Chapter Text
No matter how many times he witnessed it, Clark didn’t think it would ever stop being strange. Like a switch went off and Bruce Wayne would be the charming playboy he was known for: flashing his money as easy as a smile, men and women hanging on his every word. Clark couldn’t say he was particularly envious of that. Superman has Clark Kent: unassuming white male, local reporter, nobody. Strangers didn’t have expectations for him. But Batman has Bruce Wayne: obscenely rich, philanthropic billionaire, shameless playboy. That kind of a reputation needed to be maintained. Does it ever get exhausting? Or maybe he enjoys the frivolous parties, the chance to leave Batman behind for a few hours?
A familiar laugh snaps Clark from his thoughts, and he looks up from the notepad he had been staring blankly at, eyes immediately drawn to him. Crowding around him like he was a lifeline, Bruce Wayne smiles - too charming, terribly charming - before gesturing widely, clearly in the middle of regaling with another story.
It’s unfair how charismatic he is, really. Even earlier in their relationship, before Clark knew it was Bruce Wayne stalking the shadows, Clark was annoyed at how smoothly Bruce addressed the crowds of reporters, or the socialites at his lavish, gaudy galas and fundraisers. He was reluctantly impressed by Batman’s tactics and words of advice. Not once or twice, Clark wondered what the rest of him looked like beneath the cowl, the suit. He wasn’t sure when it became more than a passing interest.
Bruce’s audience laughs in utter delight again, and Clark watches as hands squeeze his shoulders, pat his back, hold him close and steady. Bruce grins a blinding smile, and it does something to Clark, like it always does lately. They meet each other’s eyes, and Clark watches as Bruce’s smile turns sly before he tilts his head to the right, whispering in a woman’s ear. Clark lets out a long sigh through his nose as the woman laughs and smacks Bruce’s chest playfully. Alright, time for a bathroom break.
Clark adjusts his glasses and sets the still full flute of champagne on a nearby table before weaving through the crowd towards the back of the room. He manages to slip away with only a handful of sheepish smiles and soft apologies, and once he’s in the bathroom, he lets out another breath and leans against the door. Sometimes it was like this. Bruce, expert in his charades, would flirt with everyone, with Clark. And Clark knows it’s an act - why would it be anything else? But sometimes…
He nudges his glasses up to rub his eyes before sighing again and moving to stand in front of one of the sinks. He removes his glasses, folds them neatly, and slips them into his front pocket, before examining himself in the mirror; hunched over, unimpressive as ever in his off-the-rack suit as Bruce so loves to remind him. He’s offered to have one tailored, to have Clark ‘presentable’ but Clark declines every time.
“What am I gonna do,” he murmurs before quickly splashing his face with cold water and shaking his head. “Nothing is the answer, Kent. Same as always. You work together, for Pete’s sake.” He looks himself in the eye, hands gripping the sides of the sink, mouth set in a frown. “He trusts you,” he says softly. “That trust won’t be misplaced.”
At the sound of approaching footsteps, Clark releases his grip on the sink and grabs a towel to dry his face. The door opens and shuts slowly, and Clark ignores the way the familiar heartbeat makes his stomach flutter.
“Mr. Wayne,” he says lightly, looking over at the man. “I’ve been to a few of your galas for work, and I always forget how extraordinary they are.” He holds up the towel. “Do I want to know the price of these hand towels?”
Bruce watches him a moment before chuckling and walking over. “Well, it sounds like I need to try harder if a journalist from,” he leans comically close to his badge, squinting, “the Daily Planet has a hard time remembering my events." He straightens, hands in his pockets casually. "And no, I don’t think you do.”
Clark feels his face get hot and turns away quickly, tossing the towel in a bin nearby. “I’m sorry, Mr. Wayne. I didn’t mean it as an insult. More like how it’s hard to remember all the details of a really good dream after you just wake up.” He let a beat pass before clearing his throat and excusing himself, moving towards the door. He tries to ignore the feeling of Bruce's eyes on him.
“Are you really going back out there like that?”
Clark freezes in place, glances back at his friend. “Like what?” he asks, a bit wearily.
He watches as Bruce crosses his arms, looks him up and down, then hums with a shrug before stepping close. He grips Clark’s biceps and gently pushes him back against one of the sinks. Clark’s words die in his throat as Bruce crowds him, and then Bruce -
“Honestly,” Bruce scolds as his hands smooth Clark’s hair. “I know you’re in the lower echelon here, Kent, but there are appearances to keep up.”
Clark is…He doesn’t really know. His mouth feels dry, and there’s a tension in his body pulled taught, taught, and Bruce’s fingers are in his hair, and-
“There,” Bruce says, examining his work with a smug look. “It’s not me, but it’s not bad.”
