Archive of Our Own

Chapter Text

There's a reason the phrase easier said than done exists, and not even someone like Clark is immune to that truth. He can carry buildings, fly halfway across the world in a heartbeat, but picking up the phone and calling someone who might not want to hear from him? That's the hardest thing of all.

So yes, Clark chickened out.

Bruce's card is still there, tucked in his wallet, heavy like it has its own gravitational pull. He's looked at it more times than he cares to admit, even dialed the number once or twice, only to freeze at the last second. A breath caught in his throat. A silence that stretched until it was too late.

The hopeful part of him wants to believe that Bruce would see past what he is. Past the cape. Past the alien. Clark would give his life a thousand times over if it meant saving someone else's, and surely, that must count for something. That's who he is. That's who he's always been.

But some people only see the threat. The outsider. The one who doesn't belong.

Get out of my city, Batman had said to him, and only to him. Those months of "investigative" eavesdropping only served to plant a feeling that had no business growing. All those nights spent listening to Gotham's silence, to Batman's voice cutting through the dark, had only made things worse. Somewhere along the way, it became something else.

Sure, he learned more about Batman's tactics, his calculated coldness, his impossible efficiency,  but nothing beyond that.

Rumor has it nobody is stupid enough to invade Batman's turf. Nobody except Superman, apparently. And even though the memory of that night after the Wayne Charity Gala still lingers and still sends heat through his body, it's the echo of Batman's cold voice that lingers louder. That's what keeps Clark frozen, unable to pick up the phone, dial a number, and say, Hey, how have you been?.

Thankfully, work helps. It always does. Clark has a deadline to meet for his piece on the latest financial hole in Metropolis' public system, and even though Lois occasionally adds her two cents, it will be his byline on the front page.

That's how it happens; how he's caught off guard on a hectic afternoon, near the end of a long shift. Of course, he wasn't expecting to leave on time. He showed up knowing he'd be the last one in the office, surrounded by paperwork, half-lit rooms, and too much coffee. Not that caffeine does anything to him, but the ritual helps in a way that's more psychological than physical.

He knows how pathetic he must look right now: scruff he hasn't bothered to shave, hair more unruly than usual, a wrinkled shirt, ill-fitting pants, and of course, a crooked tie. This time, it wasn't even intentional. Clark wonders how much of the performance has started to blend with reality.

"I'd like to speak to Clark Kent."

He almost misses it, his name barely cutting through the noise. His mind is tangled in the article, in the data, in everything else--but then he hears it. That voice. Low, composed, polite.

Bruce Wayne is at the front desk, waiting patiently with his hands behind his back and that same unreadable face that Clark still can't figure out. The kind of face that looks perfectly pleasant on the surface, but holds something dangerous in its depths.

Clark shrinks in his chair and sinks lower, feeling his heart race a mile a minute, like he's been caught doing something wrong. Like a teenager whose crush has shown up at school, but in a far more embarrassing way--in the middle of the office where anyone could see him.

Of course, everyone knows about the billionaire heir of Gotham. Everyone who knows anything about the city, that is. Clark can hear Cat whispering with Lois and sees Perry straighten a bit when Bruce looks in his direction, just to check.

"Of course, Mr. Wayne. I'm sure he'd be glad to speak with you," the receptionist answers, and Clark can't help but think about the perks of being Bruce Wayne and, automatically, getting everything you ask for.

"Thank you. I hope I'm not intruding." Bruce answers politely, his voice carrying the same calm, soothing tone that made him sound like such a charming person during the Wayne Gala.

"Certainly not, sir. Clark will see you now," Perry cuts in, and Clark can practically hear the grin stretching across his face. "I hope everything went smoothly at the last Wayne charity event. You see, Clark doesn't have much experience with that kind of coverage. Apologies if he did anything that might've offended you."

Clark's halfway to being offended that Perry thinks he'd embarrass himself, when a soft, low laugh--one that undeniably belongs to Bruce--reaches his ears like a caress.

"Not at all. Clark was... very good," Bruce says, and Clark, against every ounce of self-control, blushes.

Pathetically. Ridiculously. He feels the heat crawling up his ears, and like a reflex, flashes of that night blaze through his mind; the way Bruce moaned so damn deliciously, how he wrapped his legs around Clark like he never wanted to let go, the flushed spread of his pale skin, the way those blue eyes all but disappeared behind blown pupils. That perfect cock, twitching and coming hard because Clark made him feel that good. Because Clark had been enough. Because Clark had fucked him so good, so deep, Bruce wanted more.

He exhales, shaky and flustered, pulls off his glasses, and rubs his face, trying and failing to calm his racing heart and the heat pulsing low in his gut. None of it helps when Bruce finally steps in front of his desk and their eyes lock.

Clark swears he looks even more beautiful than he did that night. He's dressed impeccably, with his jacket tailored to hug his form and make the blue in his eyes almost electric. Clark is suddenly very aware of how terrible he must look right now, but somehow, Bruce is looking at him with nothing but soft, tender warmth.

"Mr. Kent. It's been awhile," he says, with an almost-smile pulling at his lips. "I hope I didn't catch you at a bad time."

