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** I do not own DC or its characters, but I do own this work. Also, I have been MIA for the last couple of years on Archive, but I never stopped writing. I have many more Blark fics that I'm going to be uploading over the next few weeks and some additions to series I left hanging which I will also be uploading. I'll be honest and tell you guys its been fucking awful the last couple years and I'm only just now recovering, however, while I've been absent I've missed posting on here. I'm excited to finally have my crap together enough to get back to it. Hopefully, you all enjoy this one! Thanks for reading <3 **
“It’s not what you think,” I can hear Clark murmuring over the phone, his back to me while he stirs the boiling pot of macaroni on the stovetop. “He’s only over for work. The Dean asked if we would collaborate,” Clark pinches his phone between his cheek and shoulder, “Yes, I know. I’ll be careful.”
There is a long pause and I hold my breath, pressing my shoulder blades into the cool surface of the hallway, straining to hear anything else. I know they’re talking about me, but that doesn’t make it any easier.
Once upon a time, Martha Kent had been almost like a mother to me. I might’ve even been the one doing the nightly phone call and update about life and work.
“I’ll be sure to drop by next week,” a short laugh fills with genuine mirth, “Love you too, Mom. Talk to you later.”
I wait a handful of seconds–whatever is appropriate to calm the rapid thrum of my pulse before slipping out of the hallway and stepping into the kitchen. My voice sounds awkward and loud when I try to speak and I cringe at how Clark’s shoulders bunch up.
“Smells good.”
“I doubt it’s up to the cuisine you usually eat, but boxed macaroni and cheese with hotdogs is a staple.”
I nod silently, rocking back on my heels as he pulls the pot off the stove and empties the hot water and noodles into a colander in the sink. “Need any help?”
“No,” Clark smiles at me over a shoulder, and my stomach clutches, “Why don’t you get your notes ready and we can go over the presentation while we eat in the living room?”
Not a trace of malice. The perfect gentleman. But he might as well be made of ice.
“Sure.”
I move robotically, trying not to stop and study every surface of Clark’s little apartment to soak up the details I don’t already know about him. His living room is quite literally two steps from the dining room/kitchen and I try not to notice the framed photographs or the assortment of odd knick-knacks Clark has clearly picked up from his travels in the last few years. Being an anthropology professor at Gotham University, it stands to reason he would have found any number of artifacts to decorate with.
It’s charming.
Nothing like my own sleek, no-nonsense decor in my penthouse. But this is–nice. Welcoming even.
I clear my throat and settle on the mint green sofa facing a small flatscreen television and start to unload my briefcase and shoulder bag. I brought an external hard drive with a previous years’ powerpoint series on the correlation between anthropological studies and criminal justice along with reams of notes on the subject that we can sift through together. Despite having been colleagues for the last five years, we’ve never worked closely together at GU. But when the Dean had suggested promoting a combined dual subject workshop to drive up enrollment, I’d felt there was no other choice but to accept. With the economic downturn, new students had been harder to entice, especially in the more expensive graduate or doctorate programs.
A workshop like this would be interesting and bring in new faces. It could help reignite some popularity on the student campus while boosting student morale. The planned attendance numbers alone would make the preparation for the series well-worth the effort.
And while I can claim to be doing this to support GU, the staff, and of course the student body, the minute Clark walks into the living room holding our dinner, I know none of those reasons are really why I’m doing this.
Not at all.
Clark says nothing as he sits next to me on the sofa, his warmth a gentle press at my side as he situates the bowls on the coffee table around my notes. The silence is–awkward. Uncomfortable and irritating. I wish to god it wasn’t like this between us but I knew it would be like this when I’d agreed. I knew it would be an uphill battle. And I’d still said yes.
“How much did you bring, Bruce?” Clark squints at the piles of notes marked up in highlighters on the coffee table, then pulls a pair of readers from his breast pocket and props them on his nose to peruse my disorganized mess.
I let him look things over without interrupting, carefully taking a bowl of dinner into my lap and silently forcing myself to eat. It’s an exercise in futility not to feel oddly homesick when I taste the artificial cheese and preservative stuffed hotdogs in my mouth. The last time I’d eaten this had been nearly five years ago–on a little farm planted in the middle of Kansas at a scratched up wooden table.
