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"I heard about you, Jason and Dick."
Bruce doesn't stop typing. His hands remain steady on the keyboard, his eyes fixed on the calibrations in front of him. It's less about the urgency of the readings and more about keeping his mind from circling back to the subject Clark has just raised. The alien tech could easily be analyzed with a single scan from Green Lantern's ring, but Bruce prefers the distraction. It gives him something mechanical to focus on, something that doesn't ask for emotion.
Clark's waiting for an answer. Bruce only grunts. The urge to pull the cowl back over his face scratches at him, but he's been trying to lower some walls when it comes to Clark.
"What bothers you so much about it, B?" Clark asks. He slides into the chair beside him with an ease that doesn't belong to a man of his size and strength. Bruce keeps his silence, and Clark accepts it.
That's one of the reasons their friendship has grown into something Bruce rarely allows. Clark knows how to understand silence, how to give space without judgment or insistence. There's comfort in that. Clark sees him for who he is and still chooses to stay.
Life is made of choices. Bruce chose this solitary path. He chose to build a family, imperfect but strong enough to fill the holes left by traumas that will never fade.
It was his choice to let Clark in. To allow him to be more than an ally to call when the world needed saving. More than a favor owed. With Clark, he allowed a few shields to fall. He let some of the ugliness bleed into the open.
Clark knows better than to expect a conventional relationship, the kind he once had with Lois. That kind of love, that kind of home, is not something Bruce can give. What they have, carries more silence than words; more secrets than truths. Even so, it's everything Bruce has ever wanted. A reason to wake each morning. A reason to endure.
Still, he wonders if one day, it won't be enough for Clark. There's only so much anyone can take of paranoia, distrust, and a broken ability to speak plainly.
"Nothing bothers me, Clark."
"I know you've had your differences with your boys. I was there," Clark says. "But I think this is the first time you've stood so clearly against the happiness of one of them."
The words land heavier than they should. They come without malice, without intent to hurt, yet Bruce feels something inside his chest tear open at the accusation.
You wouldn't understand, he wants to say. He keeps the words to himself, knowing Clark never really could.
Bruce doesn't blame him; just as he never blamed Selina for being unable to love Bruce Wayne the way she desired Batman. He knows the difference. He knows the man behind the layers isn't someone easy to hold close.
"If you don't talk to me, I can't help you, B." Clark breaks the silence gently. Bruce wishes he would leave, wishes he would let him sink back into solitude, into the hum of machines and the safety of numbers.
"Dick and Jason have made it clear they chose each other, Clark. There's nothing more to discuss." His voice comes out flat and cold though it doesn't reflect what he feels. "This isn't a therapy session. You are not Dinah."
The silence grows heavier. Neither of them moves to break it. Finally, Clark rises and lays a broad, warm hand against the back of Bruce's neck.
"No. But I'm your boyfriend. And you're someone important."
Bruce can't tell if the wound in Clark's voice is deliberate or simply the sound of a man hurt by someone who matters to him. There's no anger in it, only quiet pain that seeps through without intention. Maybe that's what tears Bruce apart even more: the knowledge that he hurts without meaning to, that his brokenness spreads into every corner until it threatens the few good things he manages to build.
Planting and nurturing aren't the same. Flowers will die no matter how beautiful they appear if no one tends to them. Human connections are the same. Bruce knows even now that he cannot care for them the way he should.
It's one thing to smile and wear the mask of Brucie Wayne, billionaire and public figure. It's another to be Bruce Wayne, a man made of scars and silence, stumbling through the rare moments of light.
"Clark," Bruce whispers. He looks up into the beautiful, sad blue of Clark's eyes. Clark, who's perfect, who's light and warmth and the strength to hold the world together.
And yet.
He kisses Bruce without expectation and without any demand. The touch is slow and deep and a little bittersweet. "Just... call if you want to talk. I'll listen, Bruce. I always will."