"Uh," Clark stutters, too nervous to stand but not wanting to stay sitting, so he ends up just sitting up a little too fast, bumping the desk as he stands, making a mess of everything on his desk, "N-No, not at all."

Bruce looks like he's trying not to smile at that. He kneels down and helps gather up the files Clark accidentally knocked onto the floor, handing them to Clark with that same, charming smile. 

"I didn't realize how busy you are," he says as Clark puts everything back where it belongs. "If this is a bad time, I can--"

"No! Not at all!" Clark all but squeaks and then flushes when he sees Bruce's amused smile. He clears his throat and tries again. "No. It's okay. I wasn't doing much of anything important, so--"

"Really?" Bruce smiles as if he knows Clark's lying, his eyes twinkling. "Because it looked like you were pretty hard at work when I walked in."

Clark just smiles and blushes, running his hand through his hair. "Is it the clothes or the stubble that give me away?"

"Maybe a bit of both," Bruce laughs quietly, and it's the most wonderful sound Clark has heard in a long, long time.

It makes Clark want to pin him against a wall, sink to his knees and show him just how much he's been thinking about that night. Just how badly he wants Bruce to whisper those sweet, filthy moans in his ear while Clark's cock is deep inside him again, fucking him, filling him. He wants Bruce's voice to be all he can hear, all he can think about, so deep in the pleasure of being with Bruce, the memory of Batman's cold voice would finally disappear.

"Um... What can I help you with?" Clark asks instead, feeling flustered and out of place. "Can I help you with something? Did you have some sort of complaint? About... the piece?"

"No, the article was lovely." Bruce answers and a tiny, barely there smile appears on his lips, just for a second. "You did a good job with it. I was nearby for a meeting, and I thought it would be nice to see you again. But, I can see you're busy, so, I'll let you get back to your work. Sorry again, Mr. Kent. It was good to see you again."

Bruce doesn't wait for a response and walks toward the exit. Out of the corner of his eye, Clark notices Cat, Lois, and Jimmy clearly paying attention to the exchange, doing a poor job of pretending otherwise. Discretion? That apparently doesn't exist at the Daily Planet.

His gaze meets Lois', and she lifts a questioning eyebrow at him, looking genuinely puzzled by what she just witnessed. After all, the night he spent with Bruce isn't something he ever felt the need to share with anyone. Not even Lois, who knows how incapable Clark is of sleeping with someone without getting attached. But beyond that, there's the fact that Bruce is Batman, and Clark isn't about to unmask him. He wouldn't want anyone doing that to him either.

He snaps out of it and hurries after Bruce, holding himself back from using super speed purely out of instinct. Bruce is standing in front of the elevator, and before Clark can overthink it, he reaches out and gently touches Bruce's wrist. He's careful not to grab him, knowing that Bruce's reflexes would kick in without hesitation. Instead, he guides him toward the third door on the right.

The records room. It's quiet and dim, filled with files and dusty old shelves. It's empty right now, and the second the door shuts behind them, Clark finds himself pinned against the wall by Bruce's weight and heat, Bruce's tongue in his mouth and hands all over him and okay, this wasn't what Clark was going for but it's working, oh god is it ever.

He moans into the kiss and wraps his arms around Bruce's back, tugging him close, deepening the kiss with every desperate brush of his lips and tongue, tasting Bruce until he can't breathe, until he feels Bruce shiver with need, until the kiss turns soft and gentle again and the room seems too cold.

"I missed you," Clark whispers. "I wanted to see you again, so badly." He says and oh, his mouth can't keep up with his thoughts right now, apparently.

Bruce seems to appreciate that though, because he presses up against Clark with a moan and buries his face in the crook of Clark's neck, breathing in and nipping at the skin there, just hard enough for Clark to feel a rush of sharp, sweet pain.

"I waited for your call, but..." Bruce trails off with a quiet laugh, then takes Clark's face in his hands and pulls him close, brushing a tender, careful kiss to the corner of Clark's mouth.

"I...I should have called, I just--I couldn't." Clark replies quietly, closing his eyes and resting his forehead against Bruce's. "I... I want you so badly." he whispers, voice trembling slightly with want and a tiny, aching hint of sadness, "But..." he stops himself, not wanting to say what he knows he should. He knows it's not fair. That Bruce doesn't even know his secret identity. And yet... "I just want- you, Bruce. And, not what you think I want."

Clark imagines the kind of thoughts that must be going through Bruce's head right now. How pathetic he must look, standing here like some smitten teenager in front of a man who probably has people begging for his attention every day.

The fact that Bruce gave him his contact doesn't really mean much beyond the sex being good enough to be worth a repeat. Clark knows what that's called, and it falls somewhere between a booty call, a fuck buddy, or maybe friends with benefits.

Since they barely know each other, the last two don't really fit. It's depressing, and Clark would walk away if his body were even remotely interested in cooperating. But every cell in him is focused on the man standing in front of him, the same man who kissed him not long ago like there was nothing else he'd rather be doing.

"And what exactly would that be, Clark?" Bruce asks, tilting his head slightly, just enough to show mild curiosity. Clark swallows hard, feeling the words stuck in his throat, thick and heavy.

"I-" Clark starts, pausing, desperate to find a way to say something that won't make him look even more ridiculous.

