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Clark doesn’t realize he’s doing it until it suddenly stops. A steady, calm tha-thump that he sets his pace to, that he stirs his tea to, that he incorporates into every song on his iPod. And, somehow, doesn’t notice he’s doing it until it stops.
Where the tha should be, silence reigns. Clark gets an echo of the striking panic that always seizes him when his foot falls down where he’d thought a step had been, the world seeming incredibly wrong for a moment. It lasts for what feels like forever.
So, yes, maybe his head does whip round to where Bruce is typing on a console, and yes, he does make a soft noise at the sight of the chambers of his heart stuttering before continuing, a calm thump sounding out. It is, he realizes faintly, the most comforting noise he’s heard in a long time.
Between one beat and the next, Clark turns back to his mission report and ignores the pointed look Bruce is shooting him. He’s given himself away again, and he should explain, should apologize, but Bruce doesn’t bring it up and neither does he.
No big deal. It’s just invading his friends privacy down to a cellular level, listening to his heartbeat all times of the day and ignoring the insistent urge to–
Right. Reports.
Clark dots his I’s and crosses his T’s with each tha-thump of Bruce’s heart.
It takes him far too long to realize that Bruce had already been looking him over when his heartbeat had skipped.
–
Once he notices it, really notices it, it’s a task and a half to ignore it. The steady tha-thump follows him like a shadow.
Tapping his foot to music does nothing to help. His foot eventually taps along to Bruce’s heart and the song suddenly seems dischordant, all wrong. The skips and jumps of others hearts is jarring, the everyday excitement of life changing it throughout the day in a way that Bruce’s doesn’t seem capable of. White noise does nothing to block out the steady tha-thump.
Robin’s is the closest to Bruce’s, a trained beat that never changes its tune, fast and stable like he’s a ball of nervous energy. There’s no point in reading into how the only time Tim’s heart slows, calmed, is whenever Kon is around.
Bruce’s, though, is a continuous metronome tha-thump that rarely changes even when in the midst of a small war. The only time Clark’s ever truly heard it change is when he’s close to dying, a quick uptick to get him thinking on how not to die.
It’s early morning and the sun is rising steadily which means Batman has retired for the day, which means there shouldn’t be the alarming raise in his heartbeat. It’s reserved for near death, not a slow Tuesday morning.
He knocks his tea over, already on his feet, casting his sight around his apartment as though it’ll help him in any way.
He has his shirt on in a split second, hopping on one foot to get the rest of his uniform on while he listens to Bruce, zeroing it down to Wayne Manor and the unsteady rustle of bedsheets against skin, the drag of flesh on flesh while he pulls his boots on and freezes.
Bruce’s heart picks up the same moment he sucks in a sharp breath and hisses through his teeth, “Clark.”
He swears he’s mistaken, the edge of his cape stuffed in his mouth while he works open the clasps on his shoulders, but no. His name, from Bruce’s mouth, muffled and raw and needy. Suddenly the damp noise of flesh on flesh becomes Bruce’s slick palm around his cock, rutting into his sheets.
His cape pools at his feet at the next hiss of his name and Clark briefly entertains the idea that it’s simply a warning, Bruce telling him he knows he’s listening and he should avert his ears, but, yet again, no. He pauses, looking around his apartment again, sitting back beside his spilt tea. Bruce groans into his pillow, ruts against the sheets with a muttered curse, and Clark flushes all over.
Living in denial isn’t appealing at that moment and so he doesn’t bother telling himself he’ll stop listening, instead just leaning into his kitchen table, breathing out shakily the same moment Bruce does.
Clark wonders, briefly, trying to paint a realistic picture, if Bruce is down to his underwear, hand shoved in like some horny teenager, crying out his name. It’s difficult to imagine, especially when he layers on the scars, the thick fingernail marks, and the freshly healing laceration over his hip. Nothing quite seems to fit, certainly not fully clothed and mechanically fucking his fist.
He wants to know what he looks like, debauched in his own bed.
Clark’s head drops to his table, leaving a noticeable dent. Bruce’s heartbeat thunders in his chest, blood pouring through it, most of it heading south and Clark groans, fights the urge to shove his own hand down his pants, settles for rocking his hips against thin air instead. In his bed, Bruce’s voice shakes when he mumbles, “Fuck, Clark, fuck–” and grinds into his sheets.
