bat (quite literally nocturnal)

it was nothing, really; Clark always touches him, especially now that he knows Bruce has a hard time asking for it. he knows Bruce wants him to because he hears his heartbeat pick up, involuntary sigh barely audible, muscles losing all tension and posture relaxing.

(Bruce would’ve hated his body reactions if it were for anyone besides Clark.)

as it was, Clark needed him to move out of the way. they were in the kitchen, waiting for Clark’s breakfast-for-dinner that Bruce enjoyed immensely, and a Wayne Tower kitchen was infinitely smaller than Clark first imagined; as if they had no use of the kitchen at all. perhaps they didn’t, Clark thought smilingly, watching Bruce. he looked around the space and drummed his fingers on the kitchen island, paced the room and turned his calculating gaze onto the cupboards.

Clark only pecked him on the cheek and went back to toasts and eggs; Bruce didn’t move then, but Clark didn’t need him to—until he turned to get the plates and Bruce stood in the way still, unmoving and seemingly lost in thought.

“Bruce?” the man only hummed in reply. “hey, I need the—okay, I’ll just—”

sit you on a counter in a blink of an eye. and Clark did so, aiming for the cupboard he needed as if nothing extraordinary happened. Bruce blinked at the now empty space where he stood.

“I’m heavy,” was his delayed, plenty rhetoric response.

“hardly,” Clark hummed, “did you want to make coffee? Alfred put some there.”

Bruce followed the movement of Clark’s hands as he found the coffee and a pot; he sat there, on an island, feet not touching the floor, and had to hide his erratic breathing by barely breathing. which Clark noticed.

“you okay?” he asked in alarm, brows knitting together. “did I hurt you? I—”

“no,” Bruce was fast to reassure, clearing his throat, “I...”

didn’t think you could lift me too. which was illogical; Clark could hold a skyscraper and hardly break a sweat. somehow holding or lifting Bruce was out of the realm of possibility just a minute ago. Bruce was tall, heavy and muscled; he exercised and fought constantly. he should by no means be this easy to handle—with not as much as a single grunt or pant from Clark; nothing.

“...Bruce?” Clark sought his eyes, one hand caressing and squeezing his knee. “I’m sorry I didn’t ask if I could—but you had this look, you know... the one you get when you’re figuring something out. I didn’t mean to—to scare?.. you. I—”

“you didn’t,” Bruce shook his head, “it’s fine.” he cleared his throat yet again and licked his lips. “just unexpected.”

“good or bad unexpected?” Clark watched Bruce’s lips, hand straying up his thigh.

“good.”

Clark tore his gaze away from his lips and focused on his eyes, visibly apologetic.

“I should’ve asked first, I’m sorry. I won’t do that again,” he spoke lowly, mouth a tad too close and too far away at the same time. Bruce gripped the counter and leaned forward, connecting their mouths in a kiss, simple and so very light.

but I’ll make you, Bruce thought as Clark smiled at him brightly, blindingly, and went to finish cooking their food. come hell or high water.

...which, of course, resulted in a one-sided game of flustering and irritating Clark to the point of his hands itching, almost reaching out to put Bruce where he wouldn’t be a complete and utter nuisance. if Clark only knew how devilish Bruce can get in his pursuit of... whatever it is he’s pursuing, really—he would have never done the thing that put him in such a mood.

(isn’t Clark the sweetest fool?)

another night finds Bruce leaning on his workbench in the Batcave, obscuring the view of his monitors—that he’s agreed to lend Clark. whom he’s agreed to help with a case in Metropolis. a case that is quite tiresome and demanding.

Clark doesn’t get angry because it’s not his design nor an option he would ever entertain, so he simply sighs and crosses his arms, staring at Bruce’s back. a very beautiful back, and yet,

“will you move?”

“hn.”

“Bruce.”

“hn?”

“I swear—” Clark takes a deep breath. “it’s fine if you can’t help with this, just say so—”

“I can and I am,” Bruce replies languidly, tapping at the smaller screen in his hands.

“then why are you—can you—” Clark huffs. “let me see then? could you move a little?”

“make me,” Bruce mutters; so quietly, in fact, it is less than a whisper.

he’s debating whether Clark has heard him just now when there’s a warm presence at his back, familiarly full lips brushing his nape.

“what was that, hun?”

Bruce stops breathing for a moment there, hands stilling.

“come on,” Clark taunts quietly, amusement clear in his voice, “won’t you say that again, darlin’?”

“I said—” Bruce stops to bite at his lip. “I said... make me?”

“is that a question?” Clark laughs, lips ghosting over Bruce’s ear.

“um.”

“what now? lost for words, love?”

“that’s mean,” Bruce says under his breath and hears Clark chuckle.

“weren’t you mean just now?”

he feels Bruce’s chest rise and fall rapidly, his tech and act forgotten. Clark’s hands follow the taut line of his shoulders and slither down to his sides, caressing and embracing at last, palms hot against Bruce’s quivering stomach.

“so tell me,” Clark hums into his neck, “what was that all about? not just today—you’ve been snappy for all of two weeks.”

“I—wasn’t. I’m not snappy,” Bruce grumbles.

“would you look at that,” Clark huffs, “not snappy, huh?”

“Clark,” Bruce says lowly, “jus’kisme?”

the last words were rushed, blurring into one.

“but I am,” Clark leaves a kiss on his neck, behind his ear; nuzzles the crook of his shoulder.

“not like that,” Bruce mutters, almost scandalised, and Clark has the audacity to snicker.

“if you ask so prettily,” he coos, prompting Bruce to turn around, and stares him in the eye, “happy now?”

he doesn’t give Bruce any time to answer when their lips meet, languid and wet; he lifts Bruce up on the desk and hears his breath hitch, small whimper leaving his mouth and alarming Clark; he moves to back off and see what made Bruce make this sound when his curls are yanked closer, strong thighs closing around his hips.

