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Stuck in a loop. On his flight back to Metropolis, Clark kept running the conversation through his mind. Friends, he had said. As if Bruce wasn’t one of them. But then again, he wasn’t entirely sure about that anyway. And then that word had hung in the cold air between them, until he had heard the leather of Bruce’s cowl frown, and realized that he had misjudged. Completely, and entirely punctuated by Bruce’s abrupt exit, leaving Clark alone in the snow. Crime never takes a holiday, Clark, Bruce had ground out. And yet, he had invited him to his house mere seconds before that with every possibility still open. Now the door was only on a crack, if not already shut completely.
He had assumed it would stop after sharing their secret identities with each other. That that was that, they would go on the same way they had in the past couple years, and Bruce would stay a mystery for him beyond the cowl and the name. That Bruce simply did not see the need for anything more, practical as he was. That they would never be friends, because one wrong word would send them into a spiral of discussion. Bickering. That’s what they did. That’s what worked.
But oh how he wanted to spend time with Bruce, bickering or otherwise.
On Christmas day, he left ma and pa after lunch and landed on the steps of Wayne Manor, snow soft under his red boots and a quick spin out of costume into regular clothes. The doorbell echoed through the grand hall, confronting and real.
“Mr. Kent.” Alfred’s eyebrows rose as he opened the large front door for Clark, but his mouth curled into a smile. He wiped off his hands on the tea towel hanging over his shoulder, folded it neatly before placing it over his arm. “A pleasant surprise. Master Bruce informed me you had declined his invitation.”
He didn’t think he had ever seen Alfred not impeccably clean, apron far from crisply white and sleeves rolled up, and he wished he hadn’t shown up here so last minute. “Oh, I’m sorry. I don’t mean to impose… I should asked if the invitation still stood.”
“Nonsense, we have plenty of food. An extra plate on the table is no problem at all.” He stepped aside to let Clark into the grand hall. With its cold stone, high ceiling and stairs winding up. It smelled like cinnamon and nutmeg, coming in with the light from the open kitchen door. Clark had been there once before. It hadn’t been like this. “He’s in the study. Up the stairs and second door to the right,” Alfred inclined towards the stairs.
“Thank you. Happy holidays, Alfred.”
“Merry Christmas to you, Mr. Kent.”
Clark smiled. “Please, Clark is fine.”
Alfred nodded politely, a small smile gracing his lips, and Clark knew the correction wouldn’t stick. Alfred’s deft hands made Clark’s trench coat and hat disappear into the small coat room before he could protest that at all, so he just nodded his thanks one more time, turned to the stairs and jogged up slowly.
Bruce’s study was dark, mostly, when he pushed the door open a fraction. Tall windows framed by heavy curtains only let in a faint light of the stars and moon, a single lamp burned yellow next to an armchair. Clark stood in the doorway, one foot inside the room and unsure if he should knock.
“Clark.” From where he stood, Clark could only hear Bruce’s calm breathing, and see the pages of his book fanning apart where he held it up in the lamplight. It closed with a snap, Bruce got up.
“You knew it was me?”
“I sit by the window for a reason.” Not for him, Clark doubted.
“Ah,” Clark swallowed, touched his temple. “Yes, of course. The signal.”
“You should work on your discretion.”
On instinct, Clark crossed his arms in defence. “I’ve tried. The whole ninja gig doesn’t exactly work for me.”
Bruce nodded, narrowed his eyes. “Why are you here? Something amiss?”
“Oh, no. Joker hasn’t been seen since the party at Midway. Luthor is back in Metropolis, lying low.”
“Calm before the storm.”
“So they say.”
Bruce looked away again, out of the window. Clark followed his line of sight, to the Gotham skyline, blanketed in an almost permanent fog and lit up by multi-coloured moving lights. Down below in the garden, the pool lay empty and covered with patches of snow on top of tarp.
“I’m here,” Clark cleared his throat. “To apologize. I’m sorry,” he looked at Bruce. “For being insensitive. Truth is, I was a little overwhelmed. Didn’t really expect you to invite me. I didn’t mean to say what I said. If you’ll still have me?” He was rambling, probably.
Bruce turned to him. His corduroy pants and beige and black striped cashmere sweater moved smoothly along with him in the lamplight, and suddenly, Clark’s cheap blue acrylic sweater itched in his neck, made him feel out of place in such a vast house. Out of line. If Bruce sent him away now, at least he knew where they stood.
“What about your friends?” He jabbed the last word at Clark, like Clark had jabbed it at Bruce. Clark let it slide of his shoulders, calmly, like the icicle it was and bullets were prone to do anyway. He tried a smile.
“I see them almost every day. And I'm with one here.”
“Is that what we are?”
Yes. No. He wanted to be, he thought. They should be. “We could be.”
“Could be,” Bruce repeated the words softly, examining them as if they were a piece of data that needed to be studied. He sat back down in the armchair, picked up his tea. “Have a seat. It might be a while before dinner is ready. And take off your glasses, you don’t need those here.”
So that was that and Clark sat down. The chair was comfortable and soft, hugged his shoulders tightly, and he wondered if Bruce sat here a lot. The wings of the chair like blinders and only focused on his reading and the night sky.
Clark rubbed the bridge of his nose, right where his glasses wouldn’t leave an imprint. “I’m sorry about my gift Bruce, I didn’t know. That it was… that there are memories. Um, I realized when you said you'd seen it before, that is. I'm sorry.”
“Yes.”
“I can’t believe I was that stupid. I’ll get you something else, if you want.”
“Don’t.”
“Oh.”
“I thought you could watch it with me.” Oh. “Tonight.”
“Are you sure?” Clark tried. “It’s Christmas.”
“And you’re staying for dinner.”
“Yes.”
