matted trail of hair down to the waistband of his jeans. "Beautiful," he whispers reverently, and for the first time since Clark's rebirth, he feels like he's right where he belongs.
Then Bruce tugs at his zipper, and Clark stumbles as he steps out of his jeans, his normal grace deserting him as lust and need take over.
"Careful," Bruce admonishes, laughter warm in Clark's ear. "Don't want you breaking anything before we get started."
"Ass," Clark replies, fondly, and presses the tips of his fingers along the muscled planes of Bruce's back. "Latissimus dorsi," he murmurs, trailing over solid muscle and bone, then down to the hollow of lean hips, "leading to the obliques, which rest over the ilium..."
"So you were paying attention," Bruce says, lips parting on a sigh when Clark traces the thick vein on the underside of Bruce's cock.
"You have no idea," Clark tells him, and cups the heavy, warm weight of Bruce's scrotum in his palm.
"Fuck..." Bruce groans, and rubs against him, sleek and nimble and utterly perfect.
Clark ducks in for another kiss, another taste, an addict now. "I take it that feels good?"
"God yes, yes," Bruce hisses, and grinds against him, slow heat mixed with desire. He bites at Clark's lower lip, harder this time, as his own hands start roaming and mapping Clark's body, memorizing every inch he can reach by touch. Like there might be a quiz later and he wants to ace it, the way he does everything else. "Wanted this for so long..."
"Me too...please," Clark begs, and moans, low and heartfelt, when Bruce slithers gracefully to his knees and wraps tight lips around the head of his cock.
He looks down, breath catching in his throat. Bruce is so beautiful like this, all of his considerable focus and attention on Clark, like Clark's pleasure is Bruce's only goal in life, and of course, of course, Bruce is amazingly good with his mouth. And Bruce's tongue fluttering along the underside of his cock is the best sort of torture, an exquisite pain Clark never ever wants to end.
"Jesus, Bruce," he breathes, barely aware he's even speaking out loud. When Bruce releases him with a loud pop and slides back up along his body, he can't tear his gaze from Bruce's lips, red and bruised and full. It's a very good look on him.
Then Bruce flicks his tongue over his lower lip and lets out a pleased hum. "You taste like sunlight," he says, and Clark just has to kiss him again for that, has to keep kissing him until they're both out of breath.
His hands are clumsy, rough, when he starts pushing Bruce towards the bed, and he almost loses his footing – again – because he can't keep his eyes off of Bruce long enough to look where he's going. Not that he thinks anyone would blame him, not when faced with the acres of golden, beautiful skin and the rippling muscles and coiled grace that make up Bruce's incredible body. A body forged to wage war, a body built for keeping the peace.
A warm breeze is blowing from the open sliding glass door. Clark can smell lake water as they finally tumble onto the sheets. A hand glides along his flank as he trails his fingers across strong shoulders. Their legs tangle, hairs rubbing together, and Clark can feel the steady thump-thump of Bruce's heart beating against his own, can hear the rush of oxygen filling Bruce's lungs. The hands on him are strong, work-rough, press a lot harder than he's been used to, but it still feels amazing.
He can't quite believe that they're actually doing this, but he's smart enough not to overthink it. They're here now, and that's what counts. Clark follows the goosebumps along Bruce's arm – stopping at his wrist, the crook of his elbow, the muscled line between his bicep and triceps – to his shoulder, collarbone, taking his time as he finally gets to touch every puckered scar, every faded bruise, and mark upon Bruce's flesh.
"Thought about this, so many times," he confesses, his voice thick with arousal "...you, like this...getting to taste you like this..."
"Have you now?" Bruce asks, gratifyingly breathless, each graze of his fingers along Clark's body sparking already over-heated nerves.
"Mmhmm," Clark says, and wraps his fist lightly over Bruce's cock, tracing the veins and ridges, smearing pre-come across the tips of his fingers. "Couldn't get the image of you naked out of my mind."
Bruce's eyes glitter with something dark and dangerous when he smiles. "Good," he says, the sound a purr against Clark's lips, and his tongue slides along Clark's before he can make a reply. And, honestly, talking's overrated, anyway.
Bruce's hands sweep over him, callused and slow, and he follows the path with his lips, igniting a thousand small fires under Clark's skin. A soft tongue darts at his nipples, gentle teeth rake over his ribs, indistinct words are murmured against his abs, and it's easy enough to lie back. To enjoy the simple pleasure of Bruce's mouth on his body, worshipping and claiming in equal measure.
"You're awfully good at this," he remarks, then jumps when Bruce's teeth find a sensitive spot along his hip bone, stubble abrading his skin.
"You're not the only one who's thought about this, remember," Bruce says, spider-walking his fingers down Clark's stomach and stopping just above his groin.
Clark places his hand over Bruce's, guides it down to where he wants it most. "It's not nice to tease, you know..."