Bruce wants to call him back. Wants to apologize for the hurt he causes. Wants to find the right words, to make himself explain that it has nothing to do with Dick or Jason. The problem is with himself. He's the goddamn problem.
But the right words won't come. They never do when they're most needed, when the shadows press against the edges and it takes every ounce of energy Bruce possesses to keep from falling apart.
Instead, Bruce stays silent and watches the bright, beautiful man walk away until he vanishes in the distance, nothing more than a blue-clad figure heading toward the sunlight.
In the dark of the cave, the hum of machines echoes. It feels almost ironic that Clark gave Bruce what he claims to want: solitude and silence. Yet in the end, it only leaves him emptier than ever.
Their relationship is new. Fragile in a way their friendship never was. Clark has seen Bruce at his best and at his worst.
He was there when the wound of losing Jason first carved itself into Bruce's chest and stripped away the little humanity he had left. He was there when the boy who once ran and laughed, saying that being Robin gave him magic, came back as a man full of grief and hate.
Clark was also the first to witness how much that loss still burns, even after Jason's return. The pain of failure. The pain of being unable to protect or to hold on. The pain of knowing that every remnant of something good Bruce once tried to do has been buried, and what remained was Jason's resentment.
Now, Bruce's relationship with Jason is still fragile, but it exists. Jason can be near him without throwing in his face that he chose the Joker instead. He no longer says the words that once cut Bruce into pieces, even if Bruce kept walking, kept moving forward as if nothing could ever touch him.
But Clark knows that Jason's still an open wound. Maybe it was the intimacy Bruce allowed himself with Clark that finally lowered a shield he had never let fall, giving Clark the chance to see the nights when Bruce still wakes convinced Jason is dead. That he's still the small lifeless body Bruce lifted from the cold rubble in Ethiopia, the boy he buried with the weight of a failure that never left him.
Bruce wakes, and Clark reminds him that Jason is alive and well, though that fact, miracle or not, was never thanks to Bruce. If it had depended on him, Jason would still be buried six feet under in Gotham Cemetery.
The first time it happened, Bruce pretended nothing had. Part of him punished himself for the weakness, though a quiet voice inside told him it was all right. This was Clark, and if anyone could understand that Bruce's entire life could be summed up in the word trauma, it would be him.
And Bruce, as he always does, chose to act as if nothing had happened.
"Bruce--" Clark had tried to say, but Bruce never gave him the chance.
That was how Clark learned Bruce's way of coping: fucking to forget.
So Bruce pulled Clark into a kiss. A hard kiss. A kiss full of teeth. At first, Clark refused to accept it. He pulled away from the touch as if he could read Bruce's thoughts, as if he knew Bruce wanted only to silence his own.
Clark wanted to talk about it. Wanted to take care of Bruce and know the places that hurt, even if they weren't physical wounds.
"B, talk to me--" he begged, as Bruce's body pinned Clark's to the mattress.
But Bruce wouldn't say a word. He didn't want to speak about the things that tormented him, didn't want to say his thoughts out loud, to hear how stupid they would sound if they were said in the light. He only wanted Clark to take him until he had nothing to say at all, until everything faded except for Clark's voice.
That night, Bruce rode Clark until he lost his mind and his heart in a wave of pleasure. Until the image of his dead boy's face disappeared.
It worked. It still works. But every now and then, Bruce allows himself a small moment of vulnerability. Every now and then, the nightmares stay too long and he can't go on until he allows himself to acknowledge it.
"Is Jason alive?" Bruce whispered once, in a voice he rarely used anymore. "Clark? Is he really here? With us?"
"Yeah." Clark kissed him on the forehead with such tenderness that Bruce wanted to die. "He's fine. His heart's beating strong. I can hear him, B. He's still out on patrol. Tim is eating a cheeseburger with Kon a couple blocks from the old theater on 6th Street. Dick... Dick's laughing at something Damian's telling him. They're all safe."
That was the moment. That was the moment Bruce understood why no one would ever understand him as much as Clark did. He also realized no one could ever hold his brokenness and love him as Clark does, in silence and in the dark.
