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“You know you’re lucky I’m fairly confident. That look you’re giving me would give most men a complex.” Clark finally acknowledged Bruce, who had been standing outside of the tub for approximately ten minutes of eerie silence, with a pale faced grimace. “I’d ask if you wanted to join me, but you look like you’d rather throw the baby out with the bath water.” Clark tried to nudge Bruce for some sort of audible reaction while he scrubbed some shampoo through his hair.
“It’s not you.”
“Not me what?” Clark cracked open one eye to glance at Bruce. “C’mon, just tell me, I’ll fix it.”
“You really are confident.” Bruce sat down on the bath mat, dipped his hand in the water, making some soft ripples. “It’s that.” Bruce’s eyes drifted down the water, tossing a wave at the offending object.
“The rubber ducky? Oh Pete gave it to me, on the account that I won’t shut up about the Bat.” This rubber ducky had a little cowl, bat ears, a little nylon cape, it even had a painted on set of trunks, belt and all. “Are you jealous of the little guy?” Clark scooped out the duck, planted a small kiss on it’s bill.
“Am I joke?”
“Huh? B I’m just playing around, c’mon-”
“Am I a novelty?” Bruce rephrased his question, and Clark’s eyes lost their humor. “Batburger, these dog toys-”
“It’s not a dog . . . have you never seen a rubber ducky Bruce?”
“It looks like one of Ace’s chew toys.” Bruce neither confirmed nor denied Clark’s accusation.
“Bruce, you’re a brand. So is superman, I saw this toy shaving kit, like for kids to play along next to their parents? Red, blue, stay Super smooth. There’s a peanut butter with my logo on it. I-”
“The profits from that peanut butter goes towards the Metropolis food bank.”
“Batburger does coin drives, donates excess product to shelters, it also hires more Gothamites on probation than any corporation without your name directly on it.” Bruce raised an eyebrow at that. “I wrote a piece on Gotahm’s attitude on second chances.”
“Hmm.”
“What are you really upset over Bruce? That not everything with a bat logo on it is actively working towards saving the day?” Clark gave the rubber ducky a little squeeze. “Sometimes a smile is . . . ok maybe not as good as saving the day, but there’s a space for it, a need.”
“I wanted to be a symbol to people, a protector. Righting the wrongs, for those that did not have the means to fight for themselves.”
“And you are.”
“People either think me a loose gripped tyrant or a-” Bruce glanced at the duck with disdain again. “A quack. I think my serious intention has been muddled. I think people laugh when they know I'm still at it, still fighting this same fight, my same ways.” A joke, a novelty, a has-been, a never was.
“The first piece I ever wrote about Gotham was when there was a big chemical spill into the sound. Water was being sent from Metropolis to Gotham as relief.”
“Acme chemicals, that was a bad time.” Bruce nodded. “The Bat didn't clean up that mess.” Wayne enterprises had done a lot to mitigate the windfall of the disaster, but Bruce wasn’t having an existential crisis about his day look. He didn't get where Clark was going with that memory. “Acme chemicals continues to plague me.”
The corporation was long since bankrupt, it never recovered from that fiasco, but somehow barrels, sometimes impossibly even vats of their waste still survived in corners of his city, often used to make gas, toxin, the occasional full blown rogue. The stuff was aging like a cursed wine.
“I wanted to get some street level interviews. I was told by Perry I couldn't go without a police escort. That outsiders were not tolerated and If I went alone I'd either be shot in a turf war, or have my kidneys sold off by grifters.”
“It wasn't that . . . I suppose one crime syndicate selling organs is enough to set a stigma you can’t shake.” The ring had been shut down ages ago, the rumors lingered however, and every once in a blue moon a few desperate individuals tried to make a go of it. “If you are trying to cheer me up, it isn’t working.”
“I am the go to Gotham reporter for the Daily Planet. When was the last time you saw Bullock chasing to keep up with me? And I go to some rough neighborhoods.”
“You’re also built like a linebacker who ate a smaller linebacker Clark. You’re not exactly an easy target, even without the cape. So you being able to walk the streets, says . . . business isn’t as lean, they can choose-”
“It isn’t as lean, why?”
“Because, I traded all my muggers and jewel thieves for themed anarchists and small scale warlords?” Bruce threw his hands up in frustration. “Your lunch money isn’t really what my criminals are after.”