Clark can feel his heart thundering in his chest as Bruce looks him in the eye, a playful glint there.
“You know, Kent...”
Oh, Clark really didn’t think he could take more of this game.
“You actually have the most gorgeous blue eyes,” Bruce murmurs, examining them like he’s seeing them for the first time. “Such a shame you need these to see.” He flicks his breast pocket with the glasses in it. “You know, I could pay for-”
The door opens and the sounds of the party just outside is like a roar in Clark’s ears. He looks to the doorway at the man standing there, no doubt startled by the scene. Bruce smiles at the man and takes a step back from Clark, and Clark feels like he can breathe again.
“Lovely to see you, Porter,” Bruce greets smoothly before turning his gaze on Clark again, who is quickly slipping his glasses back on. “As I was saying, Kent, I’d love to give you an interview. Maybe somewhere more private.”
Bruce nods at the door and makes his way out. Clark spares a glance at the man walking towards one of the stalls, who looks at him curiously, before Clark trails behind Bruce. He watches as Bruce winds through the crowds, brushing off friendly greetings and invitations to talk. Bruce grabs a flute of champagne from a passing waiter, downs the sparkling drink, and pushes it into someone else’s empty hand, making Clark shake his head slightly. Utterly shameless.
As the pair are making their way, Clark realizes, to the short stairs leading up to the elevator, Bruce takes the two steps all at once and turns on his heel to face the crowd. Clark moves past him and presses the button for the elevator, glancing back at Bruce, deflating a bit.
Oh no, what is he doing?
Bruce smiles, his beaming thousand watt smile, and even before he says anything, half his guest’s eyes are already on him. “Ladies. Gentlemen. Harvey.” The crowd laughs, and Clark sees Dent shake his head and smile good-naturedly as people pat him on the back. “I want to thank you all so much for your presence, time, and donations. This is a cause near and dear to my heart,” he presses a hand to his chest. “And I am deeply humbled by your support.”
The elevator door dings as applause rings out and Clark immediately steps in, arm extended to make sure the doors don’t shut behind him. But Bruce is still standing there, and Clark can practically hear the smirk on his face when he next speaks.
“Now, if you would all please excuse me,” Bruce starts, bowing with a flourish. “I have a…private interview to conduct,” he says with a grin before turning to face Clark again.
Bruce’s eyes glint as he walks towards him, and Clark can feel the blush at the jeers and laughs from the crowd. Still, he holds the elevator door for him, and once Bruce steps in, and the doors slowly slide shut, Clark releases a breath and looks over at his friend.
“B, I cannot believe - why are you so - oh my God.” Clark rubs his face with a groan. “I swear, I’m going to stop coming to these events. The Planet can send someone else to deal with you. ‘Private interview’,” he grumbles at the end.
Bruce just laughs, and Clark drags his hands down his face and glares at his friend, no heat behind the gesture. Clark sighs again and sets his glasses back in his front pocket. “The last thing I need, we need, is people thinking they can get to Bruce Wayne through Clark Kent.”
Bruce hums in thought. “They can do that already though, can’t they?”
Clark blinks in surprise, but before he can respond, Bruce chuckles and continues.
“I’m sorry, Kal,” he starts as he loosens his tie - Clark can’t help but watch. “You’re just so very easy to tease. For the Man of Steel, you make it easy to get under your skin.”
Clark lets out a short laugh before running a hand through his hair, disheveling whatever Bruce had done to it earlier. “Well, if you’re going to do it anyway, it may as well be fun for one of us."
He watches as Bruce watches him thoughtfully. “Did I make you uncomfortable?” Bruce asks softly, and Clark doesn’t like the look that flashes in his eyes.
“No,” Clark answers immediately. “No, of course not, you couldn’t.”
Bruce watches Clark silently, examining him, and Clark can feel the trail of that gaze.
“That - that is also not a challenge,” Clark stammers his clarification, cheeks reddening again as Bruce smiles at him. “So, no need to go stepping up your game or, you know, whatever,” he finishes lamely, and looks away as he fidgets with the fabric of his pants.
Bruce could be shameless, but Clark was absolutely hopeless.
Bruce answers with a soft chuckle. “I’ll keep that in mind.”
They ride the rest of the way in silence. Once the elevator doors slide open, Bruce steps out and slides a card in the door ahead of them, leading Clark into a lavish suite. The far end has a fireplace burning, bathing the room in a soft glow. There are plush leather couches in the living area, with cabinets and end tables made from dark rich wood. The bed is out in the open, one of those large round ones Clark only sees in movies. Or in the company of Bruce Wayne.
