Archive of Our Own ^beta

Clark suppressed a deep sigh. He could’ve been flying over Metropolis right now. Or sitting at the Watchtower with J’onn. He’d had to contact Diana to cover for him which was humiliating enough in itself. He was Superman, for God’s sake, he should be able to keep his schedule straight, even if he did technically have to plan two separate schedules. Usually, he could balance both Superman and Clark Kent’s lives without any trouble, despite the obvious issues of them being the same person. But no, of course Lois would have him cover for her at some benefit today of all days. It wouldn’t be that bad in and of itself, but this particular benefit had a theme. It was a masquerade. 

Clark prided himself on being openminded and a generally welcoming presence to those around him, but a masquerade? Who in their right mind would throw a benefit with all the guests’ faces covered up? The only reason half these people were here was to be able to get their picture in the papers. It would take some twisted mind to come up with this kind of irony. Then again – and Clark really wasn’t trying to be rude – most of the people attending the benefit were a little… special to say the least. And they did seem to have a lot of fun running around and guessing each other’s identities. 

Superman could just peek through and figure out who was who, but Clark Kent wasn’t supposed to be able to do that. He’d have to awkwardly make conversation like he didn’t know that the woman in the dangerously low-cut dress was the same woman who’d previously tried to get him thrown out of another party for “being an eyesore”. He’d have to smile politely at her as she flirted with him, clearly not recognizing his “hideous face” just because a piece of black material was covering the upper half. He was even wearing the same suit, which had been a major part of her complaints at the time. 

Clark’s smile was strained but the woman didn’t seem to notice as he excused himself. He adjusted his mask for the hundredth time since he put it on. He’d never understand how anyone could wear these things for a prolonged period of time. He was suddenly thankful his own costume didn’t come with a matching mask. He’d take the spandex-like suit and cape over a mask any day, even if it was just covering half his face. He felt weirdly restricted. And yes, he did know that technically speaking nothing really would be able to constrict Superman, but the point stood, nonetheless. 

Clark felt weirdly itchy underneath the stiff material, even though he’s certain Lois got him a proper mask, instead of just cutting something out of cardboard (looking at you, Jimmy). He pulled at the thin strings holding his mask in place, trying to rearrange them so they didn’t gnaw at his ear. 

He’d been talking to at least a dozen of Gotham’s finest – even if he wasn’t supposed to know their identities, none of them seemed to have a problem with mentioning it, “in case you need it for the article” – for hours and even Superman had his limits. He would very much like to find the nearest exit and just shoot Jimmy a text saying he’d gone home. He had plenty of material to work with, and so he searched the room for the quickest route out. 

A bony hand landed on his shoulder and if he’d been anyone else, he would’ve jumped out of his skin. There was so much noise in the large hall they were in, that normal humans wouldn’t have been able to hear the person sneaking up on them. Clark wasn’t a normal human, but he did shrug his shoulders in an imitation of fright. Many years of practice made it look real. 

“Oh my, did I scare you?” A loud voice chuckled, and Clark held in another sigh. What was it with the women of Gotham? One glass of champagne and all their inhibitions were thrown out the window. 

“Not at all, ma’am,” Clark said politely as he turned to the woman with a less-than-genuine smile. She didn’t seem to notice. 

“Ma’am,” the woman huffed but then laughed loudly enough that Clark had to fight not to flinch. His poor ears. “I most certainly am not a ma’am.” 

“I’m sorry, ma’am,” Clark responded by reflex and this time he did flinch. He tried for an apologetic smile, but the woman didn’t seem to have heard him. She was too busy staring at the notebook poking out of his chest pocket. 

“A reporter, huh?” She asked and even without his x-ray vision Clark could see the way she raised an eyebrow as her lips curled into a hungry smile. Where was Jimmy with his boyish charm when you needed him? Something about this woman rubbed him the wrong way, but he couldn’t quite put his finger on what. 

It may be the way she was clinging onto his arm with her thin fingers, but it wasn’t like Clark could just shake her off. He was raised with proper manners after all. 

Clark had just opened his mouth to say something, anything to excuse himself from the conversation, despite knowing he probably should take the interview, when a low voice spoke from a few feet away. Clark swore he felt a pair of intense eyes roaming over his frame before the person behind those eyes stepped into his line of sight. 

“Well, aren’t you a tall glass of water?” The man commented as he unabashedly let his bright blue eyes run up and down Clark’s body again. Clark would’ve felt awkward if he wasn’t too busy looking over every inch of the man in return. 

He was so big. It wasn’t every day that Clark met anyone his own size – when he wasn’t hunching over as Clark Kent, of course – but this man… He was easily as broad as Clark and nearly as tall as well. It wasn’t just the size of him that had Clark’s undivided attention though. There was something else about him; something familiar. 

“I – I’m sorry?” Clark couldn’t stop staring long enough to remember his manners. 

“Don’t be,” the man said with an airy laugh. 

Clark narrowed his eyes at him, thankful for the mask obscuring most of his face for a second. There was something about the man’s voice… It was eerily familiar yet somehow not at all.

“Beatrice, darling, would you mind terribly if I steal this handsome stranger away from you?” The man said with an elegant swish of his hand. It was like he was putting on a show. For whom, Clark wasn’t sure. 

“Bruce!” The woman – Beatrice, apparently – protested with a fake gasp. “We’re not supposed to reveal our identities, remember?” 

Bruce? Bruce Wayne, of course, Clark should’ve known. He would’ve if he hadn’t promised himself not to look through anymore masks after recognizing the woman from earlier. It would be better for him if he knew no more than the rest of the guests at the masquerade. Was that why his voice sounded familiar? Because he was Bruce Wayne? No, that wasn’t it. 

“How could I pretend not to recognize your beautiful figure, Beatrice? That would simply be too much of a lie for my soul to bear.” 

Even through the brightly colored mask it was clear that Beatrice was blushing like a young schoolgirl at Bruce’s words. Clark was too, though the warmth in his cheeks was more horrified embarrassment than anything else. He had to fight every instinct to keep from looking away. 

“Oh, Bruce,” Beatrice cooed. “You always know just what to say to get what you want. Alright then, he’s all yours.” 

Bruce smiled broadly at Beatrice, and Clark was once again struck by a familiarity that didn’t quite fit with the wide grin. He frowned as Bruce laughed at something else Beatrice said, trying to figure out what seemed so wrong about the entire ordeal. Then for a split-second Bruce’s smile slipped as he tilted his head just so and Clark immediately recognized that strong chin. He nearly dropped his jaw. 

Batman. 

It couldn’t be, but there was no other explanation. The prominent chin, the sharp jaw. It had to be Batman. Even though his mask was white as snow and didn’t have the same shape as the cowl it was clear as day. Bruce Wayne was Batman. 

Clark was vaguely aware that he was gaping like a fish, but he couldn’t make himself stop. He barely noticed Beatrice leaving them, he just kept staring. Bruce Wayne – Batman, Batman, Batman – was a popular man and it didn’t take more than a few seconds before the next group of people gathered around them. 

Clark watched as Bruce brushed every single person off with a charming smile and a quick word and then he turned and grabbed Clark’s hand. He said something, maybe a question? Clark didn’t think before nodding even though he hadn’t heard a word of what Bruce had said. His ears seemed to be ringing with the realization that Bruce Wayne was Batman. So much for the super hearing. 

It took a moment before he realized what was happening, but soon enough Clark found himself in the middle of the dancefloor with Bruce looking expectantly at him. At least he thought it was an expectant look in his eyes, it was quite hard to tell with the white mask in the way. 

He could easily look through the mask but somehow Clark didn’t think Batman would like that. He had never peeked underneath the cowl, never had a reason to. Despite everything he’d always mostly trusted Batman. The few times he’d been tempted to look hadn’t amounted to anything anyhow. Batman knew too much about his powers – the cowl was lined with lead. 

This mask… this mask wasn’t though. The temptation left his mind immediately when Bruce grabbed his arms and pulled them around his own waist. 

“I’m not sure this is appropriate,” left Clark’s mouth before he had the foresight to close it.  

“Why not?” Bruce said with a raised brow. He still held onto Clark’s arms, but he was pressing them discreetly away from his body. The smile on his face was still there but it looked more strained, and Clark quickly realized how that must’ve sounded.

“I’m not –” He clumsily turned his arms in Bruce’s grip, wrapping his own hands around Bruce’s elbows to keep him close. Sometimes he didn’t even have to pretend with the whole Clark Kent routine. “I just meant that I’m here as press. Perhaps you should find another partner to dance with.” Or at least tell me what this is about so I don’t make a fool out of myself. Or you. 

“I want you though,” Bruce responded easily, the smile once again genuine. 

And wow, okay. Clark needed a minute. Bruce apparently didn’t intend to give him one. He pulled Clark even closer and leaned in close as if he wanted to whisper in his ear. He didn’t do anything but breathe deeply and chills ran over Clark’s entire body. He steadied himself as much as he could before speaking. 

“You do have quite a few options though,” he tried deflecting, referring to the dozens of men and women alike watching them with hungry eyes. 

“Why would I want to spend time with anyone else when you’re right here?” 

“That’s – that’s very kind of you,” Clark muttered, happy that his face was mostly obscured. 

If he’d been in this situation as Superman, he could’ve just laughed it off, smiled that much broader and then flown off. Clark Kent had to stay grounded. If he had been here in any kind of Superman capacity, he wouldn’t have been dancing though – least of all with Batman.

Was there danger at the benefit? Had Clark forgotten about a mission of some sort? No way, Batman would’ve never let him off duty if there’d been a villain on the loose, in Gotham or otherwise. Despite his ‘no metas in Gotham’ rule, the bat always made sure Clark was available if there’d been a particular big breakout from Arkham. Clark chose to believe it meant Batman trusted him, even if he’d never said those exact words.

“You haven’t done much dancing in your life, huh?” Bruce chuckled, instantly knocking all thoughts of secret missions from Clark’s mind. Had he ever heard Batman chuckle before? “That’s okay, blue eyes, I’ll teach you.”

Bruce guided Clark’s hand to his side as he took the other in his own, and ah. Dancing. Bruce had asked him to dance. Right. 

“Would it be too much to ask you to stand up straight?” Bruce asked with an apologetic tilt of his lips. “I’m afraid I’ll headbutt you at this rate.” 

Clark instinctively straightened his back, even though he knew he shouldn’t. Clark Kent always hunched, but this was Batman asking him, he couldn’t very well refuse. And Bruce was right – he was leaning so far backwards to avoid knocking their heads together that it looked borderline painful. 

“Would you look at that, there’s a person underneath that lump you call a back,” Bruce commented teasingly as he moved them smoothly across the dancefloor. 

Clark followed Bruce’s lead wordlessly. What was he supposed to say? ‘The hunching is part of my secret identity’? He’d never been at loss for words with Batman before – mostly because he did at least eighty percent of the talking in their usual interactions. Seeing Batman so open and warm and smiling… Clark wasn’t sure what to think. But if he knew that Bruce was Batman there was no way Bruce didn’t already know that Clark was Superman and so there must be a reason for his weird behavior. They weren’t being watched as far as Clark could tell, but even without super senses Batman often noticed things before Superman did. 

“Handsome and a fast learner,” Bruce spoke softly. 

It wasn’t like Clark didn’t know how to dance, he just hadn’t done it much after the whole Superman thing became, well, a thing. And if it had been anyone else with him, he might’ve tried to impress them, but this was Batman. No way would he survive trying to impress Batman with his dancing – the man barely acknowledged when Clark blew out a forest fire or saved entire villages. 

Clark’s fingers twitched as he tried to focus on simultaneously moving his feet in time with Bruce’s while also scanning the hall for signs of possible danger. He couldn’t find any and was left even more confused when Bruce huffed out a laugh close to his ear. He couldn’t remember ever being this close to Batman without one of them being severely wounded. 

“Oh dear,” Bruce chuckled even as his smile tightened into something less soft. His entire body jerked in an effort to move away from Clark’s hands. “You have to grab me a bit tighter than that, otherwise you’ll have me giggling like a fool.” 

“Excuse me?” Clark asked as his eyes darted around the room. Was Bruce trying to tell him something? Was that a code he hadn’t understood? Did he need his strength for something? 

“I’m a bit ticklish,” Bruce said as he tilted his head to catch Clark’s eyes. “If you would please tighten your grip?” As the words left his mouth Bruce’s own hand ran over Clark’s, pressing his fingers closer to his side. 

“Thank you.” The words were breathed barely audible, but Clark heard them as clear as if Bruce had shouted them. 

Clark let his hand rest where Bruce had guided it, making sure to hold on tighter than before. He couldn’t look away from the blue eyes staring back at him from behind the mask – had Batman always had blue eyes? Clark wouldn’t know, the cowl’s eyes were bright white lenses and somehow, he had assumed the man behind them would have cold and lifeless eyes, just like the lenses. He couldn’t have been more wrong. 

He'd seen Bruce Wayne before, of course, but never this close, this personal. 

He must’ve been staring too long because the polite smile on Bruce’s face turned more genuine as he tugged Clark an inch closer by his waist. Their chests were nearly pressed together, and Clark felt suddenly weak. Was Bruce carrying Kryptonite? 

“Is there a name underneath the lump as well?” 

“What?” Clark squeaked intelligently. 

“Oh my,” Bruce laughed again, and Clark wanted to bottle the sound. For scientific reasons, of course. “I’m asking your name.”