“Criminals who want easy money or blind eye violence have either moved on or . . . yes some ganged up, but the days of Gotham being a dog you can kick are over, they know now it bites back.”
“That trade off isn’t exactly what I envisioned, nor what Gotham had hoped for when they backed me.” Bruce could see where Clark was coming from, that Gotham was no longer the wild west, but was quality not quantity really a move in the right direction?
“Bruce, I wanted to put out fires, stop bridges from collapsing, cats from trees, maybe carjacking now and then. You know, see something, say something? That was my intention, just I see better, and I act twice as fast as I speak. Now? I have Luthor importing alien tech weekly, turning security guards into a small privatized army. You do good, they do bad, you do better, that's the grind, for all of us.”
“Hm.” The grind was getting to Bruce, he was feeling worn down.
“If they have time to laugh, make little squeezy toys of you, well guess what you have to do to laugh Bruce?”
“What?”
“Breathe. Gotham’s not gasping anymore Bruce, and I know . . . at the start you wanted there to be no crime, for guns to be a thing of the past, but just because things aren’t getting better the way you imagined, doesn’t mean better isn’t happening. Kids who thought crime was easier than a job at batburger are fewer and farther between. Real estate is becoming competitive again. Night classes are up, there-”
“What?” Bruce couldn’t say what made that factoid more impactful than the others, but it did.
“Night classes, people feel safer at night, it used to be schools had to offer almost a hazard discount to-”
“Another article?”
“Six out of ten Metropolis natives that take night classes chose to commute cross the bridge, the stat was flipped a decade ago. Though you don't get all the credit, some were swayed solely by the swag.”
“Swag?”
“Gotham Tech, we do it after dark? Very popular shirt, you've seen me wear it to bed.” Clark was relieved to see Bruce finally chuckle.
“How many articles have you written on Gotham?”
“I don’t know a hundred? Like I said I’m the go-to, and it’s not just because I’m unmuggable linebacker, it’s because I’ve . . . on occasion-” Clark’s foot came out of the tub and knocked at Bruce’s chest. “Have been able to snag an interview, with a bat people can’t hear enough about.”
“You’re trying to puff my ego.” Bruce grabbed at Clark’s foot, kneading at it a little bit.
“Mmmm, I think sometimes that’s healthy, sometimes it helps to hear it . . . that you’re good, and valued, and noticed.”
“People thank me when I save them.” Bruce smirked when Clark’s toes started to wriggle.
“People would thank anyone if they saved them. You think the fact that they needed saving means you weren’t doing your job well, so I don’t think you let yourself hear it.”
“I’m not delusional. I’m not . . . eight anymore. I know what is realistic.”
“You’re also a man who dresses like a bat, and plays mental chess with a clown. You live an unrealistic life.”
“So I should be delusional?”
“Do not dare put those words in my mouth.” Clark stroked his chin for a second, trying to word out exactly what he was giving Bruce permission to do. “You should be . . . conflicted. How pragmatic is too pragmatic, how grand is too grand. You’re not a cop Bruce, you’re a hero, you should try to save the world, but the world isn’t going to be saved like in books, there’s no vanquishing the evil and going home to the shire. The world is going to be saved in . . . each person you save and what they do to make the world better. Sometimes it’s hard to see that, the good and the greater they will accomplish, when you have to face the bad getting worse night after night. I feel it too, I know it’s hard, but you’re always there, when I start feeling guilty . . . bout what I brought, it’s you that always tells me I’m worth my weight in Kryptonite and then some.”
“If it’s logic good enough for Superman, who am I to argue?” Bruce let go of Clark’s foot, let him pull it back into the bath water. “ Thank you.” He scooted up by Clark’s face and leaned in for a kiss. “I’m sorry that I ruined your soak.”
“You don’t think I’m done do you?” Clark chuckled.
“With . . . your bath?” Bruce stuck his hand in. “Water is fairly tepid.”
“Valuing you.”
“I get it, you love me and think I’m being too critical of my public image.”
“That tone sounds like a man forty percent convinced of their value. I don’t do things forty percent Bruce, I’m incapable.”
“So what are you going to do? Throw me a parade? Write another glowing article about the caped crusader?”
“Darn, those are pretty good ideas. I was just going to take you to your favorite gargoyle, lean you over and praise you through it.”
“Praise me . . . You were going to fuck me against a gargoyle?!?”
