#superbatsecretsanta2017

“Bruce?”

There was a hum of acknowledgment as Bruce continued typing on his laptop, features scrunched up in concentration, bare feet comfortably propped up on the coffee table.

Clark moved his wet bangs from his eyes, chest constricting as he took in the domestic scene in front of him. “What are you doing here?”

More rushed keystrokes, but this time Bruce arched an eyebrow in his direction. “You did say I was welcome any time when you gave me a key.”

“Yeah, no, of course you are, I just—” Clark started, when something occurred to him. He strode towards the window, glancing out into the back lane. “Oh, God. Please tell me you didn’t drive the Jag here.”

“Of course I didn’t,” said Bruce, finally closing his laptop and placing it on the table.

Clark took a deep breath, not feeling reassured in the slightest. For practical reasons, they were keeping their relationship out of the public spotlight. In Clark’s neighbourhood, any of Bruce’s cars would be out of place, like a neon sign advertising the presence of a wealthy outsider.

The last thing they needed was someone getting a whiff of it and investigating.

“You can wipe that worried expression off your face, you’re not going to find anything out there,” Bruce said. “I took the train.”

Clark blinked, certain he misheard. “You… took the train.”

“Yes.”

“You... know how to take the train?”

Bruce frowned, clearly unamused. “If you’re just going to be an ass about it, I’ll leave,” he said, rising from his spot on the couch to do so.

“No, no,” said Clark, biting his lip to hide a smile. The idea was pretty comical. “Please. Stay,” he added, closing the distance between them and placing a hand on Bruce’s chest in request.

Examining the man in front of him, Clark wondered how he could have missed the obvious disguise. With a bearded face and a baseball cap on his head, Bruce hardly looked like the famous billionaire featured on glossy magazine covers. The jeans he was wearing were tattered in places, lending them the appearance of being frequently worn. Best of all, he was wearing a grey Metropolis University hoodie; the same one Clark often left at the Manor. Really, he looked like the average Metropolite commuter, no different than Clark himself.

Smiling at the thought, Clark reached to remove his glasses and slid them onto Bruce’s nose. “To complete the look.”

Bruce looked down at the hand on his chest, considering. “Let me guess,” he said, eyes somehow even sharper behind Clark’s lenses. “You got reprimanded at work.”

Clark sighed, lowering his chin. “How’d you know?”

“Well, I did see Superman on the news,” said Bruce, cupping Clark’s cheek. “And you only ever get this snarky when you’ve had a bad day at the office.” The corner of his mouth lifted in a delicious curve, a look that only ever spelled trouble. “You know, I could always just buy the place. I hear Bruce Wayne’s a pretty lax boss.”

Clark glared.

“Right. That’s a no,” said Bruce, dropping back to land on the couch, pulling Clark down on top of him. “Ugh, you’re wet as a dog, Kansas.”

“What, afraid I’ll mess up your wardrobe?” Clark said with a teasing smile, even as he unbuttoned his flannel and let it drop to the floor. He got up to give the same treatment to his belt and pants, settling back onto Bruce’s lap in nothing but his underwear.

“God,” said Bruce, reaching to trace Clark’s bare chest and stomach. “You’re burning up.”

“Mhm,” Clark removed the cap from Bruce’s head, sifting his fingers through soft hair. With his other hand, he grabbed the front of the hoodie and used it to jerk Bruce forward, licking into his mouth. The response was one of enthusiastic reciprocation, Bruce’s tongue leaving no area of Clark’s mouth unmapped. When they separated, his head swayed forward, chasing Clark’s lips. “I am glad you’re here, you know. Can you spend the night, or do you have business in Gotham?”

“The kids are taking care of it,” Bruce responded, throwing his head back and closing his eyes as Clark gently caressed his throat.

“Good. I could use some company after the day I’ve had,” said Clark, burrowing his face into Bruce’s neck, enjoying the prickly sensation of the beard against his skin. The citrusy notes of Clark’s cologne still lingered on the hoodie’s collar, mixing in with the woodsy tang belonging to Bruce.