"Is... the Joker still in Arkham? I have to check, I have to know. Clark--"
"Shh. He's in his cell." Clark pulled him closer. "He's there, Bruce. Get some rest."
Bruce shook his head and sighed. "He'll escape again. I have to make sure he stays there. I need to--"
He would've jumped from the bed in search of the suit. He would've tried to sneak into Arkham. But Clark held him with such strength Bruce couldn't even move. It should've been frightening to know how easily Clark could've snapped him like a twig, yet somehow it brought him comfort.
"Sleep, B." Clark kissed his neck and kept his voice soft, almost pleading. "He can't get you."
Bruce accepted the small defeat; this little request as if Clark had asked for something absurd. Still, they're both aware that sleep won't return to Bruce. Sometimes they fuck. Other times Bruce reaches for the pills Dinah prescribed and swallows them with the same indifference someone would take a pill for a headache.
Clark's eyes always give something away when Bruce has to rely on medication. When he's alone, Bruce usually turns insomnia into purpose, burying himself in the cave and working until exhaustion. But when a day or two passes without rest, the pills become inevitable if he wants to keep living as something close to a functional man.
Bruce wonders if Clark feels like a failure for not being able to heal what's broken inside him. Like so many things, Bruce refuses to talk about it. Part of him insists nothing has changed, except that now they have sex regularly. Clark's still his best friend. Yet another part of him knows that's not the whole truth.
Sharing a bed is not all they're doing. Bruce finds himself thinking about a life together, about a forever that may not match the reality Clark once imagined. A forever Clark might even expect. Maybe that's why Bruce's already bracing himself for the end. Their friendship lasted decades. They've been lovers for six months. Somehow, it feels as if those decades of friendship have been erased.
Before, it felt easier to talk to Clark. It felt easier to laugh or to let him close when Bruce felt at his lowest. Now, Clark sees parts of him no one has ever seen before. They're connected on a different level than when they were only friends, and the new connection doesn't always come easily. The more Clark learns about him, the more Bruce struggles with how to keep things moving without making it complicated.
It's like having the Bat-suit stripped away to expose the weak, scarred flesh beneath the armor. Bruce knows Clark could do much better than that. He has, in fact, already done much better than him. Lois Lane was a perfect partner for a man like him: beautiful, smart, funny. Lois has never tried to hurt him. He isn't sure how someone like Clark ended up in love with a broken mess like him.
Days go by, and still, Bruce doesn't reach out to call or to seek the comfort he knows Clark would gladly give. He pretends the way Dick doesn't answer his calls don't matter; that Dick's anger toward him isn't something he knows how to handle.
"I knew you'd be a son of a bitch about this, B," Dick said, while Jason stayed silent most of the time. Maybe because Dick had asked him to. Maybe because it didn't matter to him what Bruce thought. "That's why we didn't tell you."
And Dick was right, wasn't he? Bruce did act like a son of a bitch.
"You're brothers, Dick. Brothers." Bruce's voice was cold, and for a moment he wished he were in his Batman suit, standing on some dark rooftop in Gotham, instead of here in a warm, clean apartment he hadn't even known Jason owned.
He knew Jason's safe-houses, of course. But not the place where his real life unfolded.
Here, Bruce could see the marks of an ordinary life. Dick's Nightwing suit tossed over the couch, probably the one he had worn on patrol the night before. Jason's helmet resting on the dining table. Dick's scattered escrima sticks on the floor. Bookshelves lined with volumes, plants carefully kept, and a minimalist but tasteful decoration. A small apartment, filled with signs of care and affection.
A place where Bruce wasn't welcome. A home he had never managed to build for himself.
"You know it's unfair to throw this brother thing at me, old man. Your son was buried when he was beaten to death with a crowbar. What came back isn't him."
One sentence was all it took to strip Bruce of any reply. The wound that had never healed started bleeding again.
He didn't notice the reproachful look Dick shot at Jason, and he barely registered Dick's voice when it came, softer than before, almost pleading.