“I have to assume that’s the best way to get a view of the city as a whole. Or do you really just do it to be the most dramatic human being alive?” Clark pulled the drain on the tub. “My second option was turning the bat signal long, and praise you from that position, but then Gordon might come up, you might feel embarrassed.”
“Just me?”
“Well I’d feel bad that I made the commissioner an unwilling accomplice, that’s certainly not alright, but . . . embarrassed? I don’t know . . . it’s-”
“You’re incapable?” Bruce deadpanned as he watched Clark stand up in the tub, hands on his hips, bashful was not a word in this man's dictionary.
“When I’m with you? Nearly. I’m pretty high on myself whenever I’ve got you Bruce, would take a lot to bring me down.”
Clark plucked up the rubber duck and squeezed it right in Bruce’s face, the splash of lukewarm water really did the trick, it made Bruce smile, it washed away the yuck of the day. Would these feelings come up again? Surely, it was a crucial part of being in a position of power, to question how you're using it, but in this moment, Bruce didn’t need to save the world. He had to smile, because his husband, along with that stupid little duck, would not rest until he did.
“I wouldn’t be able to see the city if I’m lying prone on the Bat signal.”
“True, there are some nice rooftop gardens in the art district, though the same noise disturbance issue . . . oooh! I have the keys to one of the unused offices in the gazette for when I do cross paper pieces, nice long plexiglass windows, fully lockable doors I-”
“I could just ask Jim not to come up, that I need the space.”
“Bruce I was kind of kidding about the Bat Signal, that would cut up your back.”
“I can’t get tetanus.” Bruce’s shots have had shots, there were diseases and infections not of this time stream Bruce was resistant to.
“Well neither can I but you don’t see me gloating about it.” Clark reached for a towel and started drying himself off. “I’m trying to do something nice for you, not tear you up Bruce, and not getting gang green isn’t really nice, it should just kind of be a give in with sex.”
“Well then you shouldn’t have put the thought in my head whose fault is that?” Clark was not much moved by Bruce’s blame game, confusion turned into an outright frown. “Can we? Please? I’ll cry uncle if it’s not what I want.”
“Depends, tell me now what it is that you want” Clark stepped out in front of Bruce, reaching across the space between them to cup his chin. “I didn’t say all that to rake you cross the coals B.” Clark was very hung up on the possible pain, which was fair, the Bat signal was not built as a fold out bed.
“I want to feel my place in the world, warm on my back and I want you to love me while doing it.” Bruce looked up, and part of him felt a little weak, a little desperate, but it also felt . . . like he was at the chiropractor, knowing he needed his disks realigned and just waiting for the professional to apply the pressure.
“I'll meet you there.” Clark gripped into Bruce's jaw and lifted him up to his feet. “And lower your expectations about warm on your back, I’m not keeping the juice on I’ve got you pinned to it.”
“Meet me-” Clark hadn't let go, he pulled Bruce forward into a kiss. “There?”
“I've already had my once a month watching you put your grease paint on. Less you're patient enough to wait till January.” Clark kissed him again.
“Oh.” It would mean less to fuck Bruce Wayne on the Bat signal, Clark didn't forty percent anything. Also wearing his suit did solve the, being shucked against steel problem slightly. “Could make an exception just this-”
“Never get to the rooftop hun.” Clark kissed Bruce's forehead, then whisked to his earlobe, nibbling lightly. “your battle paint would side track my selfless intentions.”
“I don’t get what that does for you.” Bruce chuckled.
Clark could eat bullets, which was a fun trick, but also Bruce’s first sign that Clark was adventurous and playful with his mouth, it was years later he found out Clark had some sort of fetish about licking the grease paint off from the Bat’s face. That's why Bruce always picked one night he really had no intentions of going out to give Clark a show.
“You just look so much more edible painted up.” Clark shrugged. “I wonder if it will taste better after I rip that cowl off you.” With those parting words sending a shiver up Bruce’s spine, Clark left the bathroom.
Bruce had gone from momentarily considering retiring the cowl, to just shy of sprinting down to the cave to get changed. Once there he pressed the call button on his computer, to get Gordon’s desk.
“I need the roof Jim.” He multitasked, out of casual wear and into one of his light one use emergency suits. He didn’t have the patience or the heart to watch Clark pull apart twenty pounds of kevlar and polycarbonate. “I think I might need to replace some parts on the Bat Signal and I’ll be doing some stress tests.” That was as close to the truth as Bruce was willing to get.