"Should've guessed you'd be pushy," Bruce mock-complains, even as he closes his fingers around Clark's cock, and begins a slow, maddening rhythm.
"Come up here already," he rasps, and tugs gently on the back of Bruce's head to bring him up for a kiss, shuddering each time Bruce's fist tightens over him, each time he slides up and down.
But as good as this is, as reluctant as he is to lose those clever fingers, he wants to taste Bruce even more. Wants, with a visceral need, to see if he can make Bruce lose some of his vaulted control. "My turn," he says, and wastes no more time pushing Bruce to the pillows and slithering down until he's lying comfortably between Bruce's thighs.
He opens his lips, tongue flickering over the slit of Bruce's cock, catching on small droplets of pre-come. The hot, heavy tang fills his mouth as he lazily bobs his head, and he's sorely out of practice at doing this, but Bruce doesn't seem to care. At least, not if the way the moans and bucking of his hips are anything to go by. Clark hums a little on the next slide down, the sound vibrating along Bruce's length, back into Clark, and he slips when Bruce thrusts up, chokes a little.
"You okay?" Bruce's concerned voice floats down to him, gentle fingers brushing across his cheeks.
"Yeah," Clark answers, lifting his head long enough to smile. "Just...been awhile."
"No complaints," Bruce says, and, before Clark can lower his head to get back to work, Bruce twists around until his face is level with Clark's crotch. When Clark blinks and stares down, Bruce just grins. "I trust you have no objections."
"Uh..." Clark stammers, just as Bruce digs his hand into Clark's hip and parts his lips, his tongue flat along the underside of Clark's cock as he takes Clark deep. And, well, no one's ever accused Clark of not knowing a good thing when he's got it.
The angle this way is a little weird, with both of them on not-quite on their sides, but it feels so good Clark doesn't care. Bruce's lips are obscenely tight over him, and he keeps doing some wild butterfly thing with his tongue that Clark tries his best to emulate, but all he can mostly do is moan around Bruce and try to move as best he can. Every time he takes a breath, his torso sticks to Bruce's skin, sending heated shocks along a body already clamoring and aching for more.
He starts to float off the bed, and goes with it, twisting them slightly so Bruce is above him, fully supported by Clark's weight. He grabs hold of Bruce's calves to hold him steady, and tilts his head a little more so he can get back to the important business of sucking Bruce off, feasting on every moan and sigh. Bruce, to his credit, only tenses for the briefest of moments before he relaxes, and starts that same, slow, maddening slide that scrambles every single one of Clark's brain cells.
Then one of Bruce's hands finds its way between Clark's thighs, cupping over his balls, and the shock of it explodes across his senses like a bomb. He tries to give a warning, but Bruce pushes his hips forward at that exact moment, and he swallows as much of Bruce's cock as he can instead, as Bruce's throat works, milking him dry.
Lassitude fills him, and his vision blurs as his limbs go numb. The first thick splash of come hits his throat, and some of it dribbles across his mouth and chin in spite of his best efforts, but he can't even manage the energy to do anything about it – it takes all of his focus to slowly lower them back to the bed.
He feels Bruce moving again, then warm lips dragging across his chin, and his cock gives an interested twitch at the thought of Bruce licking up his own come, but Clark can't even get his eyes to open to enjoy the sight. "Don't think I can move," he mumbles instead, and manages to pat Bruce's ass once before his hand slides down, then to the mattress.
"That could be awkward," Bruce replies, sounding pleased and very smug. "Considering all the plans I have for you now that you're here."
Clark doesn't even bother to lift his head. However, he does at least pry his eyelids open. Bruce's smile is just this side of arrogant: his gaze is bright and clear, his cheeks flushed, lips shiny with spit and come, which shouldn't look as hot as it does. "Hmmm?"
Bruce laughs, richly amused. "How can you look this wholesome while you're naked and fucked out in my bed?" Before Clark can sputter out a response, Bruce rolls on top of him, solid warmth pinning him back to the mattress, as he stretches, all sinuous lethal grace and distraction.
"I won't apologize for earlier," Bruce says, but Clark hears the vulnerability in his voice all the same.
"You wouldn't be you if you did," Clark replies, and rests his hands on Bruce's hips. "Although I'm not sure what you're not apologizing for, exactly."
"Testing you," Bruce says, quietly. "Pushing you. I just don't want there to be any lies between us."
"Bruce, I already know the mission comes first and last and always with you," Clark tells him. "And I know that because it's the same for me. Being Superman isn't just something I do, it's who I am."
"Yes," Bruce agrees, looking relieved and pleased in equal measure. "That's it exactly."
"I did tell you I had you figured out," he replies, with a grin and a light kiss to Bruce's jaw.
Bruce can only laugh, then gasp, as Clark's fingers start to trail down. "So soon?"