"What Jay means is… legally, we're not brothers anymore. We've all changed. Things are different now. Whatever bond there was between us, it was never truly fraternal, Bruce."
Bruce looked from Jason's stony face to Dick's, which wore the expression of a man who was tired of always having to smooth over other people's ruffled feathers.
They were his first sons, and still, he felt a stranger in that house, a man with no claim.
"Maybe it should've been." The words left his mouth before he could think. "I should have-- I should've--"
"Stop."
It was Dick who interrupted, his beautiful blue eyes sad and weary. Bruce hated being the cause of that look on Dick's face. Dick who, in his own way, had also died, and still kept trying to keep everyone together.
"It's too late for should haves," Dick continued. "Way too late."
"I see." That was all Bruce managed. "I'll see myself out, then."
They didn't call him back. They didn't ask him to stay. The door closed behind Bruce without anyone saying anything at all.
Bruce is pulled back from memory when Alfred sets the teacup next to his computer screen with a pointed clink.
"It's late, sir," Alfred says as Bruce blinks himself awake. "I have a feeling I am correct in assuming you did not sleep at all for at least two nights in a row."
"Thank you for the concern, Alfred," Bruce answers. "I'll get some rest later."
"Of course you will, sir. But I would strongly recommend that you do so before it becomes necessary for me to intervene. I am deeply concerned that your unhealthy sleeping patterns are influencing Master Timothy. He did not sleep for two nights in a row, either."
Bruce turns to face Alfred. The older man is standing tall and steady in that perfect way he has that makes it almost impossible for Bruce to refuse his request. He takes the teacup with a grunt and nods. "I will try."
"Now would be a great moment to try, sir, if it isn't inconvenient."
Alfred leaves, and Bruce rubs the tiredness from his face with a deep sigh. The computer screen still blinks, offering the same information Bruce has been looking at for the past several days.
Still, he complies and makes his way toward his bedroom. He takes a shower, ignoring the way his hands shake under the spray, the way the world seems to shift when he stands under the water. It happens every time he goes too many days without sleep. A brief spell of dizziness that disappears once he manages to close his eyes.
There's a brief moment of weakness, just after stepping out of the shower, where Bruce contemplates swallowing another pill. Dinah said it was all right if he did. It would increase the effects of the other medications he's already on, but it's still better than having his sleep disturbed and the shadows pulling him deeper than they should.
He sits on the edge of the bed and opens the drawer of his nightstand, staring at the orange bottle like it's another failure. This time, it feels like it is.
Bruce's exhausted, two days without sleep. He knows sleep will come eventually, but that's not what scares him. What scares him is waking up to the same thoughts that always come on hard days. Dick moving to Blüdhaven because he couldn't stand Bruce's obsessive control. Damian seeing Dick as more worthy than Bruce. Tim calling him obsessed and incapable of trusting others. Jason, dead. Because of Bruce. Because he arrived too late. Clark, who'll one day leave, because even he won't be able to endure it.
Love is not enough. No matter how much you love something or someone, circumstances define us.
In that moment, in his wide bed, in his huge bedroom, inside his even larger manor, Bruce's thoughts drift to Jason's small apartment and the roots they planted there. Him and Dick.
He closes his eyes and imagines doing the same with Clark. There were breakfasts, lunches, dinners here at the mansion with Clark already by his side as his lover. But it was Clark's gift for filling dark rooms with light that made those days unforgettable. Bruce was content to watch him with the boys, with Steph and Cass, and to imagine they were good. That they were fine at last.
He thinks of lazy mornings in Clark's apartment. Clark bringing him coffee in bed as if they were in the height of their youth. As if the man before Clark wasn't someone he's known for so long, fought beside for years, someone who knows him better than anyone else.
Bruce wonders if that, too, counts as planting roots; if the fear of losing Clark only widens the distance between them, even when all Bruce wants is for him to never leave.