He can’t bring himself to listen to the fluttering of Bruce’s lungs, heaving in damp air against his pillow, or the dry noise of Bruce’s hand tightening on his cock or even the litany of Clark, Clark, Clark. The only indicator he allows himself of Bruce coming is the uneven beat of his heart, thudding in his ribcage.
–
It takes him three days to meet Bruce’s eyes. He supposes that is enough of a guilty apology as any.
–
“Tim,” Bruce starts, and Clark realizes it’s the first thing he’s said all morning, the both of them almost done with their drinks. Bruce sighs like he’s physically pained and Clark smiles. “Tim would like to ask, through me, because the boy is a toddler, if he can visit Superboy. At your parents home. In Kansas.”
Clark’s smile widens as he intones, “Asking for a friend, are we?”
The look Bruce shoots him could possibly kill. His nose scrunches up and Clark is distracted momentarily by examining all the fractures and breaks. “Just say yes or no.”
Clark opens his mouth, chews on his lip for a moment before asking, heart going a mile a minute, “Are you going with him?”
Bruce’s heartbeat doesn’t change at all. Clark is only a little disappointed. “Why would I be going?”
“Ma misses you.” Clark shrugs, ignoring how warm his face is getting. It’s not a lie, entirely, she does ask after Bruce a fair bit, always worried for his wellbeing. But it’s not as though she’d asked when he’d be dropping by next. “Krypto, too.”
Bruce’s nose scrunches again, shaking his head sharply. “Keep your dog away from me.”
Clark sips his tea, humming, “Promise I’ll tell him your cape isn’t a toy this time.”
Bruce sighs. Clark grins, downing the last dregs of his tea before digging around for his phone.
–
Out of all four of them, Bruce is the only one to get away with calling her Martha. It’s a point never argued or mentioned, especially when just saying it seems to soften Bruce entirely. He’d chewed on his lip the first time, looking embarrassed at the crack in his voice but he’d never changed it at all, the thought of calling her anything else seemingly impossible.
For all her reserves about Batman, after everything she’s heard of him, she just nods and hugs Bruce tight around the middle as if she’d known him forever on their first meeting, as she always does with any teammate Clark brings home. She’d done it with Diana, with Kyle and Wally, even with J'onn, barely a pause before she’d patted his cheek and said warmly, “Who knew Clark had such handsome friends.”
Clark gets a different welcome than the one his Ma gets. Bruce, looking exhausted under his sunglasses, duffel slung over his shoulder that he immediately passes off to Clark, grumbling, “I hate Kansas.”
Clark grins, stepping aside to let Bruce pass, Tim trailing after him. “Don’t knock it ‘till you try it.”
“I’ve tried it,” Bruce snaps, running a hand through his hair, “And it is sticky and warm and disgu– Martha. Wonderful to see you again. Nice weather today, huh?”
Clark rolls his eyes at her behind Bruce’s back and she smiles back at the both of them, reaching up to tap Bruce’s nose, admonishing, “You broke it again.”
How she knows, Clark will never guess. He hadn’t noticed.
He focuses on Tim instead. Tim who is shifting nervously from one foot to the other, looking around at the living room. Clark blushes when his eyes find the set of childhood pictures, at least three of them featuring the first time one of Clark’s teeth had fallen out, a big gap-toothed smile on his face.
“Conner’s out at the moment.” He explains, sheepishly, and Tim whips around to look at him. “Small crisis in Kansas City he had to help out with. He’ll be back soon, though.”
Tim nods, eyes drifting from the childhood pictures to Bruce. “Guess I should put our stuff away while they…” he trails off and Clark nods.
He had been mildly freaked out too, the first handful of times. He’d expected, of all things, for Bruce to be stiffly polite, still distant. Instead, he seemed to have melted, rough edges gone in the face of his Ma’s no-nonsense welcoming attitude. His Ma, the miracle worker. It was still a little surreal to see Bruce talk with a smile at someone other than his kids, even now.
Clark shrugs, a small smile on his face, and leads Tim up the adjoining stairs, face heated at the next set of family photos, Clark in each, mud-caked with a towel tied around his neck in a little bowtie. He distinctly remembers telling anyone that would listen that his Pa had tied it for him.
Oh, youth, eternally embarrassing.
Tim smiles, looking down at his shoes as he climbs the stairs ahead of Clark. “Spent a lot of time playing dress-up, did you?”