"Don't tell me this is about sneaking a quick fuck in an empty office," Bruce says with a smirk, but this time there's no humor in his eyes. "I can find us a better place for that, if that's what you want. I doubt your coworkers would appreciate walking in and finding us with our pants around our ankles."

Clark closes his eyes, swallows again and shakes his head.

"What do you want, Bruce? If- If it was just sex you were interested in, you wouldn't be here. Would you? I mean, look at you. Look at me. We're- we're not equals, are we?" He hears himself saying and it takes a lot of self-control not to look down, not to feel embarrassed. Bruce is looking at him with a serious expression, listening. "It's fine. I just- I'm sorry. I don't know why I said that," Clark rushes, embarrassed. "You came all the way here because I never called and I'm... I'm sorry for that too." He apologizes quietly, finally meeting Bruce's gaze again.

Bruce seems surprised. There's a soft flicker of emotion in those beautiful, blue eyes and Clark wants nothing more than to read them. But it doesn't matter; the moment is over as quickly as it arrived. 

"Don't apologize, Clark. If you don't want to call me, you don't have to."

"I know that." Clark answers, with an almost-laugh and an expression that must be heartbreaking, judging from the way Bruce looks at him. "But I wanted to. I really wanted to, but... I couldn't." He finally says, feeling his face heat up in embarrassment, and it's pathetic. The kind of embarrassment that only the honest and pure-hearted are capable of, because they're too honest and pure to lie to themselves or to anyone else.

"And why is that?"

It's the gentleness of the question that catches him by surprise, as if Bruce can see through his clumsy words and is willing to guide him out of them. He opens his eyes and looks at the man standing in front of him: the suit that's a touch too formal for a simple visit to a newsroom, the watch that must be worth more than his apartment, and the face that is all too easy to love; the same cold face under the cowl that's all too easy to fear.

Bruce is still waiting for an answer, but Clark doesn't have one.

He shakes his head. "I don't know."

It's not the answer Bruce was hoping to hear; that much is clear from the flicker of disappointment on his face. Bruce smiles sadly and reaches up, taking Clark's glasses from his face and brushing the pad of his thumb over his cheek, just lightly, but with such tenderness it makes Clark's heart ache.

"I understand." Bruce says and somehow, Clark knows it's true.

Bruce hands him back his glasses and pulls away, but not before giving him one last gentle kiss on the forehead and walking away with a quiet, "Thank you, Clark. It was good to see you."

Only when Clark is alone, realizing several minutes have passed with him still frozen in place, does it hit him. It's too late. Bruce is already gone, probably in his car, already pulling away from the Daily Planet building.

This whole encounter would rank high on the list of his most awkward and frustrating moments, if it weren't for the fact that his heart feels like it's being stomped into the ground.

And the worst part? Clark has no one to blame but himself. He didn't manage to say any of the things he had been mentally rehearsing. Worse than that, this meeting didn't even happen because of him. Bruce came to him.

And like a coward, Clark ran.

"I'm Superman. I'm a Kryptonian. A stranger. But Earth is my home. I love it. I protect it with my life." He says it aloud, to no one, wondering why it's so hard to say those same words to the one person who should hear them.

Later that night, he leans his head back against the couch and shuts his eyes, focusing his hearing even though he knows he shouldn't.

It's just past eleven. Batman is probably out there, prowling Gotham's streets, being useful and forgetting all about the humiliating exchange they shared earlier.

You're going back to Arkham, Clark hears, Batman's voice cold, almost a growl. Then laughter--thin, broken, and far from genuine.

And as always, I'll be out again soon, comes the reply from someone Clark doesn't recognize. Gotham belongs to me, little Bat. To Black Mask.

Gotham belongs to the people who live in it. The civilians. If you get out, I'll find you, Batman says, and this time, Clark flinches at the sound of bones cracking and flesh tearing.

He had almost forgotten just how violent Batman can be. The kind of fear he inspires just by showing up. The anger simmering beneath the surface. The fire beneath that cold exterior. Batman is formidable. He's nothing like Superman.

They don't just come from different cities. They come from different worlds. One is forged in shadows, the other in light. One is the flame that refuses to die out in the dark, and the other is hope itself, burning bright like the sun.

Maybe that's how it has to be, Clark thinks. He listens as Batman ties up Black Mask and waits in silence for the distant rise of GCPD sirens. Then he disappears again. He keeps going after that; breaking up a mugging, stopping a sexual assault, ending an armed robbery--just another night in Gotham.

It's a reality Clark doesn't know as well. Not like this. His way of doing things is different, even if he's chasing the same ideals. It's a reality where Clark isn't really welcome.

At least, not when it comes to Gotham.

He sighs quietly and lets the sounds fade until all he can hear are the people living on the other side of Metropolis, their lives passing in a steady flow of sound: babies crying, the rattle of a heater, laughter and the gentle, quiet murmurs of loved ones.

Clark opens his eyes, looks around his apartment and finally tunes out the outside world until all he can hear is his own heart. It's steady. Quiet.

Just as it should be.