Clark watches Bruce step out of his shoes and turn to face him, arms spread wide. “Make yourself at home. I’ll be your host and bartender for the evening,” he says, walking backwards towards the bar as he does. “So shoes off, relax, and I’ll grab us some drinks.”
Clark does as he’s told and toes off his shoes, setting them neatly at the entrance before walking to the large leather sofa, sinking into it with a groan. “How can this be anyone’s normal?” He asks no one in particular. His eyes catch the giant chandelier hanging above him before he focuses on Bruce's back, watching the fabric shift as he makes their drinks. “You know alcohol doesn’t have the same effect on me as it does you. No need to waste it.”
Bruce waves him off. “Just humor me. Besides, it’s not being wasted. I’m having a drink with a friend.”
Clark huffs softly, but smiles and leans further back against the couch. “Aren’t you ever worried one of these chandeliers will fall and crush you?”
Bruce just laughs, and Clark will never get enough of it, as he walks over with two glasses in hand. “Well, now I am.” He hands a glass to Clark before getting comfortable in the lounge across from him. “What a way for Bruce Wayne to go, though. Crushed to death by his ego.” He takes a drink. “Kind of poetic.”
Clark sits up a bit more now that he has his drink. He doesn’t let himself imagine the different scenarios where Bruce very nearly did get himself killed; it always starts an argument. Instead, he takes a sip of the bourbon in his glass, if the bottle is anything to go by, and hums softly in response. “Well. We’ll rue the day Bruce Wayne becomes a poet, then.”
They both sit in silence for a while after that, the crackling of the fire acting as soothing white noise. Neither of them really drink. But, on nights like this, when it’s just the two of them, Bruce always offers a glass, and Clark always accepts, and they settle in for an evening of quiet contentment. It also gives Clark the chance to look at Bruce outside of battle, away from the eyes of the League.
Clark swallows another mouthful of bourbon.
“Kal,” Bruce says quietly, and Clark looks back at him, as if he wasn’t already looking at him for the majority of their night. “If you could have anything in the world, right now, what would it be?”
Clark just looks at him, and right now he pities anyone who doesn’t get to see Bruce Wayne under the soft glow of firelight. How many times has he wished for an opportunity like this? An opening to tell Bruce, to tell his best friend, his partner, how he felt? Bruce is searching his gaze now, and Clark feels ripped open and bare beneath it. He takes a quick breath, rubbing the glass with his thumb nervously.
“Ah…”
Clark clears his throat as his smile turns sheepish and he holds up his glass. “Maybe a refill?”
Bruce watches Clark a moment longer before looking away with a short, breathy laugh. “Well, that is easily remedied.”
Clark mentally berates himself for avoiding his feelings again as Bruce stands and walks over to the bar, grabbing a delicate-looking crystal decanter and walking back to Clark. “I guess for a super-human being, moving at the speed of light, you probably could have whatever you wanted from anywhere in the world, huh?” He pours out another neat glass, setting the decanter on the side table and walking towards a wardrobe.
Clark shrugs, eyes trailing after Bruce as he speaks. “I guess that’s technically true. But you know me, B. I don’t want for much.” Even as he says it, Clark feels the ache in his chest. He really needs to sort all of these feelings out, for both their sakes.
“Kansas farm-boy, through and through,” Bruce calls back, teasing.
But now Bruce is tugging off his tie, shrugging off the expensive coat, undoing the buttons on his shirt, and Clark takes a deeper drink of bourbon. He really, really wishes alcohol affected him.
Bruce pulls on a fluffy black robe, before turning to face Clark and gesturing towards the wardrobe with a raised brow. Clark shakes his head and chuckles. “You know, I think most places have white robes. Was this a personal…request.”
Clark trails off as he watches Bruce undo the front of his pants before quickly turning to give him some privacy. He ignores the rustling of clothes, pushes away all thoughts of Bruce undressing, and instead focuses on the sounds around the neighborhood: of the television from an apartment down the road, a dog howling with the ever present sirens, a woman humming a song as pots and pans are scrubbed clean.
He is pulled from his thoughts by a hand on his shoulder, squeezing comfortingly. Clark looks over to find Bruce sitting next to him on the couch, expression serious.
“Is everything okay?” he asks. “Do you need to go?”
Clark shakes his head. “No, everything is fine. I thought I heard something but…” Bruce is sitting next to him in his robe. His hand is warm. His breath smells like bourbon. “No, it was nothing. False alarm. I’m good. It’s good.”