Clark shrugs, hefting Bruce’s bag higher onto his shoulder when they reach the hallway. “You’ll have to stay with Conner. Only one spare room, Bruce called dibs.”
Tim’s heart skips and starts and Clark watches him visibly shake it off. “Bruce called dibs. ”
“It was,” he pauses, remembering the look Bruce had given him while testing out fresh batarangs, “Implied.”
Tim laughs. The ease with which he finds Conner’s room, pushing the door open surely with his foot and dumping his things on the bed, says a lot. Clark decides it’s best not to mention it. If he were sneaking out, Bruce would know about it. Probably.
“Bathroom’s just down the hall,”
“Grab it before Bruce uses all the hot water.” Tim finishes for him, hands on his hips in an odd homage to Superman. He’s small, in civilian clothes, with his freckles showing up more than the scars now that he’s had a good dose of sun. “He tends to forget not everyone is rich and has endless hot water.”
Clark nods. “The Watchtower doesn’t help.” He turns back around on his heels, calling back to Tim, “Let me put these away and then I’ll give you the grand tour.”
–
There is Bruce in a Gotham summer, down to tight-fitting shirts and khaki shorts. And then there is Bruce in a Kansas summer, looking like a drowned cat for all the sweat when he sits on the porch for more than fifteen minutes.
It’s the best kind of torture Clark has ever experienced.
–
The tour takes them through the house, Tim pausing to stifle a laugh at the mess that is Clark’s old bedroom when he spots it through the ajar door, and down to the kitchen where Bruce is gratefully sipping lemonade, sunglasses pushed up to his matted hair, and out to the back porch.
Tim pauses again, crouching down to scratch gently at Krypto’s chest, the dog splaying out for more, soaking up the sun. Clark watches the two of them, hands shoved in his pockets, quirking a smile that falls off his face when Tim sighs.
“You’re okay with this, right?”
His eyebrows do brief acrobatics. Playing dumb is not particularly his strong suit. “With you petting Krypto?”
“No.” Tim replies shortly and doesn’t elaborate. Krypto whines, twisting about on the decking for more.
Clark sighs, steps back until his shoulders hit the steady brick of his childhood home. “Why wouldn’t I be?”
The look Tim shoots him over his shoulder says he’s being particularly dense. He sighs, looking past Tim to the fields and then past that to the sun, bright and blazing. “I’d be a bit of a hypocrit if I had a problem with it.”
It doesn’t shake the Earth, he doesn’t feel any lighter, nothing magical happens. Saying it aloud, to another soul, one who isn’t his Ma at least, doesn’t do anything. The tangle of knots in his stomach every time he thinks of Bruce doesn’t dissipate. All that changes is Tim switches from scritching Krypto to stroking along his muzzle.
“I guess you would be, yeah.” Tim agrees softly.
From the porch, in silence, he picks out the path that leads to the barn. He supposes it must be there, in the back of Tim’s mind, a need to know, to see the rocket that carried him from a dying planet. Bruce had all but demanded it the first time. Clark still isn’t sure why it’s not at his Fortress but finds he can’t bring himself to move it from his childhood home.
He sets their pace to the calm thrum of Bruce’s heartbeat in his Ma’s kitchen at their beaten up table, a glass of lemonade in his clammy hands. It’s so very close to what he wishes for on their quiet mornings that his chest constricts painfully.
Tim, for all his reserve, asks at that moment, “Everyone here knows, don’t they?”
Gratefulness fills him up, jumping at the chance to get back to reality. He snorts, shrugging, “Kinda hard to keep it a secret when my doctor had to set my nose with a hammer when I was a kid.”
Tim doesn’t ask how that happened and Clark doesn’t offer an explanation. He’s silent for a moment, spreading his arms up until his spine pops satisfyingly. “I suppose, but they all know. Not just your doctor or your next door neighbor. The entire town.”
“I,” Clark sighs, fighting the urge to fidget like a child outside the principals office. He’s Superman, he can face a few difficult questions. Bruce’s slow heartbeat fills his ears. “Nobody talks about it. And I mean never. Not even when I’m not around. But they’re good people, Tim, they’ve done a lot for me.”
And one day, they’ll all pay for it. Harbouring a fugitive, one great big national risk, whatever they want to call it. But one day he won’t be as careful and they’ll pay for it.
