#izzy.dc

now you’re sitting next to bruce, who’s actively trying his best to pretend like he’s not practically jumping out of his skin every time he catches clark’s side eye towards you

you have to grab ahold of his hand under the table, squeezing it to provide comfort, sharing a small smile and conversation with a few looks

‘relax, we’re okay. let him be. i’m looking at you.”

‘if i catch him looking one more time, i’m not responsible for what i do.’

‘but if you get into a fight then our meetings gonna be extended, and date night gets delayed’

bruce just gives you a plain look, clearly stating a ‘and?’

you, in turn, raise an eyebrow, a mischievous smirk on your lips.

bruce raises an eyebrow back, ‘oh. seems like someone has a secret. would you like to share?’

and clark’s just sitting there, watching what feels like another version of the life he could have had. a life with you

having unspoken conversations in meetings

planning date nights around your hero life

holding your hand as you enter or leave the javelin

meals in his kitchen, regardless of the time, the smell of breakfast always lingering in the air

the way you’d look in his arms, enjoying a rare moment of people as the sunsets. he’d take you to his favorite place, where he goes to relax and just be

and to be able to share that with you? to share pieces of himself he never thought he could share (didn’t even dare to share with lois.

because you understand darkness. the crueler aspects of the hero life, and the thoughts that occasionally could creep in, that if said aloud, would give them its own type of power.

but instead he’s watching you move forward with your life with bruce. watching the tender, careful touches you both share.

the way you both lean on the other, an unsaid appreciation and trust between you two, clear for anyone to see

the love that’s clear in both your eyes. in the way your heartbeats sync, becoming one and almost inseparable.

You and Clark are in your room and after a painful amount of awkward shifting—with him hovering near your desk, you standing by your bed, both of you pretending to examine objects that have never been interesting before—you finally settle. You sit in the middle of your bed, legs tucked beneath you, while Clark takes your vanity chair, turned slightly toward you.

Too far and formal, and definitely not you and Clark.

The silence stretches, thick and tangible, filledwith everything the two of you have not said for months. You both know something is about to happen. Something that’s been building through shared shifts, late-night conversations, almost-moments that never quite crossed the line.

Clark exhales sharply, almost as if he’s frustrated.

“This feels awkward,” he blurts, words tumbling over themselves. “And I hate it. This—this isn’t us. I mean—” He gestures vaguely between the two of you. “Out of all the ways I imagined confessing how much I care about you, I didn’t think it would feel like a hostage situation.”

There’s a beat before you break out laughing, helping to ease the previous tension.

Clark groans immediately, dropping his head into his hands. “Great job,” he mutters. “Really nailed that.”

“Clark—”

“It was supposed to be better than this,” he rushes on, lifting his head, words softer now but no less earnest. “I had plans, you know? Like—actual plans.” He lets out a small, self-conscious laugh. “I was thinking maybe dinner. That little restaurant you love—the one that reminds you of home. Or…”

His voice falters, but he keeps going. “Or after one of our shifts. When we’re cleaning up and you’re tired, and you think no one’s looking—but you always look… comfortable. And beautiful. And I thought maybe I’d just—say it then.”

Your breath catches. Clark looks at you now, fully, like he’s decided there’s no point holding anything back anymore.

“Or during movie nights,” he adds, quieter. “Those moments always feel… real. Like it wouldn’t be weird to tell you then.”

Your heart aches. Because he’s thought about this. Not once. Not casually. But over and over again, turning it over in his mind, waiting for the right moment.

Waiting for you.

“Clark,” you say again, softer this time, and this time, he listens.

You don’t stop the tears when they come. They gather in your eyes, spill over despite your best efforts, and you don’t even try to hide them. There’s no embarrassment—just something overwhelming and warm and relieving.

Because you knew, your friends told you and you suspected. But thinking it in your head and hearing it from him—like this, honest and unfiltered—are two entirely different things. It settles something deep in your chest.

“I thought I imagined it sometimes,” you admit, voice small but steady. “All those almost-moments. I kept thinking… if it was real, something would’ve happened by now.”

Clark’s expression softens immediately, something like regret flickering through it.

“I didn’t want to mess it up,” he says. “You matter too much to me to risk losing you because I read something wrong.”

Your lips tremble into a soft, disbelieving smile. “Clark, I’ve been waiting for you.”

The words hang between you, heavy but certain. And then, he’s moving.

Slowly, like he’s giving you every chance to stop him. His hand finds yours first, warm and grounding, fingers threading together with yours like they’ve always belonged there.

You close the distance.