The truth is that Bruce has never known how to make others stay. He's never known how to reach for people or to pull them in. He could reach for the phone and call Jason whenever he needed to make sure he was alive. But what good would come out of that? What good has he ever brought to his sons? He's a man who was too late; always too late.
Bruce opens his eyes again. His gaze rests on the orange bottle before he sets it back inside the drawer and closes it. He lays his head on the pillow, hoping that it won't take him more than ten minutes to fall asleep.
But if course, sleep eludes him as soon as his eyes close. As soon as he lets himself stop, all his thoughts and fears rush into him as if there's nowhere else they can escape.
The urge to put on the suit, to find his old way to escape himself, is as strong as it has always been. It's easier to lose himself in the violence than to confront his own mind. Easier to hide inside the shadows than to let his wounds bleed.
It's been only a few days, but this is the longest Bruce has gone without seeing Clark since they became lovers. A text, a call, a message... Clark usually reaches out, knowing Bruce is too far gone inside his own head to make an effort to ask for what he needs. But this time, Bruce's phone remains as silent as he wishes his thoughts could be.
It's only a few minutes before the ache becomes unbearable, before Bruce feels his throat constricting as the weight of his thoughts and the memories they bring start crushing his chest. He throws his head back and closes his eyes as he fights back the wave of anxiety that's coming.
His heart beats a thousand times too fast. He goes through the breathing exercises he was taught. Dinah told him that in moments like this, the only thing to do is wait it out. It isn't asthma. It isn't a heart attack. It's an anxiety attack, and Bruce hates it just as much as he hates the images that come with it. He's aware of the dampness on his face, sweat or tears, and wonders if Clark can hear his heavy breathing and unsteady heartbeat all the way in Metropolis.
He hopes not. He hopes Clark doesn't find another reason to pity him, or worse, to decide they'd be better off as friends. Even then, their friendship would never return to what it once was. Bruce can never hold on to anything good in his life, and--
He inhales deeply, exhales just as slowly, clutching the sheets in his fists as he tries to focus on nothing else, on nothing but forcing air back into his lungs the way it should flow.
"Please don't let him hear this," Bruce murmurs into the dark, the words slipping out without permission.
Let Clark be asleep. Let him be busy. Let him be doing anything other than tuning his damn hearing to Bruce, because no matter how many vulnerable moments Clark has witnessed, Bruce has never broken down in front of him with an anxiety attack. Not yet.
The past few months have been good, all things considered. Jason dating Dick shouldn't be a reason to unravel, but Bruce's selfish and petty side won't let it go. The part of him that still clings to the remnants of something that, according to them, never even existed.
His trembling fingers reach for the phone, dialing Clark's number almost on instinct.
"B?" Clark answers on the first ring, and something in his voice tells Bruce he already knew what had happened a minute ago.
Bruce doesn't answer, pressing the phone tighter against his ear. His breathing is steadier now, though he makes no effort to wipe away the sweat and tears streaking his face.
"I…" Clark starts, filling the silence. "I didn't know if you wanted to see me. I'm sorry. Dick told me to give you time, space to think, to sort out your thoughts, and… and that's what I did."
"It's fine," Bruce says, though he isn't sure who he's lying to.
"B--"
"Clark." Bruce cuts him off, his voice low and rough. It carries a coldness he doesn't feel, but it's easier to lean into that than to bleed out the raw vulnerability he carries. "It is not because they're brothers. Or maybe it is. But not because of stupid morals or outrage." Bruce pauses and turns his gaze to the window. It's a cold, rainy night. A typical Gotham night. "It's just that… accepting it means admitting that the family I tried to build never really existed. That it never… mattered."
"That's not true." Clark sounds as broken as Bruce feels. "Bruce, that's not true. You have a family, B. The boys-- they are your family. They are."
Bruce's gaze keeps fixed on the rain hitting the window. It's too late, Dick said. It's too late to fix his mistakes. To be the father they once needed. Too late.
"Bruce. Do you need me?"