Tim hums. “There’s no such thing as good people. Individually, maybe, but as a whole? Never. People have never done a good thing.”
It’s an odd thing to focus on, definitely. Clark drags his feet, kicking up dust, and counts how many heartbeats will pass until they reach the barn. “I don’t believe that.”
The piercing gaze he gets unsettles him, suddenly feeling like a criminal under Robin’s stare. “Why?”
“Why not?” Clark shoots back. He tilts his head until all he can see is the blue expanse above them and thinks of doing slow sumersaults in the air. “Do you think goodness is measurable? Pre-defined? Inherited?”
“Do you?”
He stares at the sky above him, barely noticing they’ve both stopped walking, listening to Bruce’s soft laughter in his Ma’s kitchen. “Definitely not.”
“Clark,” Tim’s voice is forceful, soft but forceful and Clark looks back to him curiously. “Do me a favor and tell Conner that more often.”
He smiles gently. “Want to go see a spaceship?”
Tim’s grin is young and childish, entirely free of the seriousness of a moment before, whatever dark thing Robin has become being shedded in seconds. “Lead the way.”
–
Something sails past them on their way back, whistling through the air and kicking up dirt where it lands. It’s quickly followed by Krypto.
“I think Conner’s back.”
Tim’s heartbeat slows warmly, mouth quirked up in amusement. “Bruce probably kicked him out to distract Krypto.”
“Definitely.” Clark hums.
Their pace is out of sync with Bruce’s heartbeat, but for once that’s okay, as it brings them to the sight of Bruce making a face at Krypto when he drops the beaten up baseball at his feet. Clark almost laughs at the look usually reserved for the worst criminals being aimed at his well-meaning dog.
Tim does not launch himself at Kon, who in turn does not hug Tim until he wheezes. Bruce throws the baseball with a mean look, and Clark notices the sweat all but dripping off of him that’s stained through his shirt. Clark knows his mouth isn’t dry but still works his tongue along his gums anyway, looking at anywhere but the hollow of Bruce’s throat.
“Kent,” He growls, and it’s an entirely Batman noise, Clark’s eyes snapping up to his. “Put your dog in his kennel.”
Krypto scampers back and drops the ball on Bruce’s shoes. Clark notes the fair amount of slobber on it. Bruce kicks it away with a grumble, shooting Tim a look from where he’s animatedly talking with Kon, and then stomps back inside.
Clark follows him in after getting a hair-ruffle in on Kon, the teen hurriedly fixing it while yelling threats at Clark’s back. He barely hears them over the steady tha-thump of Bruce’s heart, follows it to where he’s dubiously considering the washing machine as it goes through it’s spin cycle.
“Martha washes your costume.” He says, dumbly, watching red and blue do lazy circles.
Clark rubs the back of his neck, flushing all over. “She washes it if I make dessert.”
Bruce snorts, looking down to his watch. “Better get started, Kent.”
–
Weighing flour has never been so difficult. He’s made this more times than he can count but Bruce’s watchful gaze seems to make it all that little bit harder. He focuses on sieving flour, the edge of his hand getting dusted, rather than looking up at Bruce.
“Put on the radio?”
Bruce smirks. Clark doesn’t look but he knows he does. “Silence getting to you?”
“It’s never silent.” Tha-thump, tha-thump, tha-thump.
Bruce doesn’t reach over to flick on the radio, instead leaning over the table to grab the plate of butter and knife. Clark doesn’t dare breathe when he gets close enough that their shoulders bump.
“Do you know how to do this?”
“What, cube butter?” Bruce gives him an amused smile. He deserves it, he supposes, after playing dumb with Tim.
“Have you ever made pie before, Mister Wayne?” Clark snarks, looking up briefly to see Bruce shake his head gently.
“I’m sure you’re a very good teacher.”
The insinuation is entirely in his head. Definitely. Bruce’s heart stays steady where Clark’s almost stops beating all together. “Start pitting cherries after that.”
The clank of Bruce setting the plate down only serves to make Clark jump, flour dusting onto the table rather than the bowl.
Somehow, Bruce finds the boxed sweet cherries in seconds, taking a pastry tip with him. Clark watches his fingers work while he spreads the flour out evenly, throwing the butter on top.