It makes it hard to swallow and my stomach rebels the food the minute it lands. I eat half of it, watch Clark letting his own dinner go cold as he pours over my notes, then nudge softly at his elbow to stop him.
He blinks down at me, eyes sharp and distracted behind the readers, lips tugged down into what I used to tease was his thinking scowl. “What?”
“Dinner? It’s probably cold by now. The notes will keep while you eat something.”
Clark's expression goes blank as his eyes dip to the coffee table and what I’m pointing at then a pink flush works its way up his collar and onto his cheekbones. My stomach tightens and I force myself to stare at my lap. At anything other than his face.
“Right, sorry. I get easily drawn in. You’ve done a really good job compiling all this. We won’t need to do much work actually–” he swallows, his hands moving nervously to grab the bowl of dinner abandoned in front of him, “You practically already wrote the workshop lessons yourself.”
“I like to be prepared.”
Clark’s mouth tips as he lifts a mouthful of pasta to his lips, “Yes, I remember.”
I stiffen, trying not to draw attention to my discomfort and know I’m failing. “All these years and I still haven’t changed much.”
Clark inhales softly, his jaw flexing with each bite, the tips of his ears still pink. But he doesn’t comment. He doesn’t need to really. That doesn’t mean I don’t spend far too much time studying his profile, willing my chest not to ache so much.
He looks better with age–laugh lines around his eyes, black hair streaked randomly with silver threads of delicate color. He looks like he still spends too much time out in the sun and probably doesn’t wear sunscreen like he should either but it doesn’t appear to have diminished any of his beauty. Not in the least.
I wonder if his hands are as calloused as they used to be. If he still smells like the sun too, or if that has changed over the years as he’s spent more time in his office or the lecture hall.
“Bruce?”
I startle, jerking my attention to Clark and stare at him. His brows are knitted together, and one hand is on my knee.
“Are you alright?”
His hand. Is on. My knee.
I blink down at the scalding heat of that hand, the heavy weight of it making every cell in my body stretch to be nearer. I open my mouth to speak and nothing comes out. I just stare dumbly at him, gaping like a fucking fish.
I’m so obvious it’s pathetic.
The hand immediately disappears. I bite the inside of my cheek and look down. I can’t look at him now. I can’t let him see how much being this close and like this was a mistake or that even after years of trying to fool myself into thinking I did us a both a favor back then–it had been a mistake. The worst one I’ve ever made.
“Sorry. I shouldn’t have–touched you.”
I shake my head, eyes still glued to my knees, “It’s fine. I was distracted. I apologize.”
Clark’s laugh is short and dry. It doesn’t sound pleasant. “You do that well too, don’t you? So very polite and genteel. All the right words, at all the wrong times.”
“Clark–” my gaze startles upward and I see the flash of hurt in those familiar blue eyes at the same time as resolve hardens them. The words I might have said shrivel up and die on my tongue.
“Nevermind,” he says softly, shifting on the sofa so we’re separated by another six inches. “Let’s go over the first session for the workshop. I see you’ve already blocked the subjects you think would be most appropriate to teach on and I’m in agreement with you. I think we can split the lectures in half. You taking two days and me the other two. We can alternate until the end of the week.”
I nod, blinking back a haze of sudden stinging tears from my eyes to focus on the work in front of us. Clark wants to work, then we work. I owe him that much. “Yes, I think that’s a good idea.”
“Great. How about we divide the talking points next then?”
In the end, it takes another two hours to finalize our plan for the workshop and I’ve noticed Clark yawning in increasing frequency for the last twenty minutes. It’s a Friday night, but it’s almost 11pm and Clark has always been more of the early to bed, early to rise type. Wordlessly, I’m already gathering up my things, mentally cataloging how best to leave without adding more injury.
Clark beats me to it.
“I’ve got an early day tomorrow,” he says, his voice more gentle than I would expect, “And it’s late. Will you make it home okay?”
I’ve already got my briefcase and the shoulder bag, but hearing him dismissing me makes my stomach cramp. I’ve overstayed my welcome and I don’t blame him. If our positions were reversed, I probably wouldn’t have said yes to working with me, let alone been kind enough to cook dinner in my home for an ex who broke my heart. But Clark is everything I’m not–he’s wholesome and good. Gentle. The sort of man I always had wild musings would be my own white knight in shining armor. I just didn’t realize I was the villain.