Clark's voice cuts through the storm. Bruce wonders if he really does, and what that would mean if he admitted to it. "I'm not sure."
There's a sigh.
"I'd like to be there anyway, if that's all right," Clark says.
Bruce says nothing to that. For a while, none of them does.
"You'd only find a mess. Me, a mess," he finally says.
"It would still be you. And you have no idea how much that is. B… you have no idea. I'd still want that. You know that, right?"
He doesn't. Bruce doesn't know.
"I'm coming over. If that's okay?" Clark asks again.
It's not a good night. Not a good moment, a good time. But he can't ask for more. "You're always welcome, Clark," he says, hoping it comes across as honest as he feels it is. "You'll always have a place here."
It takes less than five seconds for Clark to come in. Bruce almost smiles at that, knowing Clark probably took off the minute he ended the call.
He flew fast enough he isn't even wet, despite the stormy weather, and the instant Bruce looks at him, Clark crosses the distance between them, taking his place next to him in the bed. Bruce doesn't have to ask him to come closer; he wraps himself around Bruce as if he needed the touch as much as he needed to breathe.
"They're your family, B. The way I am." Clark kisses his temple as his hands gently rub his back. "And families... sometimes they don't always agree, or get along. It doesn't make them less a family, just… flawed, like everybody else."
Bruce feels his own fingers dig into Clark's back, clutching the fabric of his t-shirt. He presses his face to Clark's chest, breathing in the warmth that radiates from him, feeling the solidness of the arms around his back.
It feels safe, being in his embrace. He feels vulnerable, ashamed to show how weak he truly is. And yet he can't find the will to move away.
"They said they aren't brothers. Never saw themselves that way. They--" Bruce closes his eyes. He can feel the words crawling back into his throat. "It was my fault. Dick left because of me. They didn't have the chance to become close like they could've because of me."
"B, they all had a role in the way things were. In how things turned out. Not only you. Besides, Dick loves Tim and Damian like his own blood and Jason... he's a work in progress, but he's come a long way from how it started, too."
Clark pulls him closer. His voice is so gentle that Bruce wishes he could melt into his words.
"You made a home for them, Bruce. For Dick and Jason and Tim. For Damian." Clark pauses. His breath warms the side of Bruce's face. "For me. Even when it hurts. Even when we fight. It's always here, always for us. Always home."
Bruce lets the words sink into his bones.
"Besides, we don't get to choose who we fall for," Clark whispers as his lips brush Bruce's neck. "You and me, we didn't choose. But here we are anyway. I could've stayed with Lois if I had chosen, or stayed alone. We could have stayed just friends, but we fell, B." Clark kisses him again. His lips linger this time, brushing the shell of Bruce's ear. "I'd rather be here. Would you?"
"Yes," Bruce murmurs. His mouth touches the warmth of Clark's skin, but he keeps his eyes closed, the storm in his mind slowly drifting away.
"If Dick and Jason don't see themselves as brothers, it doesn't change anything, does it? You're still their dad. No one can take that from you. And I'll be here to remind you, to tell you, over and over again if I have to, that they love you." Clark pauses. Bruce feels the sigh against his chest before Clark goes on, his voice a whisper now, just a little darker and softer. "We all do. Even if you're the most difficult person on this Earth and in the entire galaxy."
Bruce doesn't always feel the urge to cry. Most of the time he simply can't. Since that night in Crime Alley, he can count on his fingers the few times tears have fallen down his face that weren't in moments like just now, at the height of an anxiety attack. A bodily reaction more than a true response to sadness.
So much has changed since that night. His silence. His habit of closing himself off and staying apart. His coldness, or maybe his obsession with control. His aversion to murder and toward death itself. Many call it hypocrisy or a foolish moral code, but a part of him knows the truth. Even in this, the trauma still holds him.
Now, though, he does feel the urge to cry. He doesn't know if it's grief, or relief, or joy; only that his eyes burn and his throat tightens without warning. Still, no tears come. Even now, they refuse. The urge is real all the same. The knot in his stomach is no less sharp. And still, it feels almost good, he realizes. It's not the pain of being cut open, but the ache of breathing again after holding his breath for too long.