Clark only realizes he’s been dusting the rolling pin for far too long with his eyes on Bruce’s nimble fingers, watching the cherries stain his fingertips despite his best efforts, when Bruce gives him an amused glance, eyes flitting down to where Clark’s hand is wrapped around the rolling pin, working flour up its length.
“Having fun?” Bruce’s tone is low and deep, entirely sex, insinuating, and Bruce’s eyebrow raises expertly. Clark almost breaks the rolling pin in his grip.
Superman doesn’t blush but Clark Kent does, it seems, fingers stilling on the way down. “In Rao’s name, Bruce, it’s a rolling pin, not a–”
The back door bursts open, Tim and Kon spilling in, one gasping at the makings of a pie and the other rolling their eyes. Bruce’s eyes don’t leave Clark’s even as he pits another cherry, fingers staining pink.
–
He’s too content to tell Bruce off for feeding Krypto cherry halves for the past fifteen minutes, Krypto’s tail wagging on the floor with his head on Bruce’s thigh. Why he acts like he doesn’t like the dog, Clark will never know.
–
He gets woken by a soft thump above him. For a bleary moment, before he remembers things like superpowers and the unused baseball bat under his bed, Clark scrambles off his bed, tangled up in the sheets and slamming hard to the floor. It does more damage to the wood than him, sure, but it’s still not a pleasant way to wake up.
He freezes, listening to the steady heartbeats around him. His Ma is fine, Tim and Kon are incredibly close and fast asleep, Tim’s heartbeat a lazy, comforted beat. And then there’s Bruce. Bruce who’s heartbeat is most definitely not across the hall but rather above him. The roof, he realizes slowly.
What he’s doing up there is a mystery. Clark’s never been all too good at not prying into the mystery that is Bruce Wayne.
He blinks, switching to X-ray and exhales shakily. Above him, above his bed, Bruce is comfortably curled up, arms slung over his knees with his face turned up to the sky, the slightest smile to his features. It’s the most serene Clark has ever seen him and it somehow feels like more of a violation than any other time.
This–- this isn’t for him. Bruce, watching the stars with deep, even breaths and his shoulders finally relaxed, chin set on his knees, looking younger than he ever has before, is not for him.
Clark averts his eyes, away from the soft smile that seems to light up Bruce from inside out, to the mess that is his bed. Untangling himself silently from the sheets, he sets right his bed and climbs back in, hand splayed over his chest.
Bruce doesn’t move for a long time, heaving a sigh that makes Clark frown. The calmness of before disappates as Bruce ducks his head down and buries his face into his knees, breathing in deep again. He’s still for a long moment before leaning over his bicep to stare down at Clark. Unnecessarily, Clark shifts in his bed, as though Bruce can see him at all.
“You,” Bruce murmurs, soft and only for himself, “are a coward, Bruce Wayne.”
–
Breakfast is a companionable affair.
His Ma is already out, having been up with the sun. Tim and Conner, however, are already there when Clark stumbles downstairs. He blinks at the both of them for a moment, staring confusedly when Conner announces, “Tim, I want you to remember that this is what I’ll grow up to look like.”
Clark looks down at himself, mismatched socks with shorts he hasn’t washed in two weeks that are now in the 'Sinfully Comfortable’ category of clothing, and not much else. He scrunches up his nose.
“I feel very objectified.”
Tim pats his arm on the way to the coffee machine, yawning as he says, “Or you could just go bald at a young age.”
Conner gives the both of them a deeply betrayed look. “How can you even joke about that?”
Tim snorts and Clark is just tired enough to be amused. “I wasn’t joking.”
He’s starting to feel a little too old to be awake at all. Tim hands him a cup of tea, seemingly have made it out of nowhere, and he drinks half in one go, sighing as he settles into the nearest chair.
“Where’s Bruce?” He yawns, running a hand through his hair tiredly, attempting to shake off his short sleep. He’d spent most of the night watching Bruce unwind on the roof.
Tim looks pitying. “He stormed out with no shirt, yelling about cornfields. I think.”
Conner raises an eyebrow. “I thought it was about Cla–”
“Cornfields. Definitely cornfields.”
–
He was wrong. So very, very wrong. The best torture wasn’t Bruce sweating on his porch. It was definitely this, Bruce muttering around the wrench in his mouth with his Ma’s truck jacked over him, sweating up a storm, shirt being used in lieu of an oil rag.
He hooks a hand under the truckbed and lifts, almost smiling when Bruce snaps as he shakes the wrench in his direction, “Fucking finally.”