“don’t,” Bruce whispers into his mouth, tongue licking at the seam of Clark’s lips.

“huh,” he breathes out, hands finding home on Bruce’s waist and gently rubbing his sides and back, “so that’s how it is.”

“shut up,” Bruce pinches the skin on his nape and tugs him closer, and Clark could never resist this voice and these eyes, such barely hidden need and love in the glint of his irises.

he swears he hears Bruce’s heart beat within his own ribcage from the sheer closeness they share, not a millimetre between their chests and hips. Bruce matches his want spectacularly, hands all over each other meant to map out every nook and cranny.

(Clark also finds himself unable to resist Bruce’s noises and hitching breaths. he’ll surely have to get acquainted with every one his lover could make.)

he ponders the idea of carrying Bruce upstairs just like that; knees tightly squeezing at his sides and arms woven around his neck. that would surely give him some much needed comfort—and two handfuls of Bruce’s not less than spectacular ass, or tense thighs, or—

“can you now?” Perry asks sceptically. “he’s a recluse. Wayne doesn’t give interviews.”

“but I got his comment that one time?”

“one time, Kent.”

Clark wants to grumble; he’s got some ethics, after all, and wouldn’t abuse his closeness to Bruce for an interview, of all things. Perry interrupts his train of thoughts that has shifted its course to images of Bruce and a gentle, what is he doing now? has he had breakfast already? did he like the coffee Clark made him?

“Kent? Kent, for Christ’s sake—this is exactly why I want you to take that damned break.”

“I will. someday.”

“get me a Bruce Wayne story and take a week off. now get to work,” Perry leaves the papers on Clark’s desk and turns away, sighing heavily. “kids these days, I swear...”

“I’m thirty!” he calls after Perry, who visibly twitches and snaps,

“exactly!”

...which is how Clark ends up being teased by Lois incessantly, Jimmy looking them over with a scowl of confusion.

“will you really get a Bruce Wayne story?”

“oh, he will,” Lois nods enthusiastically and silently mouths at Clark, “loverboy!”

Clark is left to sigh and shake his head. he turns to his desk to escape the calculating gazes of his friends and bites his lip in thought, fingers unconsciously fiddling with his phone. he fires a short text to Bruce:

how d’you feel about dating me publicly?

Bruce chokes on coffee in another city, a quiet ‘what?’ leaving his mouth; Clark hears it and adds another text,

sorry. just promised Perry I can get a Wayne story for him instead of taking a week off.

I’d rather you take vacation.

we can make it Bruce Wayne and Superman?

Bruce snorts, expression fond.

sorry, sorry. I don’t mean it.

I know. we can decide later if you wanna come for dinner?

of course I do! when have I not? Clark sends right away, smiling. he hears Bruce take a deep breath and release it, fingers tapping fast on the screen. he halts suddenly, typing stopping, and Clark tries not to pry too much into Bruce’s space and privacy—not when he doesn’t even know Clark does this unthinkingly, checking in from time to time to make sure Bruce is safe; he’s one step shy of panicking about this weird and probably off-putting habit, when Bruce stops his spiralling thoughts with one single sentence,

I miss you.

Clark can imagine how difficult it is for Bruce to be open about his feelings; he does this selectively still, foregoing exhaustion or pain to be with Clark a minute—an hour more. it breaks and re-assembles him together any time Bruce naps on him, safe and sleepy and trusting, features so handsomely sharp. Clark feels his rabbiting heart up in his throat and sends a quick and heartfelt,

I do too, darlin’.

“I can’t believe how disgusting you can be,” Lois mutters from above him, patting his shoulder, “sickly even.”

“don’t be a hater,” Clark pouts, and looks back at his phone, thinking.

want me to bring lunch?

don’t you have work to do?

I’ll think of something.

’course you will, reads Bruce’s last message and Clark is already half out of the door when he hears Lois and Jimmy’s indignant squeaks.

“lunch!” he shouts at them and waves his hand in a goodbye, exiting the Planet and speeding to his favourite Korean place in Metropolis. it’s high time they stuff themselves full with those dumplings Bruce is reluctant to admit he likes.

Gotham greets Clark with heavy dark clouds and the sweetest kiss from Bruce, who clings to his shirt tightly and mumbles into his shoulder,

“hope you’re still coming to dinner.”

forces to eat and take a shower? check.

reprimands for neglecting his responsibilities? check.

lets him get away with the Batman thing? check.

cares enough to help his Batman thing? check.

is mad at his Batman thing? also check.

bantering with Alfred is also the best worst thing to ever happen to Bruce. it both puts him at ease and irks him; it’s domestic in the worst way possible.

Alfred says, “I took the liberty of arranging a press conference for you. 10 o’clock tomorrow morning at WE. I expect you ready at 9 sharp.”

“you did what. I won’t go.”

“pray tell me why then.”

“I’m not fit for talking to press.”

“and yet you’re perfectly fit for negotiations with lowlifes and street brawls.”

Bruce visibly stops in his tracks.

“I don’t brawl on the streets.”

“because there are no streets to brawl on—”

“Alfred, I won’t—”

“your wills and won’ts are none of my business. you’re going there hell or high water.”

Bruce scowls at him and secretly cancels the conference. Alfred has a back-up plan and attempts to make him interact with someone in a livelier way than via e-mail. Bruce scowls some more. Alfred stares him down, leaning on his cane heavily.

...they agree on zoom interview. the reporter asks him, why not face-to-face? and Bruce says, “I have to help Alfred.”

“your butler, you mean? the one who got hurt in the attack at Wayne Tower?”

“no,” Bruce frowns, “not butler. my family.”