“Aren’t we supposed to remain anonymous?” Clark responded, trying to convey the double meaning with his eyes. Was Batman testing him somehow? Were the other Leaguers in on it? A quick scan of the room told him no, but why else would Batman play dumb like this? 

Bruce slid his hand from the outside of Clark’s shoulder and closer to his neck, his touch light and feathery like a lover’s caress. Not the imagery he should’ve come up with, but the evening was messing with his head. 

“It doesn’t seem fair that you know my name, but I don’t know yours,” he said, voice pitched low. The blue in his eyes seemed to deepen as he watched Clark from underneath his very pretty lashes. 

Perhaps he really was mistaken. Perhaps Bruce Wayne wasn’t Batman. Maybe their voices just sounded alike in the crowded room; maybe they were simply one of those unlikely doublegangers. Because there was absolutely no way in hell that Batman would actually smile at him so softly and hold his hand so gently. If only Bruce was frowning Clark would be able to tell right away if he’d been wrong. It wasn’t easy trying to compare the two faces when they were showing complete opposite expressions. 

That’s when Clark noticed the calluses on Bruce’s hands. He could feel them against his palm as Bruce swirled them around to avoid colliding with another couple dancing. Would a billionaire with next to no job have calluses like these? 

Clark searched those blue eyes and then let his senses take over. Even if he couldn’t trust his mind, he could trust his senses. He listened like only he could, really listened, and there it was. Bruce’s heartbeat. It should’ve quickened when Clark accidentally tickled him, or at the very least it should be unsteady like the rest of the heartbeats surrounding them, due to the alcohol consumption. It wasn’t. It was as steady as when Batman was debriefing the League. 

“Clark Kent,” Clark finally answered. It should’ve been an awkwardly long pause in the conversation, but Bruce didn’t seem to mind – or notice. 

“Well then, Mr. Kent, it’s very nice to meet you,” Bruce purred. 

“Nice to meet you too, Mr. Wayne,” Clark said, because he couldn’t think of anything else. 

Did Bruce not know who he was? It seemed highly unlikely that he hadn’t figured it out yet if Clark had recognized him from his exposed chin alone. Not that he’d ever explain it quite like that if the Dark Knight ever asked, as it seemed somewhat… obsessive, even in Clark’s own mind. He’d probably stick to the heartbeat thing. Although that might come off as weird too, now that he thought about it. 

Batman probably already knew about the heartbeat thing. It wasn’t like it was a secret and it’s not like Clark had just memorized Batman’s – he knew Diana’s and the rest of the League’s too. It just happened that Batman’s was the most distinct heartbeat, barely ever elevated and always very soothing to listen to. Not that Clark listened to it regularly or anything but spend enough time with a person and you’d learn to enjoy the loudest part of them too – which with Batman just so happened to be his heart. If the man spoke more, it might be different. 

“A reporter, huh?” Bruce’s voice cut through his brain-fog once again.

“Yes,” Clark responded, wishing his x-ray vision worked on thoughts too. What was Batman thinking? If he already knew who Clark was, there was no reason for this game – they were close enough and the music was loud enough for him to just say what he wanted to. 

“And yet you’ve got no questions for me?” Bruce fluttered his eyelashes and Clark’s mind short-circuited. There was no way Batman knew who he was. Not with this behavior. 

“Oh, um, well,” Clark stuttered. ‘Are you Batman?’ didn’t seem like the right way to go even though he wanted to somehow convey that he knew so Bruce would stop touching him. Not that it wasn’t nice having his undivided attention – and an actual conversation for once, but it didn’t seem fair that Clark knew while Bruce was kept in the dark.

“I’m sure you’ve answered more than enough questions tonight already, Mr. Wayne.” 

“Bruce, please.” 

“Bruce,” Clark amended, though the casual use of Bruce’s name had something warm settle in the pit of his stomach. He could still remember the first time he’d called Batman ‘B’ without the other glaring holes in the back of his skull. It felt rather intimate somehow. 

“I wouldn’t mind answering a few more,” Bruce said, tightening the hand on Clark’s waist as he spun them around. “As long as I get to ask some back.” 

“What would you like to know?” Clark couldn’t help but ask. 

“I’ve already got your name,” Bruce pretended to think. “I could ask for your number, but I’m sure that wouldn’t be ‘appropriate’ either.” 

Clark ducked his head as he laughed. There was no way Bruce Wayne couldn’t get his number if he wanted it – and even if he couldn’t, Batman most certainly could. Whether Clark wanted to give it up or not. 

“Something easy then,” Bruce said. “Your favorite color.” 

“What?” When Bruce didn’t do anything but wait patiently, Clark continued: “Um, blue, I guess?” He had no idea if blue was actually his favorite color – who even asked something like that after leaving preschool? – but he couldn’t stop staring into Bruce’s eyes and well. Blue it was. 

“I like blue too,” Bruce spoke softly, never breaking eye contact. 

“Why a masquerade?” Clark blurted just to say something. The song seemed to slow down but he didn’t want the moment to end, whether or not Bruce knew who he was. There was something oddly exhilarating being this close to him, knowing that underneath the perfectly coiled hair and warm smile there was a sharp mind and an even sharper tongue. 

Bruce looked surprised for a second before his features relaxed into that confident smirk. 

“Because it’s interesting to see what people will do when they think nobody knows who they are, don’t you think?” he asked, eyes running over Clark’s mask. 

Like dressing up as a bat and joining forces with aliens and amazons, Clark thought. He knew he should say something to signal to Bruce that he knew who he was, but he couldn’t think of the right words. Or any words that wouldn’t ruin the intimacy they’d miraculously build up over the span of only a few minutes. If only Batman and Superman were this close… 

A voice rang out through the hall, barely audible over the music, but Clark heard it clearly. Apparently, so did Bruce. The song ended a second later, transforming into something quicker and more upbeat. 

“I’m afraid I’m needed elsewhere,” Bruce said. He sounded apologetic which was a new tone to his voice that Clark hadn’t heard before. Even when apologizing – which did not happen often – Batman didn’t actually sound sorry at all. “You should stick around though. Save another dance for me?” 

At loss for words, Clark merely nodded with a dumbfounded look on his face. 

“We’ll finish playing twenty questions another time,” Bruce said with such conviction that Clark found himself believing it. 

He watched as Bruce moved gracefully through the room and did his absolute best to find similarities in his movements to how the Batman walked. He found none. Where Batman marched with deliberate and stiff movements, Bruce sauntered over the floor with loose hips and a relaxed spine. When he nearly collided with a few children running past him Clark saw the second glimpse of Batman in Bruce that night. He effortlessly stepped to the side and twirled around the kids, catching one of them at the back of their collar without yanking at him too hard. Clark watched in fascination as Bruce crouched down to the boy’s eyelevel and seemingly produced a lollipop out of nowhere. The other two children skipped back to where their comrade was last seen, and they too received lollipops. Where Bruce had hidden them, Clark didn’t know. 

He knew it wasn’t meant for his ears, but he couldn’t help but eavesdrop. 

“Just like I promised,” Bruce told the young boy as he handed him the lollipop. 

“And we really get more if you can’t find us?”

“Ah, ah,” Bruce protested with an obviously fake sniff of offence. “If Alfred and Tim can’t find you. That was the deal; I can’t very well play hide-and-seek alone with all these people here, that’d be unfair.” 

“We’re supposed to stay in the corner and be quiet,” the girl slurped around her mouthful of lollipop. “Mama said so.” 

“I know, but your mother does seem rather busy tonight, so I think she’ll forgive you for having a bit of fun, don’t you, Annabelle?” 

Annabelle nodded and sent him a sticky smile. Bruce told them he’d be a fair referee before they scurried off to hide God knew where in the hall, and Clark felt like his heart was being squeezed in a vice. He’d seen Batman with children before, of course, but it had always been in emergencies like fires or accidents. 

It was true that the vigilante was good with kids, even dressed like a giant bat. Most children weren’t scared for longer than a few minutes – and Clark suspected it had something to do with those magically-appearing lollipops. Batman had the ability to conjure them out of thin air and it seemed his civilian persona had taken that ability with him.

The soft features on Bruce’s face sharpened as he straightened, and Clark had to sidestep a waiter to keep his line of sight. Bruce was moving between the socialites like he was one of them and at the same time he clearly wasn’t. It wasn’t just that Clark now knew how he usually spent his nights, it was the air around Bruce. He was laughing and flirting, waving his hands around in a way Clark knew Batman wouldn’t be caught dead doing. But he also helped a young waiter to her feet when she stumbled. He thanked the staff when they brought him his drinks – and was that ginger ale Clark could smell? He shook hands with important people, he smiled charmingly at the older ladies, and everyone knew who he was, despite the bright white mask covering half his face. 

At least Clark wasn’t the only one so obsessed he could recognize the man from a small part of his face alone, though he doubted the Gothamites associated that particular chin with Batman. 

Clark observed as everyone – staff and socialite alike – was smiling as Bruce started and ended conversations like he was born to bring people happiness. He might as well have been if he wasn’t busy blending in with the shadows at night. Just who was Batman when he wasn’t busy being, well, Batman? Clark knew the stories, but he suddenly wished he’d paid more attention; who was Bruce Wayne really? 

Clark caught Bruce’s eye several times and while he wasn’t easily embarrassed, he found himself tearing his gaze away to look at the floor more than once. Bruce looked at him like he wanted to eat him whole. And not in the usual ‘you die, and I get your powers because you’re clearly too useless to have them’ way; no, there was actual hunger in his eyes, like he couldn’t take them off Clark. 

Clark, who very well knew that he was Batman, while Bruce had no idea, he was sending bedroom-eyes at Superman. Oh shoot, this wasn’t going to end well. 

***

Bruce didn’t mean to let his eyes wander during the very thrilling tale Ms. Whitmore was telling him, yet he found himself searching out those ocean blue eyes in the crowd. They’d been following him more or less nonstop since he’d left the tall stranger on the dancefloor. Clark Kent. Bruce knew the name from a few articles he’d read but he’d never held an actual conversation with the man until tonight. If you could call what they’d had a conversation. Bruce had barely been able to pull three words out of the guy. It didn’t matter though, there was something… intriguing about him. Bruce couldn’t quite put his finger on it but something had drawn him to the other man and it was that same something that had him unfocused during his current conversation. 

Dick had told him to be more open, to allow himself to search out companionship. Like he really had the need for a relationship, much less time for it. But he’d done his part – he’d asked for Clark’s number, even if he hadn’t gotten it and he’d even had fun for once at an event. He’d made an honest effort; Dick would be proud. 

Which was why Bruce found himself searching out those eyes again, obviously. Because his boys were getting on his nerves – even Jason wanted him to ‘find someone to bang, old man’ – not because he was actually looking for a partner. Although if he did have to choose, he didn’t think Clark Kent would be a bad choice. He was a beautiful man objectively speaking, at least he could be if he stopped hunching over like Earth’s gravity was working against him. 

Bruce sipped his drink, making sure to wrinkle his nose as if it was a tad too strong for his delicate tastebuds. As soon as his eyes found their target, he sent a wink in Clark’s direction and Bruce watched in amusement how the large man pushed at his mask as if it was a pair of frames. A habit, Bruce noticed. Clark Kent most likely wore glasses when he wasn’t in a mask. 

Bruce was merely keeping up an appearance – he’d seen how the photographers had snapped dozens of photos when he’d been dancing with Clark – but he was man enough to admit he enjoyed watching the man squirm. It reminded him somewhat of how the Flash would mutter and avert his eyes every time Bruce looked at him after he’d said something particularly stupid. 

Speaking of stupid… Bruce should probably start wobbling a little making his way through the hall; Dick and Jason may have promised to keep an eye on Gotham for him, but he knew his boys. They’d do more bickering than actual patrol. He had spoken to everybody he was obligated to talk to, and they’d raised more money than anticipated. The whole masquerade had been a success and Bruce was thankful for Tim’s joking suggestion. Everybody wanted to outdo each other while ‘accidentally’ revealing who they were underneath the masks. Bruce knew it’d be too much of a temptation for the socialites to resist. 

With a well-practiced ease Bruce got slobbier with each drink he finished. Soon enough he had pushed his mask mostly off his face and was using a column as support until Tim came to his ‘rescue’. All polite smiles and fancy words, that kid. If he didn’t live off caffein (and fight crime at night) he’d be the perfect golden child. 

“Let’s get you home, Bruce,” Tim said loud enough that the nearby people could roll their eyes at Bruce Wayne once again needing his son to help him home. 

“You’re too good to me,” Bruce told him, meaning every word. 

Tim just huffed out a laugh before leading him through the crowds, stopping every now and then to bid someone important goodbye. Bruce shook hands with a few people, but Tim was efficient and got him through the crowd with ease. 

At least until a group of women surrounded them. An ambush. Everybody knew Tim was too polite (if only they knew, Bruce thought) to reject them outright and Bruce felt his son’s body tremble lightly underneath his arm. It couldn’t be easy, keeping Bruce’s body upright – fake drunk or not, Tim was carrying most of Bruce’s weight on his slim frame. 

“I think Mr. Wayne has had enough questions for one night, ladies,” a warm voice cut through and Bruce had to fight not to snap his head up to get a glimpse at Clark too fast. Drunk reflexes, he reminded himself. “I, however, would like to ask you a few, if you don’t mind.” 