He focuses on finishing his article, and by the time he finally does, it's well past three in the morning. Clark can't help but feel a flicker of frustration, knowing he'll get maybe three hours of sleep at best. Not that he needs much rest, but it's a small indulgence he's not ready to give up.

Still, against his better judgment, Clark tunes his hearing toward Bruce again. He's clearly still patrolling, if the rhythm of his controlled breathing and the faint clicks of his grappling gun are anything to go by. The quiet that follows feels almost like a lullaby, broken only by the soft thud of his landings and the occasional distant siren. Batman doesn't say much. Whether it's criminals or allies like Gordon, his words are few and precise.

Cries for help start to rise, cutting through the stillness of the Gotham night, and in an instant, Clark is already dressed in uniform. He whistles for Krypto, and together, they head toward Japan, where an earthquake has just struck.

By the time he gets back home, it's late morning and as expected, Perry has already called three times, wondering where the hell Kent is and what happened to that damn article. 

When he arrives at the Planet, Clark makes a beeline to his desk and sits down. He takes off his glasses, rubs his face and runs his hand through his hair. He feels tired in a way that sleep alone won't cure, and he wants nothing more than to crawl under his blankets and forget the world for a day or two.

"Tough night huh, Smallville?" Lois says as she sets a coffee down on his desk, snapping Clark out of his daze. "Didn't get much sleep?"

He smiles. "None. But thanks. This'll help a little," he answers and reaches for the coffee. Lois smiles and ruffles his hair affectionately, leaning against his desk and crossing her arms. "Something tells me it's not just the article. Or whatever you did last night that has you all mopey."

"I don't know what you're talking about. I'm not mopey." He lies, but the fact that she's able to see right through him is proof enough.

"C'mon. Spill," she insists, taking a seat on the corner of his desk and pushing aside his coffee cup. "Why are you looking like someone gutted your dog and stole your favorite plaid shirt? And don't try to lie, Smallville." She warns with a playful smile and an amused eyebrow raised in Clark's direction.

Clark stays quiet and briefly considers lying, but he's known Lois long enough to know she would see right through it. On the other hand, it's no one's business but his. No matter how important Lois still is to him, some things are better kept to himself.

"Something tells me this has to do with yesterday's special visitor," she breaks the silence, her voice low enough that no one else can hear.

Instinctively, Clark shrinks into his chair and hides his face behind his coffee cup, stalling for time. But he knows Lois will read the truth on his face no matter how long he tries to avoid it.

A single knowing smile is all it takes for him to realize Lois already has a pretty good idea of what's going on.

"Lunch. You, me, and the diner on the corner?" she offers. "Take the win, Smallville. It's on me." She taps his arm and heads back to her desk, not waiting for an answer.

"Did the sandwich kill you?" she asks a few hours later, sitting across from him at a window-side table. "Or was it the chips? It's gotta be one of them. You haven't said a single word."

"Lois," Clark sighs quietly and gives her an apologetic smile.

"Don't Lois me," she cuts him off with a roll of her eyes. "C'mon. Don't be such a boy scout." She teases, nudging him playfully and flashing him that wide, pretty smile. "So, you and Bruce Wayne, huh?" she grins, waggling her eyebrows at him, and Clark laughs and shakes his head, looking down at his sandwich.

He doesn't know what to say to that, so he picks up a potato chip instead, biting off half and then taking his time crunching away on it. 

"It was a... it was a one time thing," he finally answers, wiping his hands on a napkin and then fiddling with the straw in his drink, pushing it down and watching the bubbles float around. "We spent the night together and..." he trails off with a shrug.

"And now you're looking all depressed because you had sex with Bruce Wayne? Oh, poor Smallville. It must be so hard to get a piece of ass like that," Lois snorts. 

Clark frowns and Lois smiles apologetically, patting him on the shoulder.

"I'm just messing with you, Clark. I know you. This isn't like you. You're not the casual hookup type." she says, voice gentler and quieter this time.

Clark shrugs and reaches for his soda again. "No, I guess I'm not. But like I said, it was a one time thing. We went our separate ways."

Lois watches him with a hint of sympathy, but Clark doesn't meet her gaze. "He didn't want a second round, huh?"

"That's... that's not it." Clark replies with a quiet, somewhat awkward laugh, not knowing how much to tell. "We... didn't talk about expectations or anything like that. And we're so..." He pauses. Different is what he was going to say.

"Completely opposite? Different?" Lois suggests with a soft smile and a teasing nudge of her leg against his under the table, making Clark laugh and roll his eyes. 

"Yeah, something like that," he admits.

"What are you going to do about it, then?"

Clark just smiles, shaking his head. "I'm going to go back to work," he says with a quiet laugh. "And... move on, I guess."

Of course, that's not what happens.

Clark was naive to think he could just forget Bruce, especially when a part of him still instinctively tunes in to his voice, whether it belongs to the civilian or Batman.

And not just that. Sometimes, he finds himself hovering above Gotham's skyline, high enough to avoid attention but low enough to feel the suffocating weight of the city. The air stinks of fuel and decay, a constant pulse of crime humming beneath it. He breathes in its pollution, hears its cries for help, and watches Bruce fight an endless war. For every two criminals he locks away, four more crawl out of the shadows.