“Something the matter?” He asks innocently, peering under the truck to look from where Bruce’s hands are working a bolt loose to the thick lines of muscle across his torso, up to the thick hair under his arms against quickly tanned skin. Clark had never thought a person could smell this good, leaning in as much as he can until all he can smell is Bruce’s unique masculine scent, thick and heady.
“Is it you who does repairs on this thing?” He snaps, eyes fixed on what he’s doing, breathing heavy.
“No,” he replies dubiously, ignoring the taste of Bruce in the air.
“Good. Otherwise I’d throttle you. This is a mess.”
“Oh.” Clark chews his lip, casting about for something to add but nothing arrives, leaving him to look Bruce up and down continually, listening to the steady beat of his heart.
“Was it just me or did you hear something last night?” Bruce asks conversationally after a long moment of silence. He hasn’t looked away from his own hands, a fact Clark is guiltily thankful for, allowing him to undress the rest of him with his eyes.
Clark’s heart jumps into his throat. What a perfect opportunity to acknowledge what he’s been doing, properly and fully. Bruce is, in part, working off guesses. He doesn’t - can’t - know about every single time. “Uh, no. I was asleep most of the night anyway.”
Bruce grunts, dragging his balled up shirt over his face to wipe away sweat before tossing it back, making a triumphant noise when something pops free of the car, clinking to the ground beside his head.
“Conner’s drinking all the coffee, you know.” Clark tries, shifting from one foot to the other.
Bruce hums absentmindedly.
“Also, Krypto wants to play fetch.”
Bruce’s entire face twitches. “That damn dog.”
Clark smiles, lifting the car higher. “Half an hour and then you can come back and curse Ma’s car, alright?”
Bruce shoots him a stony look but slides out from under the car. It feels indecent, looking at him then, Clark far too focused on the ripple of muscle under his skin when Bruce messes with his matted hair, working it away from his scalp.
“I’m buying that dog a shock collar.”
“Aww, first Christmas present!” Clark mocks, fighting down a grin. It breaks out when Bruce snorts, shaking his head.
–
Somehow, through the course of the day, someone has slept in his bed.
He’d taken Tim and Conner to town and bought them both ice cream, had played fetch with Krypto for over an hour with Bruce and then spent the next two holding up his Ma’s truck for him. Kon had gotten called out for an emergency in Kansas City, his Ma and Tim had baked another pie – an endless list of other opportunities to sleep in his bed.
Perhaps, Tim and Conner, caught up in each other, had mistaken his bed for theirs. Maybe his Ma had just straightened out his sheets. Maybe–
Nope.
The scent of sweat all but drips off his bed invitingly, all man and all Bruce, and Clark wonders dizzily if he’d spent an hour rubbing himself on his mattress.
It’s a terrible train of thought. Bruce’s voice, raw and full of want, hissing his name, comes to the forefront of his mind.
Clark steps closer until his knees hit the bed, pausing for a long moment before he climbs in carefully, stripping off his shirt and jeans, pressing his face into his pillow, a warm feeling in his chest. Sweet cherry pie leftovers and the distinct scent of Clark’s conditioner, used by Bruce, permeats the whole thing.
Tha-thump, tha-thump, tha-thump.
Clark feels oddly claimed at that moment.
–
It’s early into Sunday when he wakes, that same thump on his roof. He blinks sleepily up at the ceiling, watching Bruce above him, toes curled into his socks on the roof. A lazy smile graces Clark’s face as he breathes in deep, his own scent mixed with Bruce’s still stubbornly clinging to his bed.
An echo of the calm he feels on their quiet mornings passes through his chest and he sighs, almost happy.
The feeling disappears entirely when Bruce’s heart thuds irregularly and he lifts his foot decisively, thunking it back down to the roof. Intentionally.
Tha-thump, tha-thump, tha-thump.
Clark does the same as the night before, falling out of bed in a tangle of limbs and sheets, face smacking off the floor and leaving a sizeable dent. He inhales steadily, almost jumping when Bruce thumps again, hearing him give a resigned sigh.
It’s intentional and it’s Bruce, Bruce who slept in his bed and knows what he’s been doing and now he’s all but demanding Clark join him on the roof when he looks soft and young and close to happy. Something that isn’t meant for Clark to see.
Rao.