Bruce reached to move the bangs out of Clark’s eyes, tugging lightly on the persistent curl that always fell on his forehead. “Kal,” he said gravely, his expression serious. He only ever used the name when he was intent on commanding Clark’s attention, and it never failed to elicit a shiver down his spine. “Even you can’t be in two places at once.”

“I know that, I just—” Clark started, looking down. “Clark Kent, Superman… they always seem to come at the expense of each other.” He swallowed, shame settling in his stomach. “What if… I’m not doing all that I can? What if by trying to be two people I’m holding back from maximizing my actions?”

“So, what do you propose? Becoming Superman full time?”

Clark shrugged, feeling dejected. “I could do a lot of good. Maybe I’ve just been deluding myself in thinking I can live a human life. Maybe it’s nothing but a selfish dream.”

“Clark,” Bruce said urgently, cupping his face. “You’re the most human of us all. That’s precisely why Superman is so effective, and why he couldn’t exist without Clark Kent. Take it from someone who’s spent a lot of time trying to extinguish his own humanity. Everything Superman stands for… those are all things that were synthesized from Clark Kent and Kal-El.” He leaned in to brush their lips together, lingering on the corner of Clark’s mouth. “And I happen to hold a favourable opinion of the result.”

Clark stared into his eyes for a long moment, a tight ache unfurling in his chest. “Careful, Batman,” he said with a small smile. “You might lead me to conclude you give a damn.”

“Mhm. Don’t tell anyone.” Bruce rubbed at the points of his hip bones before squeezing his thighs. “Alright, off. On your stomach.”

“What for?” Clark asked, even as he left Bruce’s lap and allowed himself to be guided to lay on the couch.

“Trust me,” was the response Bruce provided before settling on Clark’s back, his weight a comforting presence. He began kneading Clark’s shoulders with firm pressure, working out knots Clark hadn’t realized were there. He bent down to place a kiss on his top vertebrae, grazing it lightly with his teeth, causing a jolt of pleasure to run down Clark’s spine. “Just relax,” Bruce whispered into his ear. “Let me take care of you.”

He took his time working on Clark’s back, his hands sliding down the skin with practiced ease, smoothing out every tensed muscle. By the time he was nearly done, Clark felt light and relaxed, the stress of the day having melted away with the touch of Bruce’s fingers.

With the massage finished, Clark turned to lie on his back, pulling Bruce down on top of him. “Thank you,” he whispered against Bruce’s lips, sneaking his hands under Bruce’s hoodie, running them along his ribs.

Bruce visibly shivered, eyes closed and voice gravelly when he spoke. “The things you do to me, Kansas.”

“The feeling’s very much mutual, B,” said Clark, warmth spreading down his entire body.

They laid like that for a long time, and Clark was beginning to doze off when Bruce got off of him. He opened his eyes and propped himself halfway up on his elbows, watching as Bruce entered the kitchen.

“Are you hungry?” he asked, gesturing to the tiny dining table, where two plates loaded with food sat waiting. “Dinner’s long cold, but we could heat it up.”

Clark immediately tensed, dread clogging his throat. “Bruce, baby,” he began, swallowing nervously as he stood, keeping his distance. “You know I love you, right?”

“Yes?” said Bruce, brow arched in suspicion.

“But there is absolutely no way,” said Clark, shuddering at the very thought, “that I am ever putting anything you’ve made into my body. Not even Kryptonian physiology can withstand it. In fact, it’s probably classified as a biohazard.”

Bruce frowned. “My cooking isn’t that bad.”

Clark folded his arms over his chest. “Your tuna sandwich sent Tim to the hospital. They thought he’d been poisoned.”

“He was exaggerating,” Bruce insisted.

Clark just glared.

“Fine,” Bruce acquiesced with a long-suffering sigh. “It’s takeout from the new Italian place down the street, you ass.”