“Kal,” Bruce says softly again, and Clark can’t describe how giddy he gets every time Bruce says his name. They’re in each other’s space now, and Clark hears the honeyed voice of Bruce Wayne but doesn’t listen to the words. He’s drowning in him, in his aftershave, his cologne, and he doesn’t know when it happens but Clark is holding him in a tight embrace, nose in the crook of Bruce’s neck, and just exists there for a moment. And Bruce is holding him too. And Clark lets himself imagine Bruce is holding him for all the reasons Clark is.
Clark squeezes him tightly one last time before pulling away, blushing as he avoids eye contact.
“Sorry, I ah,” he stammers before chewing on the inside of his cheek. “I shouldn't’ve -”
“Kal,” Bruce says, hands on Clark’s forearms. “If you could have anything in the world, right now…what would it be?”
Clark stares at him. He thinks about long nights on patrol, of talking to Bruce over comms to keep him company since Batman was too stubborn to let Superman anywhere in his city. He thinks about the shared meals at the Watchtower, then his apartment, then his Ma’s house, then Bruce’s. He thinks of battles hard fought and won, some at what cost. He stares at Bruce Wayne, his enemy, turned partner, turned friend, and he can’t help but want.
Clark clenches and unclenches his jaw, before finally letting out a long, inaudible sigh. He meets Bruce’s gaze. He bites the bullet.
“You.”
It’s said softly, like it’s some shameful thing he has to confess, like it’s an earth-shattering revelation that no man should hear.
He hears Bruce’s soft inhale, the uptick in his heart rate, and God he loves Bruce Wayne so fiercely he’s worried it will all come pouring out of him now that the dam has cracked.
Bruce smiles fondly at him. “You’re really bad at asking for things you already have right in front of you."
Clark feels his face color as he begins stammering a reply, but is quickly cut off.
Bruce kisses him.
Bruce is kissing him.
It’s like soothing a parched throat with a glass of water, or being bundled in blankets, safe and warm, as a blizzard rages outside.
Clark melts into the touch, and the kiss is filled with the years of longing and wanting and hoping, to show Bruce what he inspires in Clark.
Bruce climbs into his lap then, straddling him as he takes Clark’s face in his hands and licks into his mouth, and Clark nearly groans. Bruce tastes of bourbon, champagne, mint. His hands settle under the robe, one pressing firmly on his hip with the other sliding up his back, holding him close. They pull away, and Clark is somehow breathless beneath him. He watches the quick rise and fall of Bruce’s chest, his hair perfectly disheveled, lips begging to be kissed again, robe pushed off one shoulder and hanging uselessly -
A thought crosses Clark’s mind, and he suddenly feels a weight in his gut.
“Are you drunk?”
The man above him pauses before his frame shakes with laughter, and Clark is feeling worse by the second before Bruce straightens and pushes the hair from his face, eyes locked onto Clark’s. He’s grinning down at him, eyes glinting.
“What, I have to be drunk because Bruce Wayne wouldn’t kiss Clark Kent?” He asks.
Clark presses his lips together, looking determinedly up at him. “I’m not - B, I want -” He sighs and looks away, cheeks coloring again. “I just don’t want to take advantage of anyone. Especially not you.” He meets his gaze again. “You…mean too much for this to be a mistake.”
Bruce’s grin turns into something soft, looking almost as enamored as Clark is, before he leans down and kisses him.
“Alright,” he murmurs, moving off Clark’s lap to stand. “C’mon. I’m not about to let you backpedal because you think I’m not in my right mind.”
Clark watches him and takes the outstretched hand, hefting himself up to stand beside Bruce before following him to the bed. “And taking things to a bed is supposed to alleviate my concerns?” He asked dryly.
Bruce snorts a laugh and falls into bed, and Clark lets Bruce’s weight pull him down too. He huffs out a breath when he lands, and Bruce is smiling as he kisses him again, and Clark won’t ever get enough of either.
“Clark Kent,” Bruce murmurs against his lips.
“Mm,” Clark answers, linking their fingers and nuzzling into Bruce’s hair.
“Would you do me the great honor…of becoming Bruce Wayne’s next arm candy at these events, and before you say anything -” Bruce says quickly, powering through Clark’s laughter, “- just know that it is an incredible honor, and you won’t have to try and hide all of your obvious fawning from across the room.”
Clark hides his grin in soft black hair. “I don’t think I was obvious -”
“You were extremely obvious.”
The pair trade quips before there’s a lull in conversation. Clark’s eyes close as he listens to the even breaths of the man in his arms.
“Kal?”
“Mm.”
A pause. “I would have picked world peace.”
“You are such an ass.”