“I don’t live far. I’ll grab a cab.”
Clark lifts a brow, “A cab? The mighty Buce Wayne isn’t going to be personally chauffeured?”
I try a smile and it feels fake on my mouth, “Not tonight. Alfred’s health has limited his activities some and we try not to bother him. It's far past his bedtime.”
Clark’s face falls, “Alfred isn’t well?”
“He’s old, Clark,” I say stiffly, my throat suddenly tight again, “It’s been a few years since you last saw him and the arthritis has caught up a bit. He still mothers us and works too much. But he’s had to slow down.”
“Oh.”
That one word holds so many regrets in it, I step instinctively closer, reaching out a hand then immediately dropping it.
“He misses you. You could call him or–”
“No,” Clark shakes his head, “That’s not a good idea. I couldn’t–”
“I wouldn’t mind. I’d stay away.”
Clark’s smile is bitter when it focuses on the carpeting, his eyes dark and all pupil. “I can’t go there and not see you or the boys, Bruce. I can’t set foot in that house and pretend none of what we were to each other happened–doesn’t matter how many years have gone by. It’ll all come rushing back.”
“I’m–” I choke on the word, knowing it’s not nearly enough, “I’m sorry, Clark.”
His eyes flicker up, lock with mine and his brow furrows, pain lancing deep into my marrow, “I forgave you a long time ago. It’s ancient history. But it’s history we can’t undo. There are some things that are not fixable.”
We stand there for long minutes, neither saying anything, our eyes engaged in a heated silent conversation that feels like an eternity until I finally step back and break the trance. It feels like I can’t breathe, like I’m drowning and I know Clark must feel the same because he’s gone pale with fatigue. The circles under his eyes stand out so sharply against his skin they look like bruises.
“I’ll call you tomorrow to check in. But I think we’re prepared.”
Clark nods, “Yes. I think so.”
“Okay.”
I reach blindly for the door handle, fumbling when I don’t go anywhere because the deadbolt is turned and then go stalk-still when Clark reaches over me to turn it. His chest presses into my back, warm breath tickling my neck, and I shiver visibly from the contact, too tired to work up a proper bit of shame to hide my reaction to him.
It’s still Clark.
It’s still–god it’s still the man I loved then and love now. It never stopped. No matter how hard I tried to kill it. He’s still the man I want and I’ve been dying for years while we’ve watched each other across the campus, both trying to quietly move on and pick up the pieces.
“Bruce,” Clark’s still standing at my back. He hasn’t moved and I feel my knees get weak as I squeeze my eyes close, afraid to turn around and break the spell.
He feels so warm–just out of my reach. Like being kissed by a ghost, his heat and skin millimeters away from mine, teasing and torturing me. I ache to turn and press my nose into his neck and smell that sunshine he probably still smells like. A burning need blossoms from the constant flicker in my gut and my hands clench into fists to stop myself from reaching for him.
“God,” Clark murmurs, his lips brushing the shell of my ear, sending another delicious full-body shiver down my frame. My hand loosens on my briefcase and it falls open on the floor, papers spilling everywhere. My blood is roaring in my ears. “You still smell so good. So fucking good.”
I know I’m breathing like I’ve been running, ragged breaths showing every vulnerability but I’m fast approaching the point of no return.
Clark still hasn’t moved. He’s still–he’s touching me.
Those Kansas boy scout hands are tracing up my arms, like moth wings, barely brushing over the cotton of my dress shirt, but it sears into me. I hear his breathing stutter, a harsh exhalation saying more than any words could express, then those strong arms are weaving beneath mine and wrapping tightly over my chest and stomach. They’re pulling me hard into his firm chest.
This doesn’t feel real.
A sound gets caught in my throat and I realize with horrible shame that it’s a broken sob bubbling up in my chest.
“Shhh,” Clark murmurs, his nose buried in the nape of my neck, breathing as ragged as my own, “It’s okay. We’re okay.”
I shake my head, grabbing his forearms with bruising force, turning my head to try and hide my face. I feel naked and weak like this, completely exposed. I never thought it would even get this far.
“It’s not okay,” my voice is watery and jagged, barely audible.