"I… am aware of that," Bruce says quietly. He hears Clark laugh, and the sound is beautiful, something he loves with every part of his heart that is still able to love. Perhaps there aren't many parts left, but the thought that he's capable of it at all, after everything, is enough to make him smile.
Bruce closes his eyes again and buries his face against the warmth of Clark's shoulder, pressing closer to the body he loves in a way he had never loved any other body before him.
Clark doesn't try to push him away or tell him it's all right to be sad and confused, because he knows it doesn't change a thing. Bruce is who he is; full of broken parts that don't fit, that are beyond fixing, that are only patched and taped, and yet that stubborn, beautiful man has found a way to love him just the same.
"We love you. No matter how difficult you are," Clark says against his neck.
"Okay." It's all Bruce can muster in return. "Okay."
After that, it turns physical, and here Bruce knows exactly what to do and how to take it. It's not planned, nor is it one of those times when sex is just another way for him to quiet his restless mind. It's a hunger that breaks loose, a need that climbs higher with every kiss until they're tangled up, grinding against each other, breathless like they were never grown men but boys desperate for relief.
Bruce loves when Clark pushes all the way inside him, stretching him open and filling him completely, but there's something about this; their urgency, the frantic pace, the press of their cocks straining in their underwear, that feels just as unbearable and just as sweet. They never bother taking their clothes off; they just rut against each other, hard and frantic, swallowing each other's moans until they both come in their underwear.
Bruce feels a sharp thrill at knowing he can bring the strongest man alive to this, undone and gasping in his arms. But the truth runs both ways, and Clark holds the same power over him. It's frightening, a little, to know just how deeply he's affected by this, how he would bend over for Clark if Clark asked for it, how he would do anything he asked. How far he's gone. How hard he fell.
If Clark ever decides he has had enough, Bruce isn't sure what he'll do, but he has a feeling he's going to feel more broken than he ever felt before.
It doesn't matter right now, though, he tells himself. Right now, he has this; the weight of Clark's body over his, Clark's clothed cock still against his as they come down from the high of release.
"I'm glad you came," Bruce says. It comes out a little muffled since Clark's chest is pressed to his face. "I think... I needed you."
Clark is smiling, he can tell, just from his tone. "It was a two-way thing, you know?" he murmurs, nuzzling Bruce's face. "I'll always gonna need you too."
For the second time in just a few hours, he wants to cry. His chest tightens again and the knot in his throat won't go away, even after a few minutes of trying.
What did he do to deserve Clark's love?
What did he do to deserve it at all?
He isn't sure. Bruce doesn't think he'll ever know. All he can do is hold him tighter, to wrap his arms around his lover and close his eyes as Clark whispers his name again and again in his ear, and wonders if this will ever stop feeling like a miracle.
Eventually, Clark falls asleep. Bruce's gaze roams across the man in his arms, the features of his face softened by sleep, his mouth half-parted, the thick dark lashes. Clark looks peaceful, and Bruce's chest swells with love all over again.
Bruce reaches for his phone and finds Dick's number. The message is short and to the point. He hits send before he can change his mind.
I'm glad for you both. I hope you'll find the happiness you both deserve. I love you.
Just when he's about to fall asleep, the soft light of the screen makes him blink his eyes open again.
We love you too, dad.
A few moments later, another one follows, from a different number.
Dick is literally crying all over me. Stop being nice or we'll have a situation in our hands. And please, take care of Clark. He came to us looking like a fucking puppy in the rain.
Ps: love you too, old man.
Bruce reads the message three times before finally, a single tear falls. It runs down his cheek and disappears under his jaw, leaving behind nothing but a wet trail and an odd warmth.
He smiles, and closes his eyes, feeling Clark's warmth all over him, and for the first time in a long while, it isn't only Bruce that falls asleep. It's his whole world that rests safe in the circle of his arms.