The women couldn’t let the opportunity to get interviewed pass and they let Bruce and Tim through. Tim said a quiet thanks to Clark as they moved, and Bruce couldn’t resist the urge to look back one last time. A small card was pressed into his free palm and Bruce looked into those impossible blue eyes beneath the black mask. 

“In case you have anything else you want to ask me,” Clark said, and Bruce got the distinct feeling he was referring to something specific, but he didn’t have the time to ask before Tim was hauling him towards the exit. 

He did have time to stare at the small business card in his hand when he got inside the car though: Clark Kent, Reporter, Daily Planet. Huh, another reporter. Maybe Dick wouldn’t be as proud, what with the whole Vicki Vale thing, but at this point Bruce didn’t really think too much about Dick’s approval anymore. He was too busy staring at where Clark had touched his hand; it was like an echo of his fingers were still present on Bruce’s. It felt oddly comforting, though Bruce of course would never tell anyone that. 

When they got back to the cave Bruce was mostly himself again. The faint warmth had faded, and he was ready for the night to actually begin. While the benefit had been more fun than he’d anticipated – which to be fair wasn’t a lot – Bruce had real things to worry about. Like the mass-escape from Arkham a few days ago. With the boys’ help he’d located most of the prisoners, but a few were still on the loose, and Bruce wouldn’t rest until they were once again locked up in Arkham. 

Dick and Jason had neither killed each other or anyone else, for which Bruce was very grateful. He did however choose to ignore the bruising underneath Dick’s eyes and the way Jason was holding his left arm. At least their shenanigans made sure Bruce was kept busy for at least the first thirty minutes, trying to figure out if he should praise or scold them. He chose the prior. Sometimes you had to choose your battles, and Bruce would rather focus on the positive things tonight. 

It also didn’t hurt that being thrown directly into the middle of his boys’ minor argument helped him stop thinking about those impossibly blue eyes behind the black mask. At least for the most part. No one saw him nearly fall off the roof after all, so it was all good. 

By the time morning rolled around in Gotham Bruce had all but forgotten the first part of his evening. He’d spent most of the night fighting off Ivy’s plants and then Harley had showed up, even though Dick swore he hadn’t broken her out of Arkham (again). 

He got reminded though, when he dragged himself from the shower and to his bedroom. He wasn’t exactly sure how, but the card Clark had handed him had ended up on his nightstand. If he didn’t know any better, he would say Alfred had placed it there. To remind Bruce? To annoy him? Whatever the reason, Bruce was suspicious. He distinctly remembered putting the card in his pocket before exiting the car earlier. 

If he hadn’t been exhausted – when wasn’t he exhausted though? – he might’ve thought more of it. As it were though he spared the card a glance (alright, two then) and then fell into bed with a grunt. He’d figure out what, if anything, to do about the card tomorrow. 

‘Tomorrow’ turned into the next day, then the next, and then the next. By the time Bruce had time to look at the card again, he figured it’d been too long for him to actually call Clark. Or text, which had been Jason’s advice. Why the hell Dick would’ve told Jason of all people about the benefit Bruce didn’t know. 

Bruce had very proudly told Dick about the masquerade. Alright, so maybe Tim had told him about it, and it wasn’t until Dick had cornered Bruce that they’d had the whole ‘proud of you for getting out there’ talk, but the point remained the same. Bruce had spoken to Dick about his evening and Dick had turned around and told Jason about it. The traitor. Jason had no qualms about Googling Clark Kent and pestering Bruce about him. On the bright side it meant that Jay had been spending more time at the manor, with his brothers, with Bruce. If having Jason close meant Bruce had to live through a few teasing ‘Bruce and Clark sitting in a tree’ remarks, he was fine with that. 

Anyway, it didn’t really matter what Jason’s advice was, seeing as Bruce had absolutely no idea what he’d say even if he did call. Which was the main reason he hadn’t gotten around to it. That didn’t stop him from thinking about Clark though. Nothing obsessive, despite what his kids told him. He’d stopped using the bat computer for his searches when Tim had asked him why he was looking up newspaper prices. It was mere curiosity; it wasn’t like he was actually going to buy Clark’s workplace just to have an excuse to see him again without a mask on. 

The small part of Bruce that still held onto silly dreams like marriage and growing old with someone he loved had just wanted to see what Clark was like in his job, how it all might fit into Bruce’s own life. Bruce had squashed that part of himself and locked it away, just like he always did. He did not have time for romances, no matter how blue Clark’s eyes were or how articulate his articles sounded. 

Contrary to popular belief Bruce wasn’t actually a masochist (shut up, Jason), so he didn’t entertain the thought of dating Clark in real life. It would never work out for obvious reasons, but while he’s not dumb enough to hope for romance with a stranger he’s met once, Bruce was still human. So he thought about Clark, maybe a tad more than he usually would have allowed himself.  

There was just one problem with Bruce’s new infatuation. Obsession was a very strong word and Bruce did not appreciate Alfred using it to describe his recent behavior, so infatuation it was. Okay, so there was probably more than one problem, but Bruce was focusing on the one at the forefront of his mind: Superman. 

That small part of Bruce? The one he’s used to squashing and locking away? Yeah, it wasn’t the first time it had reared its ugly head. It wasn’t even the first time this year, this month, this week. Because when you’ve worked with Superman for any amount of time you will realize that he is very attractive, very attentive, has a dry sense of humor and did Bruce mention that he’s very handsome? More than that though, Superman is everything that Bruce is not. Friendly, outgoing, a team-player. He’s kind and helpful and he doesn’t need to wear a mask to help people. 

Opposites attract, isn’t that what they say? 

It wasn’t like Bruce had just fallen for the guy because he’s kind and good looking. Despite his reputation Bruce does actually like his partners to have a brain. And Superman is smart too, not just another pretty face. He wouldn’t be in the League if he wasn’t, of course, and Bruce would like to think that he wouldn’t have fallen for him if he wasn’t of at least above average intelligence. Not that he’s fallen for Superman. It’s just a, what was it Alfred called it? A crush. Bruce called it a moment of weakness.

A moment of weakness he didn’t need to repeat with yet another unattainable man. Superman, first of all, wasn’t interested in Bruce or Batman for that matter, and second of all, they would be a horrible match. They bickered all the time, they were complete opposites personality-wise, and Bruce was pretty sure Superman’s straight and in love with Lois Lane, despite his attempts to deny the fact. Just friends, my ass, Bruce thought. 

So while Clark Kent was definitely a step up from his crush on Superman, Bruce wasn’t willing to risk it. Especially not when his traitorous stomach still flipped whenever he had Superman’s full attention on him. Like he had the moment he stepped into the Watchtower half an hour before the weekly League meeting. 

Bruce schooled his features into ones of indifference – you never knew if Superman was an expert at reading expressions from a mouth and chin alone – before he stepped inside the Watchtower. He barely made it two steps inside before he had to rely on his training to keep a straight face in any given circumstances. 

The Flash ran past and brushed against him. Bruce sucked in his stomach to keep from flinching. It had been an accident, of course, Flash didn’t know that Bruce was ticklish, but even so Bruce had to take a deep breath before turning his glare on the younger hero. 

“What?” Flash laughed. “You ticklish or something, Bats?” 

Bruce glared harder, somehow managing to get his expression across even behind the cowl. Flash held up his hands in mock-surrender, even as his smile wobbled slightly. The kid had always been more scared of Bruce – of Batman – than he should be. Bruce wasn’t about to tell him that though.

“Okay, okay, I’m sorry, I wasn’t looking where I was running,” Flash said hurriedly and then he’s gone in, well, a flash. 

Bruce hummed in response even though Flash was already gone. He was a good kid, but obviously needed more training if he’d been unfocused enough to nearly collide with Batman of all people. The only actual powerless human in the entire tower. 

Bruce straightened up and let his stomach relax before another presence had him nearly jumping out of his skin. To the untrained eye he’d barely moved, but his heart skipped several times when he realized he was being watched. 

He willed away the heat crawling up his neck and glared at the bright blue eyes watching him from the opposite hallway. Then he turned and made his way to the upper deck, cape flowing behind him. 

What the hell was up with Superman? Staring at him with those damn eyes, looking like a lost puppy. Bruce didn’t have time for this. He had a meeting to prepare for and a headache starting to throb in his temples. 

***

It’s been exactly six days, fourteen hours, five minutes and seven, no eight seconds since Clark pushed his card into Bruce Wayne’s hand. He hadn’t been able to think about anything else all week and now that he’s finally face-to-face with Batman, with Bruce, Clark felt like his suit had shrunk two sizes. Or maybe his skin had. Something felt off. 

He still hadn’t found a way to gather up the courage to actually ask Batman if he’s Bruce Wayne. Not that he needed the confirmation, but it seemed like the polite thing to do. Share the information, let Bruce react to it. 

He just didn’t know how to confirm it without sounding insane. Because if Batman isn’t Bruce Wayne, it would be a disaster for Clark’s own identity – and how would he ever explain the mix up? And if Bruce is Batman, Clark’s gonna get a scolding the size of the sun for compromising their identities in the first place.  

Even though Clark already knew with ninety nine point nine percent certainty, he couldn’t stop staring either. Batman would probably notice. He would definitively notice, because Clark felt more or less in a trance whenever he made the mistake of looking at Batman. And he had to look at Batman a lot. They were supposed to hold a League meeting after all. 

Clark had too much self-control to sigh but it was a close call. 

Batman was talking about… something. Probably something important but Clark couldn’t tell you what, even if you put a gun loaded with Kryptonite bullets to his head. He didn’t have the luxury of human hearing – with all its flaws – but he’d mastered shutting every sound out since he was a teenager. Nothing worse than trying to pay attention in math class when your ears pick up babies crying two-three countries over. Point was Batman was talking and Clark wasn’t listening. 

He should’ve been listening. He should’ve been paying attention. He should’ve at least blinked. Of course, Batman noticed. It’s Batman. He was at least gracious enough to wait until the meeting was adjourned before saying anything. It didn’t make Clark feel any better though, he still felt like a schoolboy getting called to the principal’s office when Batman called his name as he was trying to leave unnoticed. He just wanted to get his shift over with, because he’s sure he wouldn’t be able to keep his mouth shut if he’s left alone with Batman for long. At some point he had to say something, if nothing else then to stop himself from staring. 

“Is something wrong?” Batman asked in his gruff voice, and Clark had never wanted to poke at that voice modulator more in his life. Bruce’s voice was smooth and warm, while Batman’s was… well. Batman’s. 

“Why do you ask?” Clark tried to deflect. He wasn’t an idiot. He was well aware Batman had caught him staring more times than either of them was willing to admit. 

“You’ve been staring at me for the past eight minutes without blinking even once,” Batman said and if Clark didn't know any better, he would say that there was a slight hint of worry in his tone.  

“Oh,” was all Clark could think of to say. 

“And counting.”

“Oh.” Clark shook his head to clear his mind. “Sorry.” 

There were a few moments of awkward silence that Clark knew he would usually fill so Batman didn’t have to use all his words in one conversation. Because yeah, Clark was convinced Batman had a certain number of words he’s allowed to use per day, why else would half his responses be grunts and single syllables? 

“Aren’t you –“ a tall glass of water? Clark’s mind screamed. “–supposed to be off tonight?” 

Why even ask? Batman was the one who spent countless hours making sure the shifts at the Watchtower fit everyone’s schedules. Perhaps this was Batman’s weird way of making small talk. Clark didn’t know why he would even bother when he could’ve easily just ignored him. As per usual when something was bothering the Dark Knight. 

“Yeah, yes, I was,” Clark muttered incoherently. “I switched with Diana.” Because I owed her for the other night where we slow danced in masks in front of basically all of Gotham. 

Bruce tsked. See? Word quota. 

“Good thing I spend hours making sure to fit the schedule to everybody’s civilian lives,” he muttered, no real heat behind his words. Clark felt oddly hurt, nonetheless. “Let’s get started then.”

“What?” Clark croaked.

“We’re on monitor duty.”

“We?” 

“Yes, ‘we’,” Batman huffed, his mouth clearly showing his discomfort. 

Clark didn’t get a chance to answer – what would he have even said? – before Batman turned around and stalked towards the monitor room. It wasn’t like he could just not do his shift, so he ended up following at a slow enough pace that Bruce would have enough time to choose a chair and prepare the monitors. 

He sighed before entering but he saw no other way than to just sit awkwardly through the shift and then figure out a way to talk to Batman later. It didn’t seem like the appropriate time now, although Clark didn’t really think any time felt appropriate when it came to talking to Batman. 

He sat down in his chair, the one to the left, the one he always chose, and tried his best to squash another sigh. It wouldn’t do to let Batman know he was miserable. It wasn’t like it was Bruce’s fault that Clark had no idea how to start the conversation. 

‘So, how about that masquerade, huh?’ Yeah, no. ‘You’re quite the dancer.’ Not appropriate. ‘Did you grow up wanting to be a giant bat?’ Rude and in every way awful. ‘Is being a billionaire as awesome as it sounds?’ There was just no good way to start. If Bruce wanted Clark to know, he would’ve told him. Right? 

Clark nearly flinched when a cup was set in front of him on the desk. Batman sat down in the other chair with his own mug and Clark stared at him for a second before turning his attention back to the desk. A cup of coffee. He sniffed discreetly. A dash of cream and two, no three spoons of sugar. Just like he liked it. He couldn’t help but smile. 

Maybe the situation didn’t have to be so awkward after all. 