The Bat Signal glows nightly in Gotham's sky--a call for help, perhaps. Or maybe, it's a warning. He's there. The glowing symbol whispers to the underworld that he's hidden in the shadows and ready to strike.

But not tonight.

Tonight, Clark hears Bruce moaning. The sound floods his ears, vivid and inescapable, as if Clark were the one drawing those sounds from him. Because it is a sound of pleasure, there's no way to misinterpret it. Someone is with Bruce tonight. A woman, this time. This isn't Bruce gasping please or fuck me into Clark's mouth. This time, Bruce is the one in control. This time, he's the one giving pleasure, and his own is just a side effect.

The moans are controlled, almost like deeper breaths. If Clark focuses his hearing just right, he can almost hear the sound of Bruce's cock sliding inside her, wet and slick and unmistakable. The kind of sound that might have once aroused him.

Tonight, it only makes him feel sick.

With a sigh, he grabs his phone and plugs in his earbuds. He puts on The Flying Burrito Brothers, trying to focus on memories of riding in Pa's truck, windows down, heat rolling in from the fields.

And somehow, despite it all, a small smile tugs at the corner of his mouth. It's almost as if Pa's old truck and worn boots were right beside him, whispering that things aren't as bad as they seem.

Clark shuts his eyes, picturing it: the Kansas fields and sky that seems to go on forever. The country radio station blasting in the background and Ma's quiet humming from the porch. Pa's laughter when they get home and see Krypto racing up to them with that stupid squeaky toy in his mouth, panting and wagging his tail.

No wonder why he got attached after only one night, he thinks, a heavy feeling in his heart. 

This is who he is at heart: a farmerboy from Smallville with a dog and a craving for homecooked food and fresh apple pie. A man with simple needs, with a few small, selfish dreams, and a quiet, open heart.

Bruce Wayne, with his luxury car, penthouse apartment and expensive suits--is worlds apart from the likes of him. If Bruce is a one night stand kind of person, Clark has no right to feel hurt or wronged or jealous. It's not a capital offense, after all. Really, Clark wishes he could be more like that, but that's just not him.

It doesn't help that next week, the same moans and groans fill his ears. This time, though, it's not a woman, or a man. 

Bruce is touching himself. Clark doesn't even have to listen carefully to figure that out; not with the soft gasps and breathy moans he makes while stroking himself.

Clark feels his face burn at the sound and quickly swifts his hearing somewhere else, focusing on a nearby train and the conversation of two men standing at a corner in a suburb of Star City, arguing over where they should meet for dinner.

And then...

"Clark..."

It's the tiniest whisper, as if Bruce doesn't realize he's saying it aloud. The name comes out as a low grunt, then a drawn out moan.

Clark's stomach knots with anxiety, his hands clenched tightly against his lap. He closes his eyes, takes a deep breath and tries to think of something else, but the moans come again and Clark can't help but picture the scene: Bruce in his bed, on his back, legs spread wide and back arched while he fucks his fist in a slow, teasing rhythm, his mouth falling open around each low moan of Clark's name.

He grits his teeth and grabs his laptop, deciding it's high time to get back to work and finish the last of the story he needs to edit before sending it back to Perry. 

"Clark," Bruce says again in a whisper, and Clark's heart aches with need. His breath quickens and he shifts in his chair, his jeans feeling much too tight. His body responds instinctively, every inch of him aching with want, but he refuses to acknowledge it. He won't do it. He won't jerk off to the sound of Bruce's voice while he gets himself off.

"Please..."

That finally does it.

Clark closes his laptop, grabs his jacket, and in less than a second he's gone, the apartment left behind in a blur of superspeed. 

He isn't thinking.

If he were, he'd recognize how utterly reckless it is to fly to Wayne Manor in the dead of night and land on the balcony outside Bruce's bedroom like some desperate ghost haunting his own regrets.

But thinking has never helped him where Bruce is concerned. And this is a decision carved entirely out of impulse and ache.

The room is completely dark, except for the faint glow from the massive garden lights below.

Definitely not his best decision, but honestly, who hasn't made a bad one in the heat of the moment?

It isn't until he hears the familiar rhythm of Bruce's heartbeat that he finally stops to think about how badly this could go.

There's a very real chance Bruce will just tell him to get the hell out.

Get out of my city.

Get out of my house.

That would be fitting, actually.

It's only when he hears the quiet thud of a door closing inside that he remembers where he is. What he's doing.

Too late.

Because the door to the balcony creaks open, and there he is. Bruce Wayne, wrapped up in his expensive bathrobe and staring back at Clark in surprise, eyes wide and his pulse quickening with uncertainty.

And even in the dark, he's gorgeous. His face is free of all artifice--not the polished mask of playboy billionaire or the fierce cowl of Batman. 

"Bruce I- I'm Superman." Clark blurts out in lieu of a greeting.

It takes Bruce a few seconds to process, and it's painfully clear in his expression that this isn't what he was expecting. He frowns and then tilts his head curiously.

"You..." He says, taking a step closer. His robe is hanging open now, showing off a sliver of pale skin, a few scars and the faint outline of a nipple.