He doesn’t bother standing up, simply dragging his discarded shirt on, twisting on the flooring to pull it down and then, finally, dragging himself up. His window squeaks, because of course it does, but he supposes it gives Bruce time to run.
He pokes his head over the gutter, finding Bruce easily, half falling out of his bedroom window. “You rang?”
Bruce cracks an amused smile that Clark finds to be nervous, a jangle of nerves painted in the suddenly taut lines of his body, toes no longer curled comfortably but instead clenched like his fingers. “I did.”
He doesn’t say anything more until Clark silently flies out of his window, shutting it behind him, and settles beside him, a polite distance away. It’s far too painful looking at Bruce now, seeing the impersonal mask bolted on when he knows what’s underneath.
“What have you heard?” He asks lowly and Clark searches it for ulterior motive, finds nothing but genuine interest.
“I didn’t– I mean. Bruce, I’m really sorry, I truly am–”
Bruce holds up a finger for silence. “So why did you continue?”
It’s an ugly question, like Clark has been violating his friend, like he’s a bad person for just– for looking out for him. “You know why, Bruce.”
“I think do.” Bruce exhales, nodding, and turns back to look at the night sky, picking out constellations with his eyes. “But I might be wrong. So tell me.”
“You might be wrong.” He repeats, a little knocked over. “You, The Batman?”
Bruce laughs. Clark flinches at the tortured sound. “I have never felt less like Batman, Clark.”
There’s not a lot he can say about that. He’s never known him without Batman, isn’t sure it’s a good or bad thing. Who Bruce becomes without Batman is a terrifying, exciting thought. “I just wanted to make sure you were okay.”
“Did you think I needed your protection?” Bruce asks, and there’s a threat somewhere in there that Clark can’t quite pin down, still reeling at even acknowledging this thing between them.
“No. Never.” He holds his hands up uselessly, trying to capture how firmly he means it. “You’re the most capable man I’ve ever met, Bruce, I just wanted to– I felt better when I knew how hurt you were. Rao, that sounds horrible, I’m sorry, Bruce.”
“And what is it, exactly, that you saw?”
He thinks of scarred knuckles and taped ribs, a map of scars all over. “Everything.”
“Everything.” Bruce hums back to him, a questioning end.
“How did–” Clark’s jaw clicks when he snaps it shut. “Sorry. Not my place to know.”
Bruce makes an angry noise, shifting in his shirt before finally looking back to Clark and there, right there, is the anger Clark had been waiting for. “You already fucking know so just ask me.”
Clark chews on his lip hard enough for it to hurt, hopes it makes up for what comes out of his mouth. “Who gave you those scars?”
The noise Bruce makes is entirely hollow, drawn-out and pained. “You really did see everything.”
Clark nods, letting his head hang as he curls his knees up to his chest, mimicing Bruce tightly.
“You just couldn’t help yourself, could you?” Bruce snaps, heart going a mile a minute.
Briefly, Clark smells true terror and watches Bruce’s fingers shake around his knees. He lets him deflect the question, just nodding softly.
Bruce is silent after that, breathing still heavy, so Clark is too, following his lead. He sighs, eventually, lifting his head up to look at his feet.
“You slept in my bed.”
“I did.”
“Why?”
Bruce’s smirk is entirely sharp, eyes sliding to Clark’s before looking ahead. “Well, you’d already defiled my bed. Figured I’d do the same to yours.”
“I did not defile your–”
“You did.”
“I didn’t mean to. You said my name.”
Bruce blushes. Clark stares at the sight, affection dawning on him.
“I think we’re on the same page here.”
“Yes,” Clark says softly, letting his arms hang by his side, thumb making a circle in the roof. “I violate your privacy regularly, you know this and haven’t made any attempts to stop me.”
Bruce smiles wryly. “Would you have stopped if I’d asked?”
“In a heartbeat.”
Bruce nods, slowly, seemingly accepting it at face value, shoulders heaving up and back down, somewhere between tired and calm again. “Clark,” he starts, and Clark flinches at the hand that comes up, finds it only maps out his jaw gently, Bruce’s mouth falling open when he drags his thumb across Clark’s lips, up to his cheek and back down. “I think I’d like to violate your privacy.”
Somehow, it sounds soft and sweet, as good as any other I love you and Clark laughs softly, mouth opening against Bruce’s tentative fingers. “I’d like that too.”