“It’s a flashlight. What stress can you put it through?” Jim’s response almost made Bruce trip as he stepped into his trunks.
“Have I ever said you don’t want to know and been wrong?” He leafed through capes looking for one on its last legs.
“No.” Gordon gave something between a sigh and a scoff. “Top floors all yours bat, just . . . janitors out for the week, don’t make a mess.”
“Since when did you hire a janitor?” Bruce chuckled when he heard the clack of one of the few landlines in Gotham, hit the receiver.
His costume on, he got to sponging on that sought after grease paint. Scanning the screens ever so briefly, each borough had a competent hero covering his slack.
‘I can breathe.’
There were years when Bruce was gasping, there weren’t enough hours in a night, he could only be in one place at any given time.
Then there were years he would lose contact with one of his children and could not breathe properly, could not think straight, everything hitched, everything hurt just enough. He had nights, sometimes months like that still, but not years, the grind was different, shared, on some good streaks one might even say manageable.
He and his family were able to schedule four days off a month each and one on impulse. It wasn’t like before where an injury almost doubled as vacation time for Bruce. Things were better, he was getting better at his job, at having a job and living a life.
‘I really could just walk in, I have an appointment.’ Bruce thought as he stared up at the grappling hook nestled satisfyingly within a well worn groove in the GCPD molding. ‘Don’t want to distract them, just because I took a mental health day. That, and he deserves an entrance.’ Looking up into the night he could see his symbol warp against and pierce through the clouds. He pressed the retraction trigger and allowed the somewhat muggy air crack against his cheeks as he ascended.
‘He’s not here.’ The signal was on, and Superman should have been waiting right beside it, but he wasn’t. “Kent.” The name just slipped out, because that’s what Bruce called Clark when he was dressed as the bat and the boyscout was benched. There was no need in the moment, Clark’s head tilted to the side, maybe confused by the slip.
“Batman. I heard from a friend that you were going to be fixing this up.” Clark gave a pat to the Bat signal, which had a pleasant overworked little crackle and hum to it if you listened close enough. Bruce often didn’t have the time, but he took it in the moment, resolving to give the poor girl a true spa day soon.
“A friend?” Bruce gave a small chuckle at how bizarre this was. ‘Is it odd to role play as yourself? Though I suppose that’s a good deal of being a hero, playing who you want to be, the type of person you think will achieve all your grandest amb-'
“If I’m keeping you from something more important. I don’t want to hold you up.” That was Clark’s most polite, yet plucky way to tell Bruce to stop overanalyzing the moment and just give in to it. “I know this is meant for emergencies-” Clark pulled the lever on the signal, pausing as it whirred down. “But this was the only way I could get a hold of you.”
“For?” Bruce was willing to get onboard with this game of Clark’s, he just needed Clark to key him in on where they were going with it.
“Well I wanted to thank you.” Clark should have stepped forward but he stepped back, further away from Bruce.
“And how did you want to do that?” It was Bruce who stepped forward, slowly coming out of the shadows, shortening the gap between them. “I read your paper, you’re-” Clark took Bruce’s hips in his hands, moved him with a strength that was a bit much for a reporter, positioning the bat in front of the bat signal.
“What are you?” Bruce was confused, who was Clark being right now? He was the one who was setting this game up, how hard was it to stay in character?
“Thankful.” Clark kicked behind Bruce’s left ankle, he tripped him, Clark tilted the single in that same motion, leaving the Bat signal flat with Bruce laid across it.
‘Batman doesn’t get tripped, Bruce might. I’m Bruce dressed as the bat-’ Bruce was distracted mid thought, the hem of his top was being folded up, pressed at his bottom teeth, getting the idea he bit down.
“Thank you Batman.” Clark licked a line up Bruce’s stomach. “I love you Bruce.” Clark gave a bite to Bruce’s side, the spot just bellow his last rib, it tickled as much as it stung.
“It'll bug me. I get Batman and Bruce love em both. Why a clueless Kent?”
“Warned you I'm not so selfless.” A greedy hand squeezed at a pec. “I have had a fantasy or two, I’ve wanted to take the Bat . . . all gear and grit, just like this. Sue me for seizing an opportunity. Don't worry we're back to you.” Clark changed his hold to hoist up and dig into Bruce’s thighs, mouth free to rove over his torso, more of their shared weight was being supported by the joints of the signal.