It makes Clark swallow nervously, wondering what the hell he was thinking. Bruce's smell--spice and leather--fills his nostrils, making him weak. Clark takes a step back. He looks down at the dark expanse of the gardens and tries to will himself to just leave, but instead, he ends up saying, "I... I shouldn't have come."

"And yet, here you are."

"I just- I know you don't trust me or like me much, but... I just wanted to let you know that it wasn't your fault that it didn't work out. I wanted more and knowing you hate me just made it- it just... complicated things." He fumbles with the words, hating that he can't sound anything but ridiculous and clumsy. "I just..."

Bruce's gaze is intense, but unreadable. There's something buried deep behind his eyes, something Clark can't quite reach, and the uncertainty of it makes his whole body itch with the urge to leave. To disappear before he makes things worse.

"I don't hate you," Bruce says finally, his voice measured. "I'm wary with you. That's not the same thing."

"I understand."

"No, Clark," Bruce murmurs, softer this time. "I don't think you do."

"Then explain it to me."

"Being wary doesn't mean I hate you. It doesn't mean I reject what you are, or what you stand for. I'm not Luthor." He pauses. "Not wanting you involved in Gotham doesn't mean I despise what you do, or the man you are. Your fight is yours. Mine is mine. This city is mine to protect. The way I know how."

"Helping each other isn't really in your vocabulary, is it?" Clark asks quietly, unable to keep the bitterness from his voice. He watches Bruce grow quiet, thoughtful.

His jaw tightens slightly, and the silence between them stretches. Heavy. Unforgiving. Clark feels it sink into his chest like a vice. And with it, comes regret.

The silence stretches long enough for embarrassment and panic to return, clawing at Clark's chest. He should never have come here, never crossed that line, never acted like some lovesick fool invading private property for the sake of feelings that may have never been mutual. 

What did he think would happen? That Bruce would see him and smile? That he would pull him in and pretend they were something more than one night of blurred lines and moaned names in the dark?

He clenches his jaw and closes his eyes, shame crawling up his throat.

"I'm trying," Bruce says at last, voice barely above a whisper. "I'm trying to be better at that. I know I'm not there yet. But I'm working on it. I'm a process. And sometimes I get in my own way." he takes a deep breath. "I am... aware that my trust issues and paranoia get in the way. They affect the way I deal with people. The way I interact with them. That's just a fact. I've made peace with that."

Clark feels the vice tighten around his chest.

"I don't expect you to trust me just because I tell you to." he says finally, turning his back on Bruce to gaze over the grounds again. The gardens look vast and mysterious, an untouched maze that might hold secret pathways into the manor itself, like some labyrinth straight out of Greek Mythology. "But... if you do ever change your mind about me and trust me, maybe..." he trails off with a helpless shrug, unable to even put it into words. 

"Please, say it."

"I don't- I don't know," Clark admits. He exhales, watching his breath curl in the cold air. "Maybe... you could accept my invitation to dinner. I don't know. You probably get that sort of thing all the time, and after everything I just said, I'll understand if you'd rather not see me again."

Bruce doesn't respond at first, and Clark holds himself back from filling the silence with nervous babbling that would only make things worse.

"Trust isn't something that comes easily to me," Bruce finally says. "I tend to build walls instead of bridges. I would like to have dinner with you, Clark, cape or not. But I need you to understand that I won't trust you right away. That's just not how it works for me."

He pauses, and Clark lets him take the time he needs to gather his thoughts.

"This isn't about you being who you are. It's about who I am. I like having contingencies for everything around me."

"Including me."

"Yes."

"Well, if you've got a chunk of kryptonite lying around, I guess that's the end of me," Clark tries to joke, though his voice carries the edge of something heavier.

"I do," Bruce says, because of course he does.

"And still, you didn't use it when I was in Gotham."

"I had no reason to," Bruce answers, his voice steady and sincere. "You're not a threat."

The relief that washes over Clark is almost dizzying. The weight he'd been carrying for months loosens in an instant, and he nearly smiles. For so long he thought that whatever he was hoping to build between them would never work, because Batman would never accept Superman. But he had been wrong.

All it would have taken was one honest conversation.

Maybe it helped that Bruce learned the man behind the cape and the symbol was just a journalist, the son of farmers from Kansas. A man who spent his nights at a desk writing and editing, with an old sweater and a mug of hot cocoa beside his laptop. A man who wanted nothing more than a happy, honest life. A good cup of coffee and a hot breakfast every morning. A night out in the field with his dog and his camera to photograph a sunset or two.

"Thank you." he finally says, turning to face Bruce.

"I don't see why," Bruce answers, watching Clark curiously, his gaze guarded and hesitant. "It's just a fact."

"Then maybe I'm just a little old-fashioned. I've had too many people come after me, Bruce. So thank you."

Bruce nods, not offering any response, but the corners of his mouth curve up, almost into a smile.

"Would you like to come in?" he asks quietly. "It's cold out here. While I believe you don't really feel the cold, some of us humans can freeze out here."

"I... I do. Feel cold." Clark replies. "But not physically."

It's a revelation that shocks them both into silence.

"I... know the feeling." Bruce responds quietly.

They're quiet for a few more seconds, standing face to face as the wind blows in around them, and Clark swears Bruce is about to lean in and kiss him when he turns, pushing open the balcony doors and heading back into the dark of his room.