"You aren't the only one with plans," Clark says, nipping at the spot where his lips had just been, and they stop talking for a long, long while.
***
The briefs hit him in the face, waking him from a dead sleep. "Wh-hmph?"
When he cracks his eyes open, he sees Bruce – in a tank top and shorts – standing at the foot of the bed. His teeth gleam white in the dark. "Get dressed," he says. "Meet me on the deck."
Less than a minute later, his own tee and briefs on, Clark steps out onto the deck and looks curiously at Bruce, who simply points up. The meteor shower above them is as unexpected as it is beautiful.
"Oh," Clark murmurs, stunned. Part of him aches to fly out to meet them, to be part of the show, but the rest of him is content, just this once, to be a spectator. To look up at the stars, instead of taking his place among them.
He bumps shoulders with Bruce, companionable and close. "Thanks," he says, a moment later.
He doesn't need to look over to know Bruce is smiling. "You're welcome."
"You know," Clark says, draping his arm around Bruce's waist to pull him even closer, "if you're supposed to be my reward for coming back from the dead, I can't say I mind it too much."
Because, when he thinks about it – about living and dying and being reborn and debts and second chances and how he's changed, hopefully for the better – everything that's happened has brought him to this point. To this moment in time. To Bruce and the promise of what they could be, now that they're together. And maybe he's a romantic, but he wouldn't change a thing about anything that's come before.
"Clark..." Bruce says, and it sounds like a warning.
Clark nuzzles his jaw in apology. "Yeah, I know, the gallows humor is more you than me."
"That wasn't what I was going to say," Bruce says, surprising him.
"What were you going to say?"
Bruce's voice is a low hum in his ear. "That I've never been someone's reward before."
"Well, you are now." Clark lets out a contented sigh, and rests his temple against Bruce's. Feels the weight of him, human and real, solid strength and fragile emotions all wrapped in an irresistible package.
"I want you to hear me," he says, lowering his voice until it's a secret for just the two of them. "Lo – Lois – she gave me faith that there are good people in this world." He pulls back, traces a path over Bruce's lips with a fingertip. "She gave me hope."
"I –" Bruce stops, shakes his head ruefully. "God, I wish I'd met you ten years ago. Back when I still had some modicum of optimism. But Gotham...it's worn me down too much for me to give myself to anyone, unfettered and whole."
"I don't want you, as you put it, unfettered and whole," Clark tells him, his gaze steady now. "I want you just like this, damaged and burnt out and still trying so hard, still suiting up and doing your job, even when you're tired or disillusioned. Because you give me a different kind of hope." He rests his hand right over Bruce's steady heartbeat, lets the warmth seep into him, as sustaining as the sun at high noon. "Because your hope isn't rooted in idealism or a higher justice, but in sweat and blood and sacrifice. You go out there, putting yourself on the line, night after night, because you believe you can make a difference."
"I used to."
"You still do," Clark says, confident. "You remind me of what the best of humanity is. And do you know what that makes me?"
"An idealistic idiot," Bruce replies, but his look is so soft and fond and open that Clark's heart tumbles all over again.
"I got you out of it so it must not be all bad," Clark says, dropping his thumb to the hollow of Bruce's throat.
"I could just be using you to test out my hypotheses on alien sex," Bruce says, with a shrug that belies the flush of arousal blooming across his chest.
"Lucky for me I'm an alien," Clark says, amiably, and leans in, brushes their lips together. "I guess I'll just have to volunteer my services until you're satisfied."
He hopes that's not for a good, long time.
"You might be here awhile," Bruce mutters, echoing Clark's thoughts, as he shifts to bring them in closer contact. "I'm pretty thorough when I'm in scientist mode."
"Well, I am Superman," Clark says, as their lips meet again. "The very model of selflessness."
"You're a super something alright."
"Super happy?" Clark guesses, smiling when Bruce groans in protest. "Super lucky? Super –"
Bruce just neatly sweeps Clark's feet out from under him, the move so smooth and fast that not even Clark could evade it. He lands flat on his back, the breath momentarily knocked out of him.
"Too cheesy?" he asks, when he can speak again.
Bruce rolls his eyes, his body shaded silver in the moonlight. "Don't make me rethink this relationship already."
Clark full on beams up at him. "You just called this a relationship."
"Clark..."
"Alright, puns are out, got it," Clark concedes, staring up at Bruce with what he's sure is a dopey grin. "But we both know I'm not the best at following orders, so if you did want to shut me up..." He trails off meaningfully, knowing Bruce will take the hint.
Bruce just gazes down at him with an inscrutable expression, but then, the next instant, he's lying on top of Clark, and grinding their hips together. "Yeah," he says, and there's a wealth of meaning in just that one word, "I know exactly what to do."
"Show me," Clark says, and pulls Bruce down for a kiss that vibrates between them like a promise.
***