“Clark, wait will this hold us?” Bruce had been known to let fantasy supersede physical limitations now and again. Was this one of those good in theory bad in practice sort of scenarios?
“Can always grip your ankles and pray.” Clark was surely counterweighting or doing some Kryptonian forcefield shenanigans to keep everything from collapsing, but he was also busy telling Bruce that wasn’t supposed to be his concern. Not the logistics, not the roles, he was simply to take the thanks he was being given. This was Bruce/Batman taking a victory lap and nothing more.
Clark had a lot to give, he groped at every muscle group one by one, kissing and plucking every nerve to attention. Even through this onslaught of affection Bruce felt it. ‘It’s still warm.’ The signal had been turned off, but the metal of the cutout bat still held some warmth of the light, he could feel it not brand, but just heat at the center of his back.
As Clark manhandled him to get his tights and trunks to knee level, he felt that little poke and dig into his back, he could hear it creak, still finding a way to call out to him despite the light being out. It was the reminder he needed, that all this was him, all this was his, he signed up for this, he wanted this, he loved this and it loved him back.
“You-” Bruce was alarmed at first when he felt Clark’s middle finger press at his opening, then he relaxed, when he felt them glide in with some help. “Came prepared.”
“Not always on you Bat, I know how to prep for missions too.” Clark kissed the words into Bruce’s neck. “I know how to stakeout a target.” After a few swipes to get Bruce adjusted, he found Bruce's prostate, a second finger was sent in to make sure no corner escaped Clark’s attention. “Don’t think I don’t see you set those standards sky high.” Bruce moaned when a third finger entered him. “Don’t think I don't use that to push myself to be just as good.”
“I get it! I get it! How much more valuing are you going to do till you fuck me?” Bruce still had his teeth gritted over the gray fabric of his suit, but he knew damn well Clark could hear him.
“I think you know the answer to that, you’re a smart Bat.” That got Bruce’s hips moving with a little more urgency, because he did know Clark, knew he liked to fuck Bruce when his muscles had gone post orgasm lax, he loved to feel Bruce tighten up around him, and have Bruce shout a little over stimulated.
“There you go Bruce, you look good when you grind all desperate for it.”
‘I fucking hate the grind.’ Bruce wanted Clark inside him, he wanted to feel full. “Your analogies are too fucking blunt Clark.”
Bruce had complained about the grind being too much, he’d lamented about how worn down and disillusioned by it he was, yet as he rode himself on Clark’s fingers, pushing for just enough to get him what would get him more, he had to admit, he was a bit of slut for the grind. He had enough in life handed to him, there was something that really got his blood pumping to fight and scrape a bit.
“Blunt and effective, that’s sort of my style.”
When Clark slowed his fingers down, teasing his ticket to orgasm away Bruce groaned, the ache felt good, felt deep, it felt warm to his core, it took Bruce into a higher gear. He was able to twist his hips, writhe his thighs, close his eyes and focus on that sweet spot just enough for him to get what he wanted.
“Not done with me yet are you Bruce?”
“No.” Bruce sighed euphorically when he felt Clark palms at his knees, pushing them up to his shoulders. The warmth of Clark entering him, the heat radiating off him had Bruce panting. “Clark, don't stop!”
“Bruce, I just got started.” Clark couldn’t help but chuckle, he had only gotten the head of his cock past Bruce’s rim.
“I might not have the words to say it when I mean it.” Bruce arched his back, hoping to accentuate that tightening feeling Clark craved. “Wait!” He yelped when Clark bottom out.
“Bruce, love of my life, your body will speak to me fine, you don’t need to give some sex last will and testament ok?” Clark let go of a knee to let a soothing palm run up Bruce’s stomach.
“No, you forgot what you wanted to do.”
“I didn’t forget anything.” Clark wound back and started to fuck Bruce, slower than this position and setting would seem to warrant. “I’ve got you Bat.” Gentle was not how Bruce would describe Clark’s thrusts, his size, Bruce’s angle, meant each time Bruce’s toes curled, he felt a press at every corner Clark could reach, not gentle, but reserved, Clark was holding back. “Just get your fill Bruce, that’s all you need to do, turn off, lay back, just enjoy.” Clark picked up the pace, but he wasn’t fooling Bruce, faster was just speed, there was still a sliver of Clark Bruce wasn’t getting and he wanted it.