Somehow – and Clark had no idea how to explain it – monitor duty didn’t turn out too bad. Yes, it took them longer than usual to start talking, but they got there. Clark had never been very good with silences as it were and being nervous didn’t exactly help. So he talked. He told Batman about Ma’s newest recipe, somehow forgetting that talking about his parents maybe wasn’t the wisest choice, but he’d always shared everything with Batman. Everything but his name. He told him about the new satellite he’d helped put up; about the latest catastrophe he’d had to take care of in Metropolis. Batman probably already knew these things, but he never interrupted. 

By the time their shift was more or less over Clark had almost forgotten that he wanted to talk to Batman. Almost, but not completely. When they made their way towards the door, Clark thought about waiting, about letting Bruce come to him, but then he found himself telling Batman the story of how Pa had gotten stuck underneath the tractor again and Batman laughed. Bruce laughed. Not like other people laugh, not with his head thrown back or his hand on his stomach. It was a very Batman laugh. It wasn’t more than the twitch of his lips and an almost inaudible huff of air through his nose, but to Clark it was everything. 

“I told him to leave it to me, you know?” Clark said, throwing his hands up in mock-defeat. “That is the entire reason you adopt an alien baby.” 

Clark couldn’t be sure, but somehow, he knew Bruce was rolling his eyes underneath that stupid cowl and suddenly nothing seemed more important than having Bruce remove it. Clark wanted to see his face. He had to let Bruce know he knew who he was, because he had to know if Bruce knew who he was. Did Bruce Wayne know that he’d been flirting with Superman? Did he care? Did he mean it? 

“Batman,” Clark said, stretching out a hand to grab at his elbow. He knew better, but somehow his usually logical thought-process had left him. He knew Batman would take a step back from the gesture; he knew the motion would halt Batman in his steps. Was that why he did it? 

“What?” Batman asked, and when Clark took a step closer, he took another one back. 

Bruce’s back barely hit the wall, but Clark could tell he felt trapped. With or without the mask he would be able to read Batman’s expression, he was certain of it. He couldn’t read his eyes behind those white lenses, but somehow, he just knew. Bruce was nervous too. Perhaps he already knew what Clark was about to ask? 

Clark couldn’t help but take another step forward. Batman’s gloved hand shot out to grab at his arm. At least he hadn’t pushed him away. Even through the glove, and Clark’s own suit, it felt like his skin was on fire. This was the same hand he’d held not even a week prior. So gentle and soft, guiding Clark over the dance floor. 

If he’d had even an iota of doubt – he hadn’t – it vanished the moment Bruce’s hand closed around his arm. It was the same heat, the same strong grip. Batman was Bruce Wayne. 

“Oh, um, well.” He swallowed to start over. “You –” That was as far as Clark got, because even without superhearing he could tell that Flash and J’onn were on their way to the monitor room. They were there for the next shift. 

Clark made the mistake of turning his head towards the sound. Despite his superspeed Batman somehow always seemed to be one step in front of him when it came to the whole vanishing thing. The warmth around his arm disappeared and when Clark turned to look at Batman, he was gone. 

Disappointment settled in the pit of Clark’s stomach as he greeted J’onn and Flash, floating through the space station while he tried to figure out what to do now. He made the necessary small talk, trying his best not to look too deterred. It wouldn’t do any good to let the others know what he was thinking about. 

An idea struck him, and he straightened up. He knew exactly where Bruce Wayne lived, everybody did. What were the odds that Bruce would be able to vanish mysteriously if Clark cornered him in his own home? He was about to find out. 

***

Shit, shit, shit. 

Clark Kent, really? Superman couldn’t have been literally anyone else on this godforsaken planet? He couldn’t have been Marc from accounting? Janet from the front desk? Clarence from the deli down the street? No, of course not, it had to be Clark freaking Kent of all people. 

Clark Kent who Bruce had spent nearly a week obsessing over. 

Shit. 

Bruce didn’t actually have anywhere to bang his head and that was probably the only reason he wasn’t currently trying to give himself a concussion. The journey back to Earth had never felt this long and slow before. 

Clark Kent?! 

God, Jason was going to cry from laughter. He would never let this go. Bruce would go to his grave with Jay pointing and laughing at him. Dick would probably be happy though. He’d always been a big Superman fan. Tim was usually calmer and more collected than his brothers but even he would most likely laugh his ass off at Bruce’s misfortune. Alfred would probably approve too, Bruce thought. Or mostly approve. His father figure hadn’t exactly spent much one-on-one time with Superman. None of them had. Damian… well. Maybe Damian was the closest to an ally in all of this that Bruce would find and that wasn’t saying much. 

Why was he even thinking about his family’s reaction? There was absolutely no way he would ever tell Superman – Clark Kent – that he may or may not have sort of, kind of, possibly developed a slight crush on him. The humiliation alone would send him to an early grave. Then again, that might be better than the alternative. 

How the hell had Bruce been so blind? The eyes alone should’ve clued him in. There was no way anyone from Earth could have eyes that blue. The voice, the body? How in the world had he not seen through the flimsy mask on his face a week prior? 

But a journalist, really? Bruce had to admit it made sense, what with Clark being at the scene of catastrophes every day. Didn’t he write articles about Superman though? God, Bruce’s head was about to explode. 

The whole beaming back-and-forth thing had never been Bruce’s favorite way to travel, but he was glad the journey was over with quickly. He pulled off his cowl and made his way towards the computer. He had to think. He thanked whatever deity was listening that none of his kids were in the cave when he arrived. He wasn’t sure he’d be able to keep a straight face in front of any of them at the moment. He rubbed a hand over his face as he sat down at the computer. 

Bruce knew it had been stupid of him to run away. Make a hurried exit. Whatever he wanted to call it to make it less idiotic of a reaction. So what if Superman and Clark Kent were the same person? It didn’t change anything, not really. He wasn’t suddenly going to confess his, his, his… interest, just because he knew Superman’s civilian identity. 

Then, quick as lightning, a question slammed through his mind. 

Did Clark know who he was? 

A few days ago, Bruce would’ve instantly said no. Of course, Superman couldn’t know his identity. But now? With Superman’s weird behavior? The way he’d been staring at Bruce; touching him? It was a very real possibility. A possibility Bruce was not prepared for. 

But how would Clark have figured it out? 

Bruce knew Diana’s identity because Wonder Woman was who she was, in and out of uniform and she’d never tried to hide that. He’d figured out Wally’s identity the second week of knowing the kid and J’onn’s was self-explanatory. Ollie, Hal and Arthur hadn’t exactly been hard to figure out; they’d nearly held out their wallets for him to see. As for the rest of the League – he had his suspicions, his inklings, of course. And he was pretty sure he could call them all out if need be.

But Superman… He’d never been quite able to figure Superman out; Mr. Sunshine himself talked an awful lot without actually revealing that much about who he was. Bruce knew he had a mother and father who lived on a farm, he’d even tasted some of Ma’s famous cookies, even though he’d never met the woman. Of course, he’d been curious – normal curious, know thy enemy, know thy comrade type of deal – but a small voice in his head had always stopped him from searching out the information. Superman respected Batman’s wish to remain anonymous, he should and could respect Superman’s as well. 

At least until now. 

Bruce’s fingers hovered over the keyboard as he chewed on the inside of his lip. Doing a quick search wouldn’t take much. He didn’t even have to go through the police database; he’d already been through it when he first met Clark Kent. Not that he was ever going to admit that to anyone either. Back then though, he’d tried to limit himself, to not go too deep. To stop at the ‘no criminal record’ and keep to the articles Clark had written. 

The detective in him wanted to know more though. Wanted to see what he’d missed, how he’d missed it. Clark didn’t wear any sort of disguise, how the hell had Bruce not realized who he was? Granted, Clark had worn a mask at the masquerade, but he’d seen the pictures with his articles later on. He should’ve known. Batman should’ve known. He’d been too much Bruce, not enough bat, despite everyone always telling him the opposite was the case. The realization made anger simmer underneath his skin. 

Bruce took a deep breath and started typing when an obnoxiously loud alarm started blaring. The security system alerted him to an intruder. Or at least a trespasser. When he looked at the monitor it showed a figure slowly ascending onto Bruce’s driveway. He could recognize that figure anywhere, even if he hadn’t been the only thing on Bruce’s mind for days. He watched as the intruder landed soundlessly on the gravel. 

Superman seemed to look for something. No, Bruce realized when he looked closer; he was listening for something. Something he apparently found quickly. Then he looked directly into the camera and just… waited. 

Bruce hesitated, frustration just beneath the surface. Superman clearly wanted to speak to him and showing up at the manor was the final proof that he knew who Bruce was. There was really no reason not to let him in, especially if Bruce wanted to know how he’d figured out his identity. Still, it took him a few moments to gather his thoughts long enough to actually move his hand. 

Just as he was about to press the button to let Clark inside, Bruce’s communicator lit up. There was no hesitation as he picked it up. A mission for the Justice League. He saw Clark raise a hand to his ear as J’onn’s voice sounded through their comms. An alien attack. Their talk would have to wait then.  

Superman spared a glance towards the camera, but he didn’t wait for Bruce to get into the bat plane; they each had their own routine when called for a mission, after all, and they didn’t include each other. Safety measures. Bruce had made sure everybody had their own routine down before everything else. It wouldn’t do if they couldn’t manage themselves. It wasn’t every mission that called for the entire League to show up, after all. 

This one did, though. 

It wasn’t the largest invasion the League had ever seen, but it wasn’t exactly small either. They had strategies, plans, rules to follow in case of such an attack and for the most part the heroes followed those plans. There would always be that one moment though, where someone wasn’t paying enough attention or was paying something else too much attention. 

Bruce would’ve loved to say he was neither of those, but he wasn’t an idiot. He knew his own flaws better than anyone. Sometimes he got too focused on one enemy to keep an eye on another, and more often than not he was too focused on his teammates to take proper care of himself. As Superman had reminded him repeatedly. 

He had it under control; didn’t waver too long when Clark got hit by a beam of some sort and didn’t ask if he was alright more than once. See? No obsession here. He did, however, have to rearrange some maneuvers as the aliens had brought giant robots with them. Clark and Diana had no issues punching through them, if they got close enough, and Hal could hold his own well enough too. J’onn flew straight through the flesh-like metal the robots were made from and with Sierra’s brute strength the two had no problems either. Flash had a rough time though, but combined with Bruce’s own weapons, they made do. There was a reason Bruce had insisted they all train together in all the possible combinations they could be split into. 

The robots were big, but slow, which made them easier to attack. The aliens inside weren’t particularly intimidating and when they saw what Clark and Diana could do with their bare hands, most of them surrendered peacefully. 

Most of them. 

Because what they lacked in power, they made up for by sheer numbers, and even with most of the League present, there was bound to be at least one of these aliens ready to risk attacking rather than surrender. 

Bruce saw the laser before Flash did. He would’ve felt pride at that if he hadn’t been too busy shoving the kid out of the way. No way he was letting Wally get hit even if he’d probably heal in a matter of minutes. ‘Probably’ was not good enough for Bruce, so he used his grapple and swung into Flash’s side, knocking him over and away from the beam. Wally tumbled to the side but was otherwise fine, and Bruce would’ve let out a sigh of relief – or a grunt of disapproval; the Flash should’ve seen that beam coming a mile away, what with his miraculous speed – but he didn’t get to do either of those things. 

Because Bruce had been just a millisecond too slow. At least that’s what his calculations would later say. 

As he pushed Wally aside the beam collided with Bruce’s side and cut through his suit – and that alone was a bad sign, because he’d been working with both Diana and Clark to make sure the bat suit could hold out against almost any form of physical strength and power. Even Superman’s heat vision took at least a few seconds to cut through the high-tech fabric. 

It wasn’t actually a laser beam, at least not like the ones they had on Earth; Bruce could tell from the sensation of it searing into his skin alone. While a regular laser beam felt sort of like being burned with a blowtorch (don’t ask), this laser was colder, sharper in a way. It was rather difficult to explain but the difference was very prominent. What had Bruce’s life become that he could tell the difference between a regular laser beam and an unusual one? This wasn’t what he’d been preparing for all those years ago when he wore the cowl for the first time. 

Not this exact cowl, of course, the first one had long since been ruined. He still had it though, somewhere in the cave. He’d always been bad at throwing things away; just take a look at the glass case with Jason’s old uniform. He couldn’t even get himself to move it somewhere else, get it out of sight so he’d be able to breathe properly in the cave. Why was he thinking about this again? 

Bruce’s hand slipped from the grapple handle, and he slid over the ground, through scraps of metal and concrete scattered around from the fight. 

Right. Blood loss. He should probably do something about that instead of thinking about Jason’s uniform. There was just one slight problem though; he was pretty sure his entire left side was an open wound and he couldn’t move his arm to press his cape against it. Stupid human reflexes, never fast enough to get him out of these situations unscathed.

Bruce may be slightly delusional at times, if you asked Alfred (or any of the kids), but even he could tell it was bad. His vision was blurring, and the wound didn’t hurt, which meant he was in shock. Damn it, he didn’t have time for this. He must’ve hit his head on the way down because he was pretty sure the liquid running over his face was blood, and seeing as nobody else was near him yet, it must be his own. He closed his eyes, trying to breathe through the pain that was very slowly burning up his entire body. Shock over with, then. 