He hesitates for a moment before following.

As expected, the bedroom looks like a palace. It's easily larger than Clark's entire apartment. Still, he can't help but notice how impersonal it feels. Everything is spotless, precisely arranged, with no clothes left casually draped over furniture, no photographs by the bed, no personal items to give the space warmth. It's a luxurious room, but it carries the same coldness as the breeze outside.

"Nice room," he says, sounding stupid even to his own ears. Bruce turns to look at him, a faint smile playing at the corners of his mouth.

"You don't like it." It isn't a question. It's a quiet, confident observation.

Clark flushes, shaking his head quickly. "No, I do. It's… it's beautiful, spacious, and it looks comfortable. I guess I'm just not used to this kind of thing."

Bruce doesn't say anything right away. There's amusement glinting in his eyes, and Clark suddenly finds the carpet near the bed incredibly interesting.

His face is still burning when Bruce approaches, moving with that predatory grace he always seems to have. His steps are silent, calculated, almost like a shadow crossing the room.

"It is comfortable. Very."

Clark wonders if that was a hint. Or an invitation.

Turns out, it's both.

Because the next thing he knows, he's sitting on the large, incredibly comfortable sofa by the window, and Bruce is straddling his lap, kissing him with the same fire he remembers--only this time, God, somehow it's different.

This time, Bruce isn't holding back. Their first night together had been just as intense, but this... this is something else. Clark can feel it in the way Bruce's hands roam his shoulders, in the way their mouths press together with growing desperation. Bruce is here because he wants to be. He's here, knowing exactly who Clark is. And that truth unlocks something in Clark that he usually keeps buried beneath duty and restraint.

It's a more primal part of himself. The part that craves, that takes, that gives everything in return. The part that wants nothing more right now than to explore the lines and textures of Bruce's skin with hands and mouth and every sense heightened.

There are scars beneath his fingertips, scattered across Bruce's back like a map of survival. Each one tells a story, each one proof of everything Bruce has endured in service of something bigger than himself.

And yet, he's still only a man. Flesh and blood. Breakable. Flawed. And all Clark wants.

The robe slips from Bruce's shoulders and falls to the floor with a soft whisper. Clark's hands settle on his hips, squeezing just a little more firmly.

Bruce cries out and breaks the kiss, short nails digging into Clark's arm. The marks he leaves behind are small and crescent-shaped, and Clark already hates how fast they'll fade.

He presses his mouth against Bruce's throat, relishing the sound of the low groan Bruce makes in response. The noise goes straight to his cock, making it twitch against the seam of his jeans. He gasps out, the feeling too overwhelming, too perfect. 

"You know who I am?" Bruce whispers against his mouth. "My secret?"

Clark nods, nipping at his throat, the faint taste of soap lingering on his tongue.

"What are you going to do with that information?" Bruce asks, voice rough, hips moving against his. The friction is slow and agonizing, and it's so, so good.

Clark swallows back a moan.

"Your secret is safe with me." he promises, his mouth finding the dip in Bruce's throat where he tastes divine. "Always."

"As is yours."

Clark's heart is racing, and his body aches with the need for more, for skin on skin and everything else that could possibly come after that. He pulls back to meet Bruce's gaze and nearly moans at the intensity of those sharp blue eyes boring into him. He leans forward and kisses the small bruise on his lower lip. "We don't have to do anything."

"We're here, aren't we?" Bruce whispers back, nipping at the shell of Clark's ear, hands fumbling with Clark's shirt and jeans, then tugging the sweater off with surprising force. "Take it off."

It's a command.

And it sends a damn jolt of arousal right through him, like lightning to his bones. Clark obeys without a second thought, his t-shirt tossed onto the floor beside Bruce's robe and his jeans tugged down enough to free his cock, and he shudders with pleasure as the cool air hits him.

There's a hand in his hair now, yanking him back into a hungry, messy kiss.

Clark submits to it. He opens up to the kiss, the taste of Bruce on his tongue making him shudder. 

Bruce isn't talkative, but his body gives him away. Every breath, every shift of his hips, every subtle clench of muscle. He's easy to read once you know what to look for. And Clark knows. He knows what Bruce wants, how he wants it, and he's more than happy to give.

The thing is, he doesn't have to.

Bruce had let Clark carry him to the bed, had settled on him without resistance, but that was the extent of it. That was as far as Clark needed to go.

Clark watches, helpless and aching, as Bruce preps himself with slow, practiced movements. His body still straddles Clark's, thighs tight around him, and Clark has permission to touch. He keeps his hands low, running over Bruce's hips and thighs, watching the way his gorgeous cock leaks against his stomach, the way his chest rises and falls faster the deeper his fingers go.

Part of Clark wants to replace Bruce's fingers. To be the one opening him up, to feel that warm, tight heat clench around his digits. But he waits. He gives Bruce this sliver of space, this moment of control. Trust is still something delicate between them, even after how willing Bruce had been the first time, how beautifully he had come apart.

Clark wonders if that too had been part of his growing billionaire persona; a defense mechanism, a wall shaped like a charming, open man of easy laughter and large smiles when the truth couldn't be further from that.