Even if it was a pulled punch it was blunt and effective. Clark was able to make Bruce come once, twice, even a third time. It was not clinical, Clark was kissing him, cooing every positive word in the reporter’s thesaurus, he even starting cursing in Kryptonian, it was an avalanche of raw love and lust and yet . . .
Bruce was near delirious on endorphins, his stomach painted with sticky tally marks of his indulgence and yet . . . .
A little nagging notion kept Bruce from losing himself to bliss. He kept one hand over his head on the signal, the other clawing at Clark’s shoulder. His body started to yearn for rest as much as it wanted another orgasm and yet . . .
“Gonna make me? Gonna make me myself?” Bruce garbled out incoherently. He took the hand holding at Clark’s vexingly sweatless back and took it to the underside of his cowl, tossing it down to the floor, its clatter dueling against the thwack of Clark’s hips meeting his own. “Why didn’t you? You wanted it! You wanted my face.” Bruce could feel it, how flushed his cheeks were, how wet his eyes had become, he was a mess, and above him was Clark, the only sign of their efforts were blown out pupils being shrouded by an ever growing jungle of bangs. “You want to clean up this mess, wanted to fix it, fuck it, you . . . you-”
“You’re gorgeous Bat.” Clark had been in Bruce up to this point. Clark was now on him, pressing their chests together, hand gripped firmly into Bruce’s hair as his face was assaulted with wet messy kisses. Clark had been in control of his pace, of his power, of when and how he’d make Bruce cum, but that was gone now, Clark was just in motion, a locomotive with no breaks. There were no analogies, no lessons, no roles or pretenses, he just had Bruce, had to have more of him. “Thank you, Bat.” All the extra words were gone but those remained, with every thrust Clark grunted those words out.
“Clark.” Bruce couldn’t cum again, which was it’s own feeling, an odd feeling, a feeling only Clark could press out of him, it left him empty, exhausted, tired, he felt like a cloud made of lead. “Clark . . . Clark, please just-”
“I love you Bruce.” Clark somehow sped up, was fucking him harder, fucking him deeper. “Look at you.” Bruce was half convinced he was cross eyed, they just kept rolling. Was he breathing? Was his heart beating? Was there a tongue in his mouth? The Bat signal that had once warmed his lower back was now cool point of contact, the only solid thing keeping him from falling. He was falling, he was drowning, he was floating, it was all just too much. “With nothing more to give, and still so willing to offer everything left.” Clark’s tongue swiped over Bruce’s temple, then just under his eye. “You don’t quit, you’re incapable, you’re insatiable. No one else could take me like this Bruce, no one else . . . there’s no one like you.” Clark came, and Bruce’s ears rang as his body soaked in a layer of gratification and release he hadn’t even been searching out. “Proud of you Bruce.” Clark gingerly eased Bruce off of the signal.
“Told you I’d fix it.” Clark traced Bruce's satisfied smile with his thumb, yanking Bruce’s cape from it’s fastens so he could lay the tired man out to catch his breath.
“Confident Bastard. Clark I’m broken, fully. You need to fly me home, I’m not moving . . . ever again. Do I have legs?” Bruce tried to reach for his tights but his hand was batted softly.
“Eggs to make an omelet. Just close your eyes B, we both got to cool down before I fly you anywhere.”
“I said legs not eggs.” Bruce sighed, only half recalling the conversation he was in, too busy being immeasurably proud of the black smudge running from the corner of Clark’s lips.
“Don’t think about it, just relax.” Clark’s palm went over Bruce’s eyes, it made each blink heavier, till Bruce conceded they weren’t worth the effort.
“Clark?” Bruce felt grounded when Clark placed his other palm over his heart, it made each beat slower, fuller, till it settled into a sustainable rhythm.
“Mmm?”
“Can you draw me a bath when we get home?”
“Sure. You want company?”
“The duck?”
“I didn’t expect you to be in the mood for threesomes after all this, but who am I to say no?”
“You’re . . .” Bruce blanked, he didn’t know how to describe how Clark had changed nothing, but made Bruce feel better about everything.
“Welcome?” Clark filled in the blank to fit his narrative, he had thanked Bruce literally to day break, there was some hazy orange spilling into the graying sky.
“I was going to say you make me. . . Yeah you’re welcome Kent.” Bruce sat up a little and just folded himself against Clark’s chest, only scoffing slightly when he felt Clark inspecting his back for Bat signal love bites.