Bruce was certain he hadn’t screamed. There’s no way he’d screamed, he would’ve remembered that; he would’ve felt his mouth move, his lungs burn, anything. And yet he’s sure he was hearing an echo of a scream throbbing through his head. 

Oh. 

It wasn’t his scream. It was Superman’s. Clark was screaming. Had he been hurt too? Bruce tried opening his eyes, but even breathing was becoming difficult for him. There was no way he’d be able to help either way and he was certain the others would take care of Clark, of Superman. He’d be fine, he had to be. 

Bruce wasn’t aware he’d lost consciousness before he was startled back to reality when a strong arm slid underneath his back. He couldn’t get his eyes to cooperate but at least he was still breathing, albeit rather raggedly. He’d be fine after a bit of rest though; he was sure of it. 

“Batman,” the voice was hoarse and sounded so broken that Bruce felt bad for its speaker. “Batman, come on, open your eyes.” 

Bruce tried; he really did. But the cloud of unconsciousness was pulling him back and he couldn’t keep fighting against it. At least Clark wasn’t hurt too bad if he was able to be worried about Bruce and holding him so close. 

A large hand pressed against his side and if he’d had energy to complain he would’ve done so. It felt like Clark was rubbing dirt in his wound, even though the logical part of Bruce’s brain informed him that it was most likely Clark’s own cape he was pressing against Bruce’s side to stop the bleeding. 

The touch felt oddly familiar, but it took Bruce a moment to realize why he recognized it. Clark’s hand on his waist wasn’t such a strange thing, after all they had spent several long moments pressed together mere days ago. 

Clark pulled him closer; nearly into his lap, and Bruce’s head fell onto his shoulder. Ah, why hadn’t they done this at the masquerade? Such a shame. Perhaps he should ask Clark to dance again later. Maybe he’d let Bruce rest his cheek against him like this. 

The only thing that held his attention back from the fantasy was the desperate stream of words being spoken by his side. 

“Stay with me, Batman,” Clark’s voice was strained, and Bruce felt a stab of guilt. 

He made a last-ditch effort to open his eyes, but all it did was tense his muscles and pain shot through his side as if he’d been stabbed by multiple burning weapons at the same time. Not even Clark’s warm hand against his side, nor his shoulder underneath Bruce’s cheek, could dull the pain. Even with his eyes closed, Bruce’s vision was swimming and when his body finally went limp as he fainted, all he heard was Clark’s voice, desperately calling for him. 

“Bruce, please.” 

***

Clark’s hands were covered in blood. His entire uniform was actually, but it was the stains on his hands that he couldn’t look away from. Bruce’s blood. 

He hadn’t seen the beam before it was too late. He’d been busy avoiding the ones aiming for him and Diana and it wasn’t until he heard Bruce collide with Flash that he paid attention to their part of the fight. He hadn’t been intentionally listening for Bruce’s movements, it was more reflex than anything and when he’d heard the grapple… He’d turned his head just to make sure everyone was safe and that’s when the laser had torn straight through Bruce’s suit, burning the entire left side of his torso. 

Clark couldn’t remember ever screaming so loud. He knew rationally that he couldn’t have screamed too loud – the windows were still mostly intact around the city. He hadn’t meant to do it, but it was like he felt the laser burn through his own suit, searing his own skin, even though Bruce hadn’t made a sound. He’d punched through another robot with more strength than necessary as he’d watched Batman’s body sliding through the debris.

It hadn’t been more than a single word, just a simple ‘no’ punched out of his chest. Clark had waited, just a breath, for Bruce to get back up. When he didn’t, Clark’s vision had turned red. He didn’t lose control, not anymore, but the knot in his chest was the closest he’d come since he was a child. And this time his scream wasn’t short, it wasn’t even a word, it was pure animalistic rage. Because they’d hit Batman, they’d injured him. They had hurt Bruce. 

Clark wasn’t even sure what exactly he’d done, but every single robot had been cut to pieces and the few that hadn’t gotten a taste of his heat vision had giant holes through their bodies. It couldn’t have taken more than a few seconds for Clark to destroy their small army but he wasn’t interested in winning, in making sure everyone was safe. He’d just had to stop them from hurting Bruce again, before he could get to him.

One second, that was all it had taken, one single second. It was the longest second of Clark’s life. And then he’d been by Bruce’s side, hands hovering awkwardly over his body. He hadn’t known where to touch, how to touch, if he should touch at all. Panic tore through his throat, through his lungs as he did his best to focus long enough to figure out if Bruce was even breathing. 

He was, of course he was. Nothing could take out the bat, not even an alien laser. Clark hadn’t breathed a sigh of relief, because relief was far away, but he had started breathing again. Bruce’s heart was strong but fluttery and his breathing was shallow. There was no way Clark would let him stay on the dirty ground with most of his upper body torn to shreds. 

It’s probably not as bad as it looks, Clark had tried reasoning, but he couldn’t even keep the lie up in his own mind. He’d very carefully pulled Bruce into his lap, frantically looking for a clean part of his cape to use to stop the bleeding. Rule number one with large wounds – stop the bleeding. Bruce had drilled that particular rule into Clark’s head after that one time he’d lost his powers and hadn’t been able to heal from a bullet wound. 

“Batman,” Clark had tried to keep his voice steady, but it was wavering more and more with every word. “Batman, come on, open your eyes.” 

Bruce hadn’t responded, not even a flutter of his eyelashes. Clark had pressed the fabric to Bruce’s side and even winced as he’d expected Bruce to grunt or growl at him, but no words came from the Dark Knight. His heart rate had seemed to slow down, and Clark had wanted to shake him, to yell at him, anything to make Bruce open his eyes. 

He’d pulled him even closer, practically dragging Bruce’s body into his lap. His head was lulling to the side and Clark wanted to scream again. Batman would never let himself be seen this vulnerable if he had a choice. 

“Stay with me, Batman,” he’d pleaded. He’d sounded weak and wrong to his own ears, but he hadn’t been able to stop the words. He needed Bruce to hear him, to wake up. 

For a moment it had seemed like Bruce was going to open his eyes, his body tightening as if he was getting ready to sit up, but then it just… stopped. It was like the last bit of fight had left his body and he went limp in Clark’s arms. 

“Bruce, please.” He shouldn’t have used Bruce’s name, he knew that, but logical thought had left his mind. He’d cradled Bruce carefully against his chest, feeling panic clawing at his insides. 

If only he’d been faster, been stronger. If only he’d gotten to Bruce sooner, perhaps he wouldn’t have lost so much blood. It hadn’t taken him more than a few seconds to get to Bruce, but it had felt like hours, like days too late. He couldn’t even properly stop the bleeding, because Bruce’s entire side was charred, and Clark couldn’t tell where the wound started or ended. He felt absolutely useless. 

Flash had looked sick when he laid a hand on Clark’s shoulder, but he’d still told him where the bat plane was. They couldn’t use the Zeta beam when Bruce was this injured, but the plane wasn’t much slower. Clark picked Bruce up and J’onn had followed him, to make sure someone could keep pressure on the wound, while they flew. Clark knew it would make more sense for him to just pick up the damn plane and fly to the Watchtower while J’onn took care of Bruce, but he couldn’t make himself let go. J’onn didn’t argue. While Clark had been too focused on Bruce, J’onn had called Leslie, so she was waiting for them when they arrived. 

Leslie was Bruce’s physician, she knew him, he trusted her, Clark knew that, but he still had a hard time setting Bruce down on the gurney she had ready for him. Bruce hadn’t regained consciousness and while Clark wasn’t a doctor, he knew that couldn’t be a good sign. Bruce had lost a lot of blood, which was also what J’onn told Leslie, when Clark couldn’t get the words past his lips. 

He'd seen Batman hurt before; severely injured even, but he’d never known the man behind the mask. He’d never seen Batman ruffling a child’s hair or seen him smile gently at someone. He’d never held Batman’s hand or slow danced with him. He’d never known that behind the gruff exterior there was a gentle human, who saved awkward reporters from strangers at benefits. 

Clark had known Batman was kind and gentle, although not as fast as he would’ve liked. Bruce hadn’t exactly made it easy for Clark either. It had taken him a while to see underneath the grunts and dismissive comments, but it hadn’t taken him long to truly see how good of a man Batman was, how good of a man Bruce was. 

Had these feelings always existed inside of Clark? He wasn’t sure. He knew he liked spending time with Bruce, with Batman. He liked his dry sense of humor, he loved that he was the only one able to interpret the different grunts and sounds Bruce made, because again – the word quota. He loved that Bruce knew how he liked his coffee and that he didn’t have to ask for him for a cup. He loved their banter, the way Bruce would scowl and fuss but ultimately listen to reason if Clark was the one asking. 

But he’d always seen Batman as a symbol more than a man. Someone you weren’t allowed to want for yourself, someone who didn’t have time for the kind of feelings Clark was developing. But then he’d met Bruce Wayne. Bruce Wayne, who flirted and laughed. Bruce, who wasn’t ashamed to dance with Clark in public, no matter how ineptly he behaved. Bruce, who was kind to children and adults alike. Bruce, who was a hero both in and out of costume. 

Bruce, who was injured because Clark hadn’t been fast enough. 

Clark didn’t realize he’d been standing where Leslie had left him for half an hour until the rest of the League came back. Diana was the first to reach him, her strong hand landing on his shoulder. She squeezed reassuringly, jolting Clark from his spiraling thoughts. 

“He will be alright, Kal,” she said quietly. 

“Spooky would never let something as lame as a laser take him out,” Green Lantern chimed in. A second later he seemed to want to take his words back as he looked at Flash. Clark followed his eyes and instantly understood why he looked so guilty suddenly. 

Flash was standing a bit to the side, wringing his hands. Clark had never seen – or heard – him this quiet before. Somehow the others seemed to be looking for Clark to reassure or calm the kid down. He did suppose he was one of the founding members, but Diana was much more qualified to comfort Flash, Clark thought. He knew it was his own grief talking though, so he squared his shoulders, doing his best to ignore the blood still on his hands. It felt like acid, Clark noted, or at least what he imagined acid felt like on human skin. 

“It wasn’t your fault,” he found himself saying, because it wasn’t. Bruce had made the choice to push Flash out of the way, no one could’ve foreseen that, no one else could be blamed for that. 

Oh. 

Clark glanced quickly at Diana, who sent him a small smile. So that’s why they wanted him to comfort Flash. Everybody knew that the two fastest on the team often blamed themselves whenever it came to their teammates being seriously injured. Because they were faster than the others, they should be able to save them, and in Clark’s case take the hit for them too. 

Flash’s eyes were red as he looked up at Clark. He sniffled slightly but then a watery smile made its way onto his face. 

“It wasn’t yours either,” he said quietly. 

Clark nodded, even as he felt the guilt tear at his insides. He’d make peace with that as soon as Bruce woke up. Because he had to wake up. Clark had too much to tell him, to talk to him about. There was no way Bruce wouldn’t wake up. Right? 

***

Bruce did wake up, but not for another couple of hours and even then, it wasn’t like he was very responsive. He drifted in and out of consciousness and Clark was fairly certain Bruce didn’t even realize there were others in the room even when his eyes would open. 

He couldn’t be sure, of course, because he wasn’t allowed in the room. No one other than Diana was, because Diana knew Batman’s secret identity. Clark was in no position to claim the same, not without Bruce’s consent. Which he couldn’t get without actually speaking to the man. If he was cursing the alien invasion even more for this fact, no one had to know. 

When the initial panic had settled Clark finally washed the blood off his hands and cleaned his uniform. He’d stared way too long as the blood ran down the drain and he knew he should probably go home, but he couldn’t make himself leave Bruce. It didn’t matter that he couldn’t see him, he could hear him and that was enough. For now. 

Eventually though Clark had to move. He had an apartment to get back to, a job to take care of, and not just the hero side of his life. Clark Kent had articles to write, working hours to keep, meetings to attend. Lois would kill him if he skipped out on work (again), she was getting tired of covering for him and Clark understood that, he really did. He also really did not want to leave Bruce’s side, even if the vigilante wouldn’t know he was there.

Clark didn’t need to worry though, because of course Bruce wasn’t going to stay at the Watchtower like a normal, sane person would. Why would he? It’s not like he’d just undergone a major surgery. If he wasn’t sure he’d look horrible bald, Clark would’ve tried to rip his own hair out. No need to look like an idiot while wanting to strangle the borderline-comatose idiot you were more or less sure you were in love with.

The stay-or-go-home dilemma was solved by Bruce’s stubborn idiocy and Clark should’ve felt grateful. He didn’t though, he just felt frustrated and anxious, because while he couldn’t see Bruce at the Watchtower, he was at least somewhat close. Now? Now he would have to sit in Metropolis and search for Bruce’s heartbeat in Gotham. And he did, obviously, but he didn’t like not being closer. He could technically just go see Bruce, at least when he was well enough to be out of bed – which he wasn’t, yet Clark still heard the uptick in his heart rate when he started limping around the manor. If he concentrated hard enough, he’d be able to hear Bruce’s butler scold him for leaving the bed, but that seemed a tad too stalker-y, even for Clark’s abilities. 

So yes, technically he could go see Bruce, but realistically? He didn’t because he really couldn’t. He couldn’t just show up, not after Bruce almost– after Bruce was injured like that. He needed time to heal, which Clark respected. It also gave Clark more time to think. He should probably have a plan ready. Figure out what he wanted to say, how he wanted to say it. He may not know Bruce as well as he wanted to, but he knew Batman, and Batman did not like it when you came unprepared. 