It's a sweet kind of torture, watching Bruce fuck himself on his own fingers, lips parted, cheeks flushed and brows furrowed with concentration. 

Clark thinks he's never seen anything more beautiful in his life. It's raw and real and so damn hot that he has to grip the sheets just to keep from thrusting up.

Bruce moans softly, hips stuttering, and Clark swears he feels the sound in his bones.

"Come here." Bruce demands in a rough voice that goes right to Clark's dick. Clark goes easily, letting Bruce pull him close to claim his mouth in a deep, demanding kiss, while he rolls the condom down his cock and adds more lube.

And then, Bruce sinks down on Clark's length with a long, drawn-out sigh.

The first time had been intense. Desperate, almost. There had been the edge of a secret hovering over them both, a heavy shadow of their own self-preservation. 

This time is different.

The man before him is Batman. And yet, Bruce is still there--all the raw humanity that comes with the shadows.

And Clark... well, Clark is allowed not to feel guilty now. He's allowed to be himself in his entirety. 

He's allowed to show all that he is. Not a threat, not an outsider, but the farmer boy who loves this planet and wants to do nothing but protect it and those who call it home.

He's no sure why Bruce is taking it slow this time; a complete contrast the their making out from before, but he suspects that maybe he wants to be in control of this; maybe it's still hard to give in like this, and honestly, Clark is far from complaining. 

Bruce is tight and warm and perfect, and if he wants to ride him at whatever speed he sees fit, he'll take it. He'll take all of it, anything, because this feels like the culmination of all he's ever wanted, and it's so, so perfect.

Only when Bruce's hips start to stutter does he seeks support. Clark meets him with every thrust, a hand gripping Bruce's hips while the other trails down Bruce's chest. His muscles tense with every thrust, sweat glistening on his skin, his low moans filling the air. 

Clark wanted to keep his eyes open, but he finds that he can't. Every touch is overwhelming, the taste and the sound of him overwhelming, and it's only seconds before he loses himself in all that Bruce is, thrusting up into that slick, hot heat until he feels that pressure building to a peak inside of him.

He manages to hold off long enough for Bruce to finish first, opening half-lidded eyes in time to watch Bruce touch himself to completion. He remembers how Bruce had been moaning Clark's name while jerking off on this very same bed just a while ago, and he can't stop himself from groaning at the thought.

He wonders if he'll ever have the courage to say it to Bruce, and he promises himself that he will, if something real blooms between them. He hopes it does.

His orgasm comes with a parted mouth, a silent echo that somehow feels more intense than if it had thundered through the room. A part of him wishes there wasn't a layer of latex between them, that he could fill Bruce up with his release and watch it drip slowly between his legs.

The thought stirs something deep in his chest, but he's not about to act on it, even if his refractory period is practically nonexistent. For now, he's happy to stay where he is, wrapped in the haze of afterglow, listening to the fast, steady beat of Bruce's heart. It might be his favorite sound in the world. Maybe just after Bruce's laugh. He's going to make sure Bruce laughs more.

"Would you like to have dinner with me, Bruce?" Clark asks softly after a while, and Bruce lifts his head from where he'd been resting it against Clark's neck.

"As a date?"

Clark blushes and smiles. "If you'll let it be, then yes."

"I think we might have done this out of order, don't you?"

Clark lets out a quiet laugh and nods, brushing a kiss against the top of Bruce's head. "I hope that's not a problem for you."

"Not at all," Bruce murmurs, a faint but genuine smile tugging at his lips. "Dinner would be nice. Very nice, actually."

Clark is about to answer when he frowns and tilts his head, barely suppressing the urge to groan in frustration. Of course.

"Everything okay?"

"A fire is getting out of control in Mexico," Clark answers quietly, and he feels Bruce nod against his skin. "Civilians are trapped in the building and the firemen are struggling to get to them."

Bruce doesn't hesitate. "Go."

Clark nods and smiles apologetically, his gaze lingering on Bruce's lips for a moment, then on his eyes, blue and honest and a little worn out. "I wish I could stay. But..."

"Go. You're welcome to come back."

"Dressed in red and blue and a cape?" he jokes, and Bruce snorts, leaning back with a teasing smile that makes Clark's heart skip a beat.

"We can negotiate that," he responds with a small shrug, then he reaches up to cup Clark's face with one hand and pulls him in for one last kiss. Clark savors every second of it.

"Be careful," Bruce murmurs as he pulls back, eyes flitting across his features like he's trying to memorize the sight of him.

"I promise. I'll call you." he whispers, and within seconds, he's flying through the skies and to his suit, changing in a flash of red and blue as he rushes toward Mexico.

On his way to his apartment to retrieve the suit, Clark briefly watches Gotham's dark sky. Right there in the middle, the Bat shines as it always has, an indomitable presence that protects the city as its own.

As Clark takes off, a small smile spreads across his lips.

They both are fighting their own fights. Their own demons. Their own struggles. Their own fears and anxieties and what-ifs. They have different paths.

But Clark can't help but think that maybe their paths could lead somewhere together. Maybe, a place in between the shadows and the light.

Or maybe find the light within the shadows.

Clark thinks it suits them both perfectly.