The kiss is soft. Careful. Not rushed or overwhelming, just a quiet confirmation of everything you’ve both been holding back. It’s warm and grounding and right in a way that makes your chest ache all over again.

When you pull away, neither of you goes far. Clark rests his forehead against yours, breath uneven but steadying.

“Okay,” he murmurs, almost to himself. “Okay, that’s… that’s real.”

You laugh softly, the sound lighter now. “Yeah,” you whisper. “It is.”

You both end up curled together in your bed, the tension replaced with something softer, easier. Clark’s arm is around you, your head resting against his chest, the steady rhythm of his heartbeat grounding you.

It feels… right. Natural. Like something that should’ve happened a long time ago.

And yet—

Something’s missing.

It’s as if you both felt it at the same time. There’s a small shift, almost imperceptible, before you both speak.

“…This feels incomplete,” you say.

“…Yeah,” Clark agrees at the same time.

You both pause, then slowly look at each other, before laughing. Because of course.

Of course this is how this goes.

“Bruce,” you both say at the same time, tender emotions both swirling in one another’s eyes. Both just feel undeliable relief that you can both be on the same page like this.

Clark huffs out a laugh, running a hand over his face, before bringing it down so it can rest ontop of yours. “Wow. Okay. That’s, yeah. That’s something.”

You grin, settling back against him. “I mean… are we really surprised?”

“No,” he admits. “Not even a little.”

There’s no panic in it, or fear. Just acceptance and maybe a little excitement.

The rest of the night softens into something warm and domestic. You throw on an old show neither of you are really paying attention to, voices low as you talk through what this means. What you want and what you’re willing to risk.

And almost more importantly, how to approach Bruce. Individually? Together? Casually? Directly?

You’ve both known him for a while, and have felt the undeniable chemistry that each shares with him. But you also know that’s he’s been hurt and he might need more time to get use to this.

You’re somewhere between plotting and spiraling when you tap Clark’s chest lightly to get his attention. “I have a suggestion.”

He hums, looking down at you, ready to hear what you have to say.

“Wear that tight shirt you have,” you say seriously, “and stop hiding it under your slutty little flannels.”

Clark chokes.

“Slutty flannels?” he repeats, incredulous, laughter bubbling up.

You lift your head to look at him, completely unapologetic. “Yes. Slutty flannels. What were you thinking with those? You’re out here selling this sweet southern boy image like it’s not doing things to people.”

“To people?” he echoes, amused.

You narrow your eyes. “To me. Obviously.”

Clark’s laughter softens into something warmer and undeniably fond.

He leans down, pressing a soft kiss to your lips. “Well,” he murmurs, “they were kind of for you.”

You hum, satisfied.

Then he adds, just barely pulling back, a small smirk tugging at his mouth, “And maybe Bruce too.”

Dinner is chaos before it even starts. Music plays low in the background, something soft and rhythmic, just enough to fill the silence that never actually exists in your apartment.

Clark is at the stove, sleeves rolled, focused in that way he gets when he’s determined not to mess something up. You’re beside him, chopping vegetables and pretending you’re helping more than you actually are.

“You’re hovering,” Clark murmurs.

“I’m supervising.”

“You’re stealing ingredients.”

“Excuse me, I’m taste-testing.”

He laughs under his breath, but before he can say something, a familiar figure grabbed his attention.

Behind you, Hal is arguing with Oliver about something completely irrelevant, Barry is already eating something that isn’t finished, and Dinah is opening a bottle of wine like she’s done it a thousand times.

But it’s Bruce that stole Clark’s attention, the man standing just inside the kitchen doorway, simply watching and taking it all in.

He looks… out of place. Not in a bad way—just different, like he hasn’t quite decided where he fits in the chaos yet.

“Bruce!” you call, turning toward him. “You made it.”

He smiles at you, soft and genuine, and something in his shoulders relaxes.

“Wouldn’t miss it,” he says. He then nods towards the pan in Clark’s hands. “Need a help there farmboy?”

Clark glances over his shoulder, grin easy. “Oh and you know any better?”

Bruce smiles this time, easily slipping into the space between you and Clark, bantering with both and feeling like the perfect addition to the night.

Dinner eventually makes it to the table, but barely.

Everyone is talking over each other, passing plates, stealing bites, laughing too loudly. It’s messy and warm and completely unstructured.

Bruce sits across from you, Clark beside you, and for a while it feels easy.

Bruce laughs at something Hal says, before moving on to debate with Diana. He teases Dinah about Ollie, and is completely unbothered by Shayera’s complete lack or use of a filter.

He fits.

Then Shayera gets up, “Bathroom,” she mutters, already halfway down the hall.