So Clark decided to be prepared. Problem was that he wasn’t sure what to prepare for. Most of all he just wanted to make sure Bruce was alright, see it with his own eyes. He’d had a hard time getting the image of Bruce’s bleeding body out of his mind. More than that though he wanted to start the talk he’d been preparing for before the alien invasion. He wanted to tell Bruce that he knew his identity and maybe, just maybe, ask him if he would be interested in knowing Clark’s as well. Knowing Clark as well, not just Superman. 

Superman didn’t get scared, but Clark Kent did. Not scared of what Bruce might say – he was preparing himself for a rejection – but of the consequences it would have on their lives. More importantly the consequences it would have on the League. Clark wasn’t stupid, he knew it would take him a while to get over Bruce, but he’d get there. He’d work on it. But Bruce? Bruce would do everything in his power to never have to be alone with Clark again. At least that’s what the fear was telling him. 

And so, without Clark noticing, nearly two weeks went by. Okay, so mostly without him noticing. He had deadlines to meet, people to rescue, fires to put out, but even he knew he’d been avoiding the issue. Somehow every time he tried working up the courage to go see Bruce, he worked himself into a corner and panicked. 

It wasn’t until Diana showed up at his apartment – his apartment! – that Clark finally got up the courage to go see Bruce. While it was a surprise to see Diana – how did she know where he lived? How did she know who he was? – it wasn’t an unwelcome one. The League hadn’t met up properly since the alien invasion and it was nice to see a friendly face.

Even if Diana wasn’t as friendly as she could’ve been.

“You are being an idiot,” was the first thing she said to him, brushing past him in the doorway. She didn’t shoulder-check him per se, but it was close, and Clark knew it meant she was frustrated with him. 

“Uh, come in,” he said as he held the door open. “And excuse me?” 

“You are an idiot,” Diana repeated. 

“I got that the first time.” 

“Why have you not been to see him yet?” she asked as she crossed her arms. They both knew to whom she was referring but Clark needed a little time to gather his thoughts (and excuses). 

“What?” he said, dumbly. 

“Bruce,” she said, and that had Clark snap his eyes to hers. Not Batman, but Bruce. Diana knew better than to make such a simple mistake. “I know you know, so why have you not gone to him?”

“It’s –” Clark swallowed. “It’s complicated.” 

Diana, bless her heart, didn’t roll her eyes, but her upper lip did curl at his words. You could practically see her distaste for the world of men written on her face. For an Amazonian Clark was sure his words sounded empty and hollow. They felt the same on his tongue. 

“He is waiting for you.” 

“You can’t be sure of that,” Clark protested, and then because he apparently wanted to be hurt: “He would never say those words.” 

“Do you think I need to hear him say the words to know, Kal?” 

And of course, Clark didn’t think so. He knew Diana could read people just as easily as he could hear their heartbeats, and that was without the use of her lasso. He didn’t have to answer for her to hear his reply, but she still waited patiently. 

“I’m not sure what to say to him,” Clark admitted. 

“Speak from your heart,” Diana said, as if it was that simple. Maybe it was. 

She didn’t stay long after that, politely refusing the cup of coffee Clark offered. She had other places to be while it was peaceful enough for her to spend time outside her uniform. Clark understood. 

Even after Diana’s visit it still took Clark two days to fly to Gotham. Not because he didn’t want to, but because an earthquake on the other side of the planet had to be prioritized. But on the second evening Clark dressed in his suit and made his way to Gotham. He wanted to see Bruce as himself, not Superman, but he couldn’t risk being seen in his regular clothing. This wasn’t a job for Superman, this was a job for Clark Kent.

Clark wasn’t sure where to go so he opted for the front door. It seemed like the politest option and even though he’d noticed the cameras last time, he didn’t acknowledge them. He was here as a civilian, not a colleague, there was no reason to announce his presence. Unless he should’ve announced it. Should he have called first to let Bruce know he was on his way? Never mind that Bruce probably had a tracker of some sort on all of the League, Clark definitively should’ve called first. 

He didn’t get a chance to change his mind though, because the next second the door opened to reveal a well-dressed older man. Alfred, Clark knew, Bruce’s butler. Or at least he assumed as much. He’d only ever known Alfred as the accented voice on the other end of Batman’s private comm. Which he wasn’t supposed to know about, or at least not be able to hear. He hadn’t meant to listen in, and he’d stopped the moment he realized what he was hearing. He’d put two and two together when he’d realized who Bruce was; the articles from when he was a kid mentioned Bruce’s butler a few times. Alfred Pennyworth, who took care of both the manor and of its master. 

“Ah, Master Kent,” Alfred greeted. “Right on time.” 

“Oh, uh,” Clark stuttered, trying to hide the shock on his face. Evidently Bruce did know who he was. Good to know. “You were expecting me?”

“For quite a few days now.” And was that judgement Clark saw in those cold eyes? “Who knew Superman took several weeks to show himself.” Oh yes, definitively judgement. 

Clark tried not to flinch and mostly succeeded. He wasn’t fooling Alfred though; he could tell by the barely visible tilt of his lips. Clark wouldn’t be surprised if the old man had known about Clark’s identity before Bruce did. There was something all-knowing in those steely eyes of his. 

Alfred led Clark through the foyer, and it took all of Clark’s willpower not to stop and gape at the decor. Or to just look through the walls until he found Bruce. He could hear his heartbeat somewhere below them. He could always pinpoint Bruce’s location, but he was trying to be patient. He was a guest, after all. 

They walked into what looked to be a study of some sort, although much larger than any Clark had ever been in before. Alfred walked over to a large grandfather clock, where he paused and waited for Clark to catch up. He then pushed at one of the clock’s hands and an opening appeared. Not anything at all like what Clark had imagined, but then again, he’d never really imagined much of what Batman’s lair would look like. 

Clark looked at Alfred, but the man simply indicated to the stairs and Clark nodded. Follow the stairs, okay, he could do that. He didn’t fly down them, he walked slowly. He knew Batman had a cave from previous conversations, but he hadn’t imagined it to be so… cave-y. 

When he reached the end of the stairs, he looked around in bewilderment. How the heck had Bruce built all of this inside an actual cave? There was a giant computer, several monitors, a platform for the batmobile and the batplane and – was that a bat motorcycle? Bat bike? Whatever Bruce wanted to call it, he had more than enough room to drive it around. There was even what Clark could only describe as a training area in the cave as well. 

Clark took a few moments to look around the cave before he focused back on what he was here for. Who he was here for. He saw Batman standing by the computer. No, not Batman. The cowl was off. For a short moment Clark let himself think about how much it suited him, being cowl-less but still in the suit. Half Bat, half Bruce. It was oddly fitting. 

Then Bruce turned to look at him and Clark’s heart skipped a beat. Warmth flooded his stomach as he realized how much he’d missed Bruce, Batman or not. He let himself bask in the relief of seeing Bruce unharmed for just a moment. Until he looked at Bruce’s face. Bruce didn’t look surprised to see him. He looked pissed. 

***

Bruce was pissed. 

He was beyond pissed actually; he was furious. Why the hell hadn’t Clark come to see him sooner? He’d spent the past two damn weeks stuck in the manor and Clark hadn’t been able to come see him, come talk to him? Bullshit. 

He’d been left alone with his own thoughts and while Bruce prided himself on being a smart man, even a smart man would go insane if left alone long enough. He hadn’t very well been able to talk to Alfred about it and even the thought of telling his kids – any of them – made Bruce cringe. 

He wasn’t even sure what exactly ‘it’ was, but he knew it was not a good thing to leave him alone to think about it. He’d worked himself into a panic and he hadn’t been able to move out of his stupid bed, even if Alfred hadn’t been keeping an eye on him most of the time. 

When he’d finally woken up properly after the surgery, he’d been relieved. He’d survived another injury and Wally hadn’t been hurt. It had been a win-win situation in his eyes. But then he’d been reminded what had happened before the mission and he’d expected Clark to show up at the manor. 

Clark hadn’t shown up, and Bruce was left wondering why? 

He’d looked so determined when he’d arrived at the manor and yet Clark hadn’t asked about Bruce or come to see him. Diana had been by, albeit more so to speak with Alfred and make sure Bruce was alright and taking care of himself, but still. She’d sent regards from all of the League. Most of the League. She hadn’t spoken to Clark, apparently. 

Bruce had tried his best not to be disappointed. It wasn’t uncommon for Diana to come visit when he’d been injured, but none of the others knew enough about him to stop by the cave. Clark new though. Still, it was normal that Clark hadn’t visited. Perfectly normal. 

Bruce had tried to be patient. A few days was alright, Clark probably just wanted to give him time to heal. When the few days turned into a week Bruce’s patience was wearing thin and he’d stopped listening to Alfred all-together. Okay, no, he hadn’t actually gone out on patrol, but that was only because he couldn’t get the suit on by himself with stitches and bruises everywhere. 

By day nine Bruce had been consumed by his own emotions. Had he somehow exposed his feelings to Clark? Was him being Bruce Wayne a deal-breaker somehow? No matter how he looked at it, Clark couldn’t know about his feelings. Bruce had barely acknowledged them himself. Nine days of bed rest could do much to a man’s ego though and he’d tried to be honest with himself.

Honesty only held out for so long though. At a certain point the relief of being honest with himself turned into annoyance that he couldn’t do anything about it. He couldn’t tell Clark (not that he ever planned on it), but he couldn’t work out his frustrations either. 

To push away thoughts of feelings Bruce had focused on what he knew best: his anger. And boy, oh boy, had he had time to explore his anger. Fifteen days. It had taken Superman, arguably one of the fastest men alive, fifteen days to come see him. 

Bruce inhaled sharply through his nose and instantly regretted it when the movement pulled at his wound. That wasn’t why he was angry. Right. The identity thing, not the fifteen days. Focus, Bruce. What’s wrong with his cowl? Did he miss one of Superman’s powers? Had he somehow messed up in his calculations? Those were the important questions, the things he should be focusing on. Not how nervous Clark looked, wringing his hands like a schoolboy waiting for his punishment. 

Nobody had ever made the connection before (Bruce didn’t count Tim, okay, that’s different), but of course it would be Superman – well-mannered reporter Clark Kent – who’d seen right through him, although not as literally as he could have. Stupid alien powers. 

“How did you find out?” Bruce grit out. He wanted to raise his voice, to yell, to scream. He had every right to be angry. But he could barely keep upright from the pain shooting out from his left side. He should’ve listened to Alfred and taken the painkillers he’d been offered before Clark arrived. 

“Is that really what you want to talk about? Now?” 

“How?” he repeated through clenched teeth. 

Bruce had to stop himself from retreating when Clark got close and lifted a hand towards his side. He knew Clark wouldn’t hurt him but being cornered against his desk still felt wrong. Clark brushed his fingers over Bruce’s right side, clearly careful to avoid the bulgy bandage underneath his suit. Bruce did his best not to squirm, but he couldn’t stop his stomach from twitching at the contact. 

It took him a full second to figure out what Clark was trying to tell him. 

“Because I’m ticklish?” Bruce was horrified. He would have to train himself out of being ticklish. He’s never thought it important enough to be a liability until now. 

“No,” Clark said, a small smile gracing his face. His arm fell back to his side and Bruce ignored the empty feeling in his stomach. 

“Did you look?” he said instead and narrowed his eyes suspiciously. He knew Superman – Clark, he corrected himself – understood what he meant. 

It had been the subject of more than one discussion at the Watchtower. Many of the others had been jealous of Superman’s x-ray vision, until he’d told them he wouldn’t look underneath their masks. Bruce hadn’t trusted him completely though. He redesigned the cowl especially with Superman’s abilities in mind, but he might’ve missed something. Wouldn’t be the first time. 

“The cowl’s lined with lead,” Clark laughed. 

“Then how?” Bruce asked and watched for a moment as Clark seemed to weigh his options. He didn’t understand why it was such a hard question. Where had he made a mistake? All Clark had to do was tell him so that he could fix it and they could put this behind them. Feelings be damned, he’d find a way to get past those too. 

Clark chewed on his bottom lip for a short moment. It was a habit he’d gotten rid of as a child because he kept biting through the skin, yet here he was, heart pounding in his chest. If he’d ever experienced nervous sweat, this moment would be it. 

“Your heartbeat,” he eventually said. It was as close to honesty as he dared. He still hadn’t quite gotten over the fact that he’d been the only one who could recognize Batman from his chin alone. 

Bruce seemed to blank out for a full minute, but Clark just waited him out. He knew Bruce would eventually have something to say, word quota be damned. He’d already exceeded that as soon as Clark had stepped into the cave. 

“My heartbeat?” Bruce finally said, voice oddly soft. His shoulders slumped slightly, just enough for Clark to think some of the fight had left him. 

“Yes.” 

“You – listen to my heart?”

“Not all the time,” Clark was quick to reassure, not really sure why he bothered. If Bruce found his abilities creepy, there’s nothing he could do or say to change his mind, he knew this. “I can recognize it though.” 

“Because there’s something wrong with –” Bruce frowned.

“No, no!” Clark interrupted, holding his palms up in a disarming gesture, even though Bruce hadn’t moved more than his eyebrows. “There’s nothing wrong with it. You’ve got a strong heart.” And Clark wasn’t sure why he felt his cheeks heat at that, it was true after all. “Calm, steady.” 