“Good. You could stay a bit longer.” The hesitation was only present in Bruce’s eyes boring in to Clark’s, not in his matter-of-fact tone of voice, in his hands on the armrests of his chair, or in the stern line of his mouth.
“I… yes, okay. I’d like that.” He smiled, Bruce's eyes shimmered, minute flicker but enough for Clark to catch.
Out of the dark hallway, Alfred showed up with another teacup for Clark and a fresh pot. Clark’s offers to help with dinner were met with more ‘nonsense’, and ‘do not worry, you’re our guest’. A pointed look at Bruce.
Clark leaned back in his chair. He watched Bruce, one ear out for the city and beyond, and his eyes on the smooth skin of Bruce’s cheekbones that he rarely got to see, the way he pursed his lips to blow steam away from his tea. Every now and then, Bruce raised his brow and gaze towards the window and the dark sky.
They talked, comfortable and smooth, as if they did this all the time. Clark wasn’t sure what that meant, what all of it meant. That he was here, on Christmas day, and not still in Smallville. Yet it felt right, right where he was, listening to Bruce’s finger tracing along the spine of his book as he spoke, and Alfred humming along to the radio in the kitchen downstairs.
“I’m glad you're here, Clark,” Bruce said suddenly, cutting into Clark’s reiteration of Jimmy’s latest escapades at the Planet. Clark smiled, leant back. He knew Bruce chose his words carefully, sparse and far and few between, and for Clark alone right now. There was no pretence, no innuendo about their night jobs that was shared between no-one but the two of them, no one listening. This was Bruce, unhindered and open, for Clark.
A thought fluttered, pushed itself right to the forefront of his mind, but he pushed it back, afraid to act and be wrong once again.
“Me too,” he said calmly instead. Testing the waters. One toe at a time, both of them. Bruce nodded, and the corner of his mouth twitched in a rare display of a smile.
Alfred came to get them for dinner. “Don’t expect too much,” he said. “I’ve kept things rather simple in case duty calls.” He shuffled them both along to the dining room, pulled out their chairs.
Simple turned out to be seared duck breast in a red wine sauce and a plethora of side dishes to choose from. Alfred joined them, indicated to Clark which fork to use first, subtle and unassuming.
They cheered, exchanged niceties, Christmas sentiment, discussed some case details and the orphanage and the shortcomings of their respective cities. Bruce did not mention the cave, as if it weren’t there, but Clark could hear the bats flapping their wings and the thrum of machinery, as continuously present as Batman was in Bruce's life and his every action.
The theatre was dark, with mahogany panelling and its red carpet faded through age. A large television stood imposing and black at the far end of the room. Bruce flicked the lights on, low and shadows on the walls.
“I don’t come in here a lot, anymore.” Clark wondered if this was Bruce telling him about his childhood. He wondered if Bruce had sat here on the floor, toy in his hands, his parents on the couch behind him while they watched a movie. But he didn’t ask.
“Too busy?” He asked instead.
“You know it.” Bruce didn’t know what to with his hands, and that was a new thing.
“I do,” Clark said as he sat down, and swung his arm over the backrest of the recliner couch. The leather was cold and creased under the weight of Clark’s limb, new and barely sat on. For show. Not the one the Waynes would have sat on. Bruce pushed the tape in, the television came to life with a line of light and a static crackle through the air that reached Clark’s ears like a wave.
When Bruce sat down next to him, only the armrest made sure of a respectable distance between them. If he were hesitant about watching the movie, he didn’t show it, and Clark wouldn’t have known it, afraid to let Bruce’s heartbeat flood his ears, his brain, his own heart. Instead, he put his arm down again awkwardly. The introduction credits sequence started playing, trumpets shrill and surging and the letters on the screen jittering with the age of the recording.
Clark cleared his throat. “Why did you invite me?”
Bruce turned to him, serious and severe, as if he’d just asked a question that didn’t need asking at all. “I trust you, Clark. I let you fly over my house and land in my garden because I know you’ll do it discretely. I know how you feel every night, and every day. I figured…” Bruce paused. “We could spend more time together.”
“The one thing you don’t have plenty of.”
“Neither do you, but here we are.”
“Here we are.”
“So I think it’s evident that you want that, too.”
“I do, yes.” Clark thought he would spend all the time in the world with Bruce, if he could. Unravelling him, thread by thread, learning to recognize the way he smiled and the way he held himself in confidence and in uncertainty. He let silence stretch a beat, then moved again. The leather creaked in protest. Bruce held his finger up to his mouth to indicate silence, motioned to the television. Clark snickered and sat back again, his other comments forgotten.
Outside it was quiet, the ordinary sounds cushioned through snow and inside it was warm and private and hidden from the world. Where Bruce felt safe to be himself, and Clark was allowed to see it.
On the screen, Tyrone Powers rode his horse into the scene to chase away the men of the Alcalde. Bruce’s hand was on the armrest between them, up in invitation, his eyes on the screen, strict and stationary. Clark put his hand on top of Bruce’s, in a space that was so clearly meant for him. He felt Bruce’s fingers close over his own, warm and rough and reassuring. That this was right, that he was here, that it fit, the two of them. World’s Finest, Jimmy had called them. In response, he rubbed Bruce’s thumb with his own. A strong heartbeat flooded his ears.
Bruce laughed at Vega’s flirtations with the Alcalde’s wife on the screen, bit his lip and clenched his other fist, as if he’d caught himself making a mistake.
“It’s okay to laugh,” Clark whispered. Bruce nodded. I know. It’s hard. Clark squeezed his hand. But it’s okay.
He would be here. Bruce was a book, an epic, a mystery, but one that Clark would gladly read to the end, one page at a time, at whatever pace Bruce would let him. He held on. To that thought. To Bruce’s hand.