No one pays attention, the conversation keeps flowing, music hums softly.

Clark leans slightly into you as he talks, your knee brushing his under the table and you don’t move away, enjoying the moment of contact with your newly established boyfriend.

Shayera comes back, and like always, speaks before she thinks, calling your name before changing the night.

“You know,” she says casually, grabbing her drink, “if your boyfriend is gonna be over more often, he should really start chipping in for the good face cleanser.”

A pause as she takes a sip, then adds, almost thoughtfully—

“Though I’ve gotta say, Clark—your skin does look radiant.”

Silence, though not completely, the music is still playing but the room and it’s inhabititants stop. You feel frozen as your eyes quickly dart to Clark’s—who is also having a difficult time processing the blunder.

Barry looks between you like he’s buffering, while Hal slowly lowers his fork, Ollie and Dinah looking at each other having a mental conversation, the man sliding his girlfriend a wad of cash.

You turn your head, slowly but sharply, meeting Shayera’s gaze as see the moment she recognizes her mistake.

“Oh my god,” she breathes. “I did not mean— I thought— I didn’t—”

“No, no, it’s fine,” Dinah jumps in, too quickly. “Totally fine. We love—” She gestures to you and Clark— “this. Whatever this is.”

Barry nods enthusiastically. “Yeah! Very supportive environment!”

Hal leans back. “Honestly, I’ve been waiting for this.”

“Hal,” Diana warns.

“What? I’m right.”

Clark exhales a quiet, almost disbelieving laugh, running a hand through his hair. “Well. That’s one way to say it.”

You cover your face briefly, heat rushing up your neck.

“This was not how that was supposed to—”

“Honestly,” Dinah cuts in, pointing between you and Clark, “about time.”

“Dinah,” you groan.

But she’s smiling, in fact, they all are. Supportive and warm and happy, everyone okay with it.

Except Bruce.

You don’t notice at first, because the room recovers, slowly and awkwardly, but it does. It finds a new rhythm because there’s very little that will throw off this group completely.

Conversation starts again as laughter returns, but something has undoubtably shifted.

Bruce doesn’t look at you, not even once. He keeps his gaze on his plate, or whoever’s speaking, or his glass.

He still responds when spoken to, still smiles, still participates. But it’s different, more distant. Almost like he’s stepped half a pace back from everything.

You and Clark share a glance as you both notice. His eyes flick toward Bruce once, then again, then to you.

You try to catch Bruce’s eye, once, twice, and neither time he meets it.

Once the plates start moving, it doesn’t take long before he stands.

“Hey—uh,” he says, clearing his throat slightly. “I should probably head out.”

Too early and too sudden. Maybe not to them, but certainly to you two.

Dinah frowns. “Already?”

“Yeah. Early morning.” It’s an excuse, and a thin one.

You stand instinctively. “I can walk you out—”

“No,” he says, too quickly. Then softer— “It’s okay. You don’t have to.”

That stings more than it should, and you can’t hide it on your face. Clark stands too, arm wrapping around your waist to comfort you, but that seems to cause Bruce more pain from the slight wince he gives. “At least text when you get home.”

Bruce nods. “Yeah. I will.”

His eyes flick toward you, just briefly, before looking away at the rest of the group, giving them a fake smile.

“Thanks for dinner,” he adds. “Next time, I’ll cater.”

Everyone laughs, and he chuckles, but from the tightening of Clark’s hand on your waist, you both can tell that it’s not one of Bruce’s real laughs. And then he’s gone, the door closes softly behind him.

And the room feels different again. No one speaks for a moment.

Then, “…I really fucked that up,” Shayera says quietly.

You sigh, running a hand through your hair. “No,” you murmur.

But your eyes are still on the door. “He just… wasn’t ready,” Clark says softly from your side, his hand coming to wrap around your waist. “It’s all a bit fast. We’ll do better next time. More his speed. We’re not giving up.”

You nod, but something twists in your chest.

Because for a second, you thought Bruce might be ready.

You sigh heavily, before turning to look at Clark, resting your head slightly on his shoulder. You turn your head to look at your roommate, a fake smile on your face that spelled doomed for those you knew you. “But hey, Shayera? Do me a favor and shut up next time?”

a/n: in typical izzy fashion, it’s taken me 8.5 years to get this next part out but thank you for the wait!

everyone say sorry to bruce, our mans is going through it. at least, temporarily! more on that next time, where we’ll really delve into what’s happening with bruce behind the scenes!

sorry if this was short, but at least an update is an update! as always, likes, comments and reblogs are always appreciated! here's a kiss from me to you!😘

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