“I’m guessing there are a lot of steady heartbeats in the world,” Bruce pointed out, the frown loosening up just a bit. He made to move his arms across his chest – Clark had seen the gesture enough times to know the signs – but a miniscule flinch stopped him, and he dropped his arms to his sides. 

“There is,” Clark agreed, trying to ignore the stab of guilt in his stomach even as his eyes fell to Bruce’s side. He wasn’t going to look at the injury; it would violate Bruce’s privacy, but he was tempted. Very tempted. “None like yours though.” 

“You… memorized the sound of my heart.” 

“I – yes.” There was no reason to deny it, he was here to be honest with Bruce after all. It wouldn’t do with too many half-truths. 

“That’s –” Bruce started but didn’t seem willing to finish that particular thought. “Alright.” 

“Alright?” Clark asked, a little stunned. 

“Yes, alright,” Bruce shrugged, the movement somehow off as he tried not to pull at the bandages. He wasn’t very successful. “As long as that’s how you knew, there’s nothing I can do about it.”

“You’re not angry?” 

“Are you angry at me for knowing who you are?” He shot back instead of answering. 

“No, of course not,” Clark said. I’m happy you know, he wanted to add but it didn’t feel like the right time. Then again, when would it ever feel like the right time? 

Bruce simply raised his eyebrows as if that’s answer enough. And somehow it was. That one movement had Clark finally relaxing and he watched as Bruce’s shoulders slumped even further. Nothing too visible if you weren’t looking, but enough that Clark knew the tension was gone for the both of them. Enough for him to know that they’d be alright, even if his next words weren’t what Bruce wanted to hear. 

“So,” Clark said because he wasn’t done talking. He wanted to stay in the cave, with Bruce. He was tired of waiting for the right time; he would make it the right time. “How did you know?” 

It’s a natural question to ask given their conversation but Bruce still looked taken aback and then his eyes widened, just the slightest bit. If Clark wasn’t focused entirely on the billionaire’s every facial expression, even he might’ve missed it. He didn’t though and the miniature reaction had him tilt his head curiously. What was Bruce thinking about? 

“Bruce?” he asked, just to get a taste of it in his mouth. It wasn’t the first time he’d used it, of course, but it was the first time Bruce was conscious while he did. 

Bruce flinched and then looked away. Clark had never seen him look so uncomfortable before – though to be fair it was hard reading his facial expressions with the cowl in the way. It was a very… human look on him. And yes, Clark had known for a long time that the Batman was human, but there had always been an air of mystery about him. Now though he looked as human as anyone else, with the furrow deepening between his brows as he seemed to mull something over. 

Once again Clark waited him out. He had time. 

Bruce seemed to make up his mind about something as he squared his shoulders and looked directly at Clark.

“Your eyes,” he then said. 

“My eyes?” Clark blinked a few times, surprised. No matter what type of answer he’d expected it wasn’t one involving his eyes. It seemed too… simple for a man like Batman. 

“Yes.” See? Simple man, simple answers. Too simple. 

“How do you mean?” Clark asked. “I’ve never had anyone see past the glasses before.” 

“It’s ridiculous that that even works in the first place,” Bruce pointed out, annoyance clear in his voice. This time he succeeded in crossing his arms over his chest, although he did pull a face at the movement. 

Perhaps Mr. Dark-and-mysterious was jealous that Clark managed to blend in with as simple a disguise as a pair of glasses. If only he knew how much had gone into figuring out how to seem small and nonthreatening. Then again, Clark figured Bruce must’ve put quite a bit of effort into being seen as an airheaded playboy in an expensive suit. 

“We can’t all put on a fancy suit and pretend to be drunk, Mr. Wayne,” Clark teased. His words made Bruce’s lips twitch. 

“Fair enough,” Bruce huffed, something akin to a laugh in his voice, the annoyance completely gone. “You weren’t wearing glasses at the masquerade.” 

“That’s when you knew?” Clark asked, his heart racing a little. He’d always been somewhat of a romantic, so sue him if he liked the thought of Bruce figuring out who he was the same time he figured out Bruce’s identity. 

“Not exactly.” Okay, so much for simple answers. 

Clark didn’t take offense though. He knew Bruce too well – or well, Batman, but he supposed that was more or less the same thing. Bruce did seem to have more in common with the bat than the billionaire everybody else got to see. While he didn’t get offended at Bruce’s cryptic answers, he wasn’t satisfied with them either. 

“So. My eyes. What about them?” he asked, steering the conversation closer to where he wanted it. Where he needed it. 

Superman had always looked at Batman like he hung the moon (and really, Clark should get better role models or at least better friends), but it had still taken Bruce longer to recognize those intense eyes as the ones from the masquerade than he cared to admit. Granted, there had been a mask obscuring his view, but still. 

While ‘your eyes’ had seemed like the wiser choice, Bruce was suddenly not sure why he’d said that. He should’ve probably gone with the whole ‘You stutter when you’re nervous’ thing or maybe ‘The temperature of your palm is the same in and out of the suit’. Oh, yes, he should’ve absolutely gone with that last option. That seemed much cleaner and less… complicated. 

“They’re very –“ Bruce paused, swallowed thickly. “Blue.” 

“They’re very blue?” Clark repeated, clearly trying hard to smother a smile. 

“Yes.” 

“That doesn’t really seem like a certain enough answer for Batman,” he baited. 

Bruce wanted to punch that dumb smile off Clark’s face even though he knew it would do more harm to him than it would to Clark. Stupid body of steel, made to withstand any man-made weapon. Perfectly sculpted, strong build… where was he going again? Ah, right, Clark was being an ass. Well, two could play that game. 

“You –” Bruce moved, uncrossing his arms in a quick movement, intending to tell Clark off for laughing at him, but instead he felt something snap at his side. His eyes widened even as he tried to school his features into a mask of indifference. “It doesn’t matter,” he said as he held his left arm closer to his side. He needed Clark to leave so he could take a look at the damage he’d done. Alfred was going to kill him if he’d ripped open his stitches. “There’s no reason to talk anymore about this.” 

“What do you mean no reason to– Bruce?” Clark had taken a step closer again but then stopped abruptly. His eyes instantly went to Bruce’s side. 

Bruce knew the exact moment Clark smelled the blood. He hadn’t needed his x-ray vision to check, although Bruce was sure he still did. 

“Bruce.” Clark’s voice broke, sounding so small and weak that it was barely recognizable. Bruce had never heard Superman call his name like that before, any of his names. 

“It’s fine,” he grunted. This was what he’d wanted to avoid. “I’m fine.”

“You are not fine,” Clark protested and then stepped even closer. 

“You should leave,” Bruce said, voice tight. His thighs were pressed against his desk, he couldn’t back up any further, which was all he wanted to do. Clark’s eyes were so incredibly expressive, he couldn’t bear to look at them. 

“What?” 

“I’m fine,” Bruce repeated and then for good measure, because he knew Clark wouldn’t leave him by himself, he added: “I’ll call Alfred.”

“Bruce.” That single word over his lips was enough to have Bruce snap his mouth closed. He knew he should tell Clark to get out, but he couldn’t. Not when Clark’s hand was hovering over his side. Not when he was looking at Bruce with those eyes. “Let me?” 

“I don’t –“ Bruce tried, but Clark interrupted. 

“Bruce, please.” And didn’t that just feel like a sucker punch to the chest? Bruce didn’t say anything, so Clark tried again: “Let me help?” 

While Bruce didn’t exactly agree – he would never say the words out loud, Clark knew – he didn’t protest when Clark finally closed his fingers around the edge of the bat suit’s top. Getting it off would mean Bruce had to raise his arms but there was no other way to get it off unless Clark tore it in half. Bruce would never allow that. Not as long as there was another way, at least. 

The Kevlar felt thick yet oddly breakable in his hands as Clark pulled it up and over Bruce’s head. He pretended not to hear the hitch in Bruce’s breath when he had to stretch his arms up. Clark threw the top on the floor, not sparing it any attention as he focused back on Bruce’s side. He was still wearing his under armor, but at least this was made of fabric. Fabric that was soaked in blood. Even the dark color couldn’t hide the stain spreading from Bruce’s side. 

“Oh, Bruce,” Clark muttered as he reached out to touch gingerly at the fabric. 

He didn’t need to look at his fingertips to know they’d be stained red. How had Bruce kept a straight face with his wound open like this? Clark couldn’t help but feel guilty again. He shouldn’t have come yet. He should’ve given Bruce more time to heal. It wasn’t fair to come see him when he should clearly still be on bedrest. Not that Bruce had ever done what was expected of him, Clark could safely assume. Batman wasn’t exactly known for being careful with himself and his own body. 

Clark should’ve been careful enough for the both of them. He should have reacted faster or at the very least have given Bruce peace long enough to be able to stand for a few minutes without agitating his wound. He never should’ve let Diana talk him into coming here so soon after Bruce got injured. 

Clark took a deep breath and shook his head to clear his mind. There was no reason to get sucked into the guilt right now, he had more than enough time to beat himself up over this after he’d gotten Bruce out of these ruined clothes. 

Bruce didn’t flinch, but he did lean back against the desk with his eyes closed. He just needed a moment. His entire side was throbbing and while he didn’t usually let anyone see him struggling, he’d already shown Clark more of himself than most others in his life. A single moment of weakness probably wouldn’t change Clark’s view of him. At least he hoped not. 

Bruce was about to push himself off the desk when he felt Clark’s hands at his collar. The ripping sound reached his ears before he realized what Clark was doing. His eyes flew open to see his under armor torn all the way down to his waist, exposing his chest and stomach.

“What are you –” 

“I’m sorry but you have dozens of these,” Clark said as a way of explanation. He pushed the remnants of the shirt off Bruce’s shoulders, and it fell to the floor with a wet thud. 

A small gasp left Clark’s lips and Bruce followed his eyes down to his own side. The entire dressing had turned red, the blood spreading out to the other side of the bandage. So he had ripped open a stitch or two. Damn it. 

Bruce turned to grab a pair of scissors, but a gust of wind had him snap his head back to where Clark had been standing. Was standing, although it was clear that he’d just returned from the med bay. How he’d been able to find a pair of surgical scissors in there without help was beyond Bruce, but he was grateful, nonetheless. Alfred probably wouldn’t like Bruce using his paper scissors for the bloody dressings.

Clark was gentle but firm with his movements. He’d wrapped more than one bandage ever since joining the League. Bruce was actually the one who’d taught him how to properly bandage someone else’s injuries. 

It had been an interesting day at the Watchtower. Bruce had injured both his arms, breaking one and bruising the other. He hadn’t been able to wrap the broken one on his own and Superman had been close. Bruce hadn’t been thinking, he’d just asked for Clark’s help, somehow forgetting that an alien who couldn’t be hurt wouldn’t know how to bandage a broken arm. 

The first attempt had been pitiful, and Bruce had snapped at Superman. He’d been in pain and the bandages were barely touching his skin, that’s how loose Clark had ‘wrapped’ them. Holding a broken arm out and still wasn’t exactly enjoyable so he might’ve been a tad too harsh on the man. 

“That’s too loose, you idiot.” 

“I’m sorry,” Superman had muttered, pulling the dirty bandages off and starting over. 

“Have you never done this before?” Bruce had thought that Superman had at least helped others with their injuries before, but of course the world’s strongest hero wasn’t asked to put a band aid on some kid’s knee. 

“I’m invulnerable, remember?” At Bruce’s eye roll, Clark had mumbled: “Nobody ever asked for my help with these things.” 

“Ah, that’s –” But then Clark had pulled, and Bruce had nearly bitten through his own tongue to keep from screaming. “Too tight, that’s too tight!” 

It hadn’t been the last time Clark had helped him out, but it was the most memorable and the one Bruce couldn’t help but think back on as Clark very carefully cut through the bloody bandages. When they fell to the ground Bruce kept a close eye on Clark’s face. He didn’t need to see his wound to know it didn’t look good, but it was just an injury like any other. A nasty burn, yes, but nothing he hadn’t gone through before. 

While it hadn’t felt like the suit had done much, it had actually protected most of his skin from third degree burns. The cuts were bad but still not the worst he'd had. He’d popped a mere two stitches, he could tell, maybe three, but not much more than that. He’d survive. He didn’t need to focus on his injury to know that that was not what Clark saw. It was clear in his eyes.

Clark saw his burned skin, red and irritated. He saw the bruising along Bruce’s torso, the long gashes down his side. He saw the small stitches, barely holding on. It didn’t mean anything to Bruce – he had to take those out soon anyway – but it meant everything to Clark. It was evident in his glassy eyes, the way he had to swallow before reaching out with a washcloth. Bruce hadn’t noticed when he’d picked that up, but he wasn’t surprised that Clark had thought far enough ahead to get something to clean the wound. 

“It looks worse than it is,” Bruce found himself saying, trying to sound comforting. 

“It looks awful,” Clark whispered as he carefully dabbed the cloth over the worst of the blood. He lowered himself onto one knee as to not irritate the skin further by dragging the washcloth over it. This way he could see better, he told himself, even though it had more to do with his knees feeling unsteady than his vision being insufficient. 

The way he spoke, the soft, defeated sound of his voice had Bruce’s heart break a little in his chest. It was guilt, obviously, but for what Bruce couldn’t understand. Clark hadn’t shot a laser at him after all. Oh. Perhaps he had thought more about the feelings Bruce was trying not to think about. 

Bruce bit the inside of his lip as he tried not to flinch. No matter how careful Clark was with him it was still an open wound being prodded at. He looked down at the top of Clark’s head as he worked. A thought occurred to him as he watched that one silly little curl on Clark’s forehead bounce with his movements. It wasn’t something he would usually say out loud, but rather he’d file it away for further examination. This wasn’t a usual situation though and he found himself opening his mouth almost involuntarily. 

“Is that something you do on purpose?” he asked, hoping the change of subject might get rid of the wounded look in Clark’s eyes, all guilt and sorrow swirling together in those brilliant blues. 

Clark looked up at him, confusion clear on his face. Bruce looked from his eyes to the curl very deliberately. Clark huffed out a little laugh. 

“Oh. No. You should see what it takes to disguise it.” A little of the tenseness of Clark’s shoulders seemed to release as he spoke so Bruce continued the light train of conversation. 

“Curse of the curly hair, huh?” He smiled. 

“Like you’re one to talk,” Clark said as he dabbed the washcloth at the outside of the wound; getting the smeared blood off Bruce’s skin. “I don’t see Brucie Wayne running around with cowl-hair.” 

“Touché,” Bruce responded with a quirk of his eyebrow. 

Clark wasn’t wrong; there was a reason he wore expensive suits and made sure his hair was styled at every event and it wasn’t just because it fit the expectations of him. He had to create as much of a difference between Bruce Wayne and Batman as possible and that meant making sure Bruce Wayne was everything that the bat was not. Outgoing, loud, bright and cheery. Flirty too. 

It was always eerie when it felt like Clark could read his mind. Bruce was certain he couldn’t; he would’ve told at least one of the League members about this ability if he could, but it was still scary how good Clark was a reading people and pinpointing their thoughts. It was close enough to mind-reading in Bruce’s opinion. 

“Speaking of…” Clark said, and Bruce frowned at the change in his tone. Too upbeat, too forced lightness. His not at all subtle subject change voice. “Did you mean it?” 

“What?” Bruce asked warily. 

Clark sent him a pointed look; all politeness gone from his face as he raised his eyebrows. He looked almost like he was challenging Bruce, which was an impressive feat seeing as he was on his knees.

“Did you mean all of the things you said at the masquerade?” Clark elaborated. He’d stopped moving his hands, focus entirely on Bruce. 

Bruce, who in turn was having a slight panic attack where he stood, resting against the desk. He thanked every single sweaty, horrible hour he’d spent training his entire body to obey his mind, otherwise Clark’s eardrums would’ve probably started bleeding from the loud thumping of his heart. As it was, Bruce kept his breathing even and calm. 

“I didn’t know it was you,” he said, excuse sounding hollow even to his own ears. 

“So?” 

“So what?” Bruce’s words had something hard settle in Clark’s eyes. Not cold or cruel just… very determined. 

“Now that you do know it’s me, did you mean it?” Clark asked, not breaking their eye contact. He wanted to know, he needed to know. It was the last puzzle piece to make his mind up, he was sure of it. 

For a second it looked like Bruce would give him a direct answer. But of course not. This was Bruce after all, and it was a question about his feelings. Clark should be surprised he hadn’t run away yet. 

“Does it matter?” Bruce eventually said. 

Clark thought he saw something flash across Bruce’s face, but he couldn’t be sure what. He couldn’t be sure he wasn’t simply making things up in his mind to get what he wanted. So instead of replying like he’d wanted to, he folded the wash cloth up again and dabbed it over the last bloody parts of Bruce’s torso. 

“It does to me,” he said quietly after a beat of silence. 

Bruce could tell he’d fucked up. He hadn’t been prepared for this conversation and he’d stalled one too many times. Clark’s face had fallen instantly, and he’d gone back to focusing on the injury and Bruce wanted to punch himself. The conversation hadn’t been going badly, he just didn’t want to be confronted with what his alter ego had said to a complete stranger. Except it hadn’t been a stranger, had it? It had been Superman; it had been Clark. 

Clark who was so gentle, so careful when he touched Bruce’s skin, making sure the wound was clean, the blood gone from his skin. It had looked worse than it was, as Bruce had told him, yet Clark had still taken the time to look it over several times. Clark whose eyes were beyond any words Bruce knew in any language. Clark who was protective and kind and talkative. Clark, who hadn’t minded Bruce flirting with him, who hadn’t minded being dragged onto a dance floor even though he had barely said yes in the first place. 

And Bruce may have been in public, but he’d had fun. He’d flirted with Clark, yes, but not because he had to. Not because it looked good in pictures or because he felt he needed to talk to someone to blend in. He’d approached Clark because he was gorgeous. Because he had looked so caught in Beatrice’s hands and Bruce had felt bad for the guy. He’d flirted with him because he was interesting, because he seemed different from everyone else, even the other members of the press. 

So had he meant it at the masquerade; the flirting, the dancing, the teasing? It really didn’t matter, what mattered was if he meant it now. If he regretted it. Ah, that’s what Clark had really been asking. Bruce hadn’t thought about regretting it, it was just another night being more Brucie than anyone else. But then again, perhaps it hadn’t. Because he hadn’t been able to stop thinking about Clark; had even compared his feelings to the ones he’d been developing for Superman. 

If he regretted it, he wouldn’t have been so damn patient. He wouldn’t have waited for Clark to come talk to him; he would have simply ignored the entire thing. Forgotten about it. He’d spent fifteen days waiting for Clark to come see him, to confront him, to talk to him. He’d waited fifteen days just to get to see Clark. 

The anger that had burned in his veins had long since dulled, but an ache was left in its place. 

“What took you so long?” He hadn’t meant to say anything. He’d merely thought the words and that soft, broken look in Clark’s eyes had them tumble over his lips. 

“What?” 

“To come,” Bruce clarified. Tried to clarify at least. The words felt like barbed wire in his throat, but it wasn’t like he could take them back now. Besides he was curious about the answer. What explanation could Clark come up with that would satisfy Bruce enough to forget fifteen days of restless nights? 

Realization drew over Clark’s face as he put the washcloth aside. Of course, he’d also gotten fresh bandages from the med bay. Bruce had barely had time to blink, and Clark had prepared everything they needed to change the dressings. Ever the superhero. 

“I thought you wanted space, needed time –” Clark started, hands playing with the edge of the bandage nervously. 

“Time to what?” Bruce asked, a frown on his face. Time to forget what Clark screaming for him sounded like? To forget what it felt like being held close and hearing Clark whisper his name?  

“Heal,” Clark said quietly, and Bruce felt frustration bubble up in his throat. 

“I could’ve done that with you here, you idiot,” he muttered even as he held his arms out so Clark could wrap the dressings around his torso. Not too loose, not too tight. Exactly right. Just like Bruce had taught him. 

“It almost sounds like you missed me,” Clark said, trying for a humorous tone. He didn’t want to fight; he didn’t want to argue, even if that was something familiar between them. He just wanted to make sure Bruce was safe and that he knew… he knew… Why hadn’t Bruce laughed at his comment yet? Brushed it off or shoved at Clark’s shoulder? 

When Bruce still said nothing for the next few moments, Clark finally looked up from where he was securing the dressing. Bruce was looking down at him with such an expression that Clark had a hard time describing it. His brows were drawn slightly together, the corners of his lips downturned, clear signs of anger or at least annoyance. 

His eyes though, his eyes. 

The icy blues were glassy like he’d been holding back tears for so long that he couldn’t disguise them anymore. There was something soft, something vulnerable staring at Clark, something calling out to him as Bruce just looked and looked and looked, his eyes jumping from one of Clark’s eyes to the other. Searching his face, studying him. Like he was afraid Clark would disappear right in front of him. 

Bruce’s eyebrows raised slightly, as a quiet sigh escaped him, as his face relaxed. When his lips parted as if to finally speak, Clark surged upwards. He couldn’t not. 

He should have been more careful, he should have been gentler, but he wasn’t. He couldn’t, not with Bruce looking at him like that. His lips crashed into Bruce’s and if he’d had enough willpower to keep his own eyes open, Clark would’ve seen the surprise on Bruce’s face as a small ‘oomph’ was pushed out of his mouth. 

Clark’s hands landed on the desk, caging Bruce in as he pressed close. Bruce’s hand came up to grab at Clark’s bicep and for a short second Clark was afraid he would be pushed away. Maybe he’d read the look in Bruce’s eyes wrong, maybe he’d gone about it wrong, maybe he should’ve asked first, said something, anything. 

Or maybe he was panicking for nothing, because it took Bruce’s brain approximately one whole second before he was clinging to Clark’s arm, his other hand wrapping around Clark’s wrist, keeping his hand firmly on the desk. Bruce tilted his head as he let his hand slide from Clark’s arm to his shoulder and to the back of his neck, burying in his thick hair. In a moment or two of weakness he’d let himself imagine the sensation, but nothing could compare to the real deal. 

Clark took the hand in his hair as an invitation and mirrored Bruce’s movement, slotting their lips closer together. Bruce’s lips were soft and smooth, full and firm under his. Clark couldn’t help but open his mouth, sucking Bruce’s lower lip between his, letting his tongue dance over the reddening skin. He tasted divine. A very clear undertone of coffee that had Clark realize Bruce could probably taste the mint he’d popped earlier. Just in case. 

Batman wanted people to be prepared, right? 

Clark pressed closer, wanting to feel Bruce’s body against his own. He was trying to be careful, trying not to jostle Bruce’s wound, to take it slow, but kissing Bruce was like falling into quicksand. There was no way out, you just found yourself sinking deeper and deeper the more you struggled. So Clark stopped struggling. 

They were already pressed against the desk so when Clark pushed even further, Bruce let himself fall back to sit on the desk, spreading his legs so Clark could stand between them. It made a difference in their height they didn’t usually have, but it didn’t matter. Clark leaned further onto his hands, pushing Bruce to lean back until all that held him up was the hand in Clark’s hair. He was leaning on his elbow, hand still closed tight around Clark’s wrist the best he could from the new angle. 

Clark bit down gently on Bruce’s lower lip and he had to hold his breath at the sound that escaped Bruce’s throat. He whined, honest to God whined. Clark’s brain short-circuited for a fraction of a second before he did it again, running his tongue over Bruce’s lip to soothe the sting. Bruce opened his mouth further, granting Clark access to explore more of him. 

Afraid to push him too far Clark tried to keep a slight distance between their lower bodies, but Bruce was having none of that. He’d waited far too long to take things at a rational and calm tempo. Fifteen days in hell. 

A strong thigh slid up against his and Clark felt Bruce’s booted foot press against his ass. He would’ve loved to say he didn’t stumble, but he was distracted by Bruce sucking on his tongue and fell less than gracefully against Bruce’s body. 

For one glorious moment Clark felt exactly how excited Bruce was, how much he wanted him as well, even through the thick material of his pants. Clark had never hated the bat suit more than in that moment. Then Bruce hissed and Clark immediately pulled away. He didn’t get far, Bruce’s hand in his hair and foot against his ass locking him in place. 

“Sorry,” he panted. “Are you –”

“Don’t say you’re sorry,” Bruce growled. “And I’m fine.” 

“We, uh,” Clark swallowed, his mouth suddenly dry. “We should probably wait with, uh.” Eloquent was not a word he would have been able to even spell. He blinked a few times to clear his head, just a little. 

“The make out session?” Bruce finished for him with a smirk. 

“It sounds like you’re flirting with me now, Mr. Wayne,” Clark laughed, trying to get his breathing under control, even as he untangled himself from Bruce’s hand and foot. They should probably cool down. Talk a little more. Breathe. Calm down. 

Bruce had other ideas. 

“I can do better than that, Mr. Kent,” he said. 

He’d let Clark go but only so that he could stretch out more on the desk. He leaned back on his elbows and put his boot up on the desk, letting his knee fall to the side. Clark didn’t need x-ray vision to see exactly what Bruce wanted him to. So much for the playboy thing to be a part of his other persona. 

“Bruce –” 

“If we had a bed.” Bruce sent him a very pointed look before glancing towards the stairs. 

He knew it might be moving a tad too fast, but who really decided that in the first place? Clark was attractive. Bruce wasn’t a robot. Was there more to the attraction than the physical aspect? As Bruce waited for Clark’s face to scrunch up the way it always did when he said something particularly funny (or dumb), he had to admit that it was definitively more than just Clark’s physique that attracted him, anxious thoughts be damned. It didn’t hurt that he was drop-dead gorgeous, obviously, but Bruce couldn’t really deny the flutter in his stomach whenever he looked at him. He might have to down a few painkillers before he could tell if they were butterflies or bats though. 

Clark always found ways to surprise him. Bruce had imagined Clark would blush or mutter something silly back, maybe tell him to shut up or demand that he rest. Instead he watched as Clark’s tongue poked out to wet his lips before he locked their eyes together. 

“Are you going to show me a good time, Mr. Wayne?” he asked and Bruce nearly choked on his own tongue. Clark looked like he wanted to swallow Bruce whole and Bruce, well. He had absolutely no objections to that thought. 

It took him less than a second to respond: “As long as you'll let me.” 

And there was more behind Bruce’s words than just flirting, Clark could tell. He wouldn’t dwell on it, not now. Not when he was allowed to carry Bruce up the stairs to his bedroom. But later. When he was back home in Metropolis, he would replay those words in his head, over and over again. As long as Clark would let him. 

It's as good as forever.