“Yes, it is,” Clark says back, turning me in those arms until my chest and his chest are pressed tight, no space between us and I’m desperately grabbing fistfuls of his shirt in my hands, finally hiding my face in his collar. The sounds coming out of me are not human and I don’t even recognize them as my own until Clark starts rubbing my back, making soothing noises like he’s trying to calm a wild animal, but I can’t stop them and I feel like I’m having an out of body experience.
I know we stand like that for too long because my knees and low back ache when Clark finally draws back from me, but to me, it's not long enough. I’ve gone silent, the tears dried up, all evidence of my humiliating breakdown gone and replaced with empty resignation when Clark’s hand grasps my chin and pulls it up to look at him.
I feel absurdly small when he does that.
I used to love that feeling. I don’t like it now.
“You still love me,” Clark says softly, his expression unreadable and I flinch, pulling my chin out of his grasp.
“No,” he shakes his head, invading my space to force my gaze back to his, “Not this time. I won’t let you bully me into walking away again. This time,” his eyes are luminous pools of sapphire, “this time we do it my way.”
“I–I still–”
“Love me,” Clark supplies, nodding slowly, brushing a thumb over my lower lip, “You still love me. You never stopped loving me.”
I swallow and shake my head, a heavy weight lifting from my chest that was suffocating only a few hours before. “No. Never.”
“Jesus Christ, Bruce.”
I bite the inside of my cheek, relieved he lets my chin go so I can look away. So I can move and try to breathe where I can’t smell him.
“Do you have any idea what you put me through? What you put everyone through?”
“I know.”
Clark pushes both hands through his hair, tussling the pieces into a familiar disorderly mess, “You made me think I wasn’t good enough. You let me think you’d fallen out of love with me and that you wanted to move on. You–you fucking broke my heart.”
I nod, wrapping my arms around my chest like a shield. “I did.”
“You told me our lives were incompatible and that we would both be better off without the other. You said our careers would be hindered if we stayed together. When I fought you, when I argued, you went for every soft spot I had and made me bleed like no person has ever done before. You–” Clark stops talking, his eyes welling up with his own tears and I watch helplessly from my post, still in front of his door, unable to even breathe, “You took the boys from me. You took Alfred. You took YOU from me.”
“I know, Clark,” I say weakly, “I know what I did.”
“Why?”
It’s a valid question. It’s a question I have asked myself repeatedly over the last five years, wondering at my own logic and why the hell I’d thought I wanted to live out my days alone and miserable.
The answer is disgustingly simple.
I was afraid.
Clark and I had been partners for a few years by then, having already met in graduate school and then continuing once we were both on-staff at GU. He had become my everything. My children loved him and I woke up every day feeling as if I couldn’t survive if he ever left me. I felt like I was too dependent on him to be happy and I was terrified that I was not only making the wrong decision by leaning on him so much, but that I was making the wrong decision for us both.
Clark deserved better. He should be with someone who wasn’t neurotic, obsessive, with baggage, and childhood trauma that still woke him up on a nightly basis. I had made lists upon lists, argued at myself until I was blue in the face, and then made up my mind that I was going to end things and save us both.
My twisted logic had felt very, very logical at the time.
It felt ridiculous now. And flimsy.
“I thought I was doing the right thing.”
Clark barks a short laugh, “How on earth was that the right thing?”
“You–you could do better than me. A lot better. I’m not like you, Clark. I was and still am, a very introverted, obsessive, neurotic, and broken person. I’ve got so many flaws it should be laughable and you had already put up with so–”
“Stop. Stop right there.”
“Clark.”
“You decided I deserved better. What else?”
I swallow thickly, my face heating, “I thought I was holding you back from your career. You got that invite to run as the head of the Anthropology department at Berkeley and I thought–”
“Stop,” he lifts a hand, his expression completely blank. I feel nausea rise and acid burn the back of my throat. This is far worse to explain to him than I had imagined. I hate this.
“Anything else?”
I bite my lip, unable to meet his gaze.
“Bruce–was there anything else?”
I’m paralyzed and shaking, desperate to get the words out but mute from the overwhelm.
“Anything that actually had to do with how we were as a couple? Or how compatible we were? Communication, sex, or goals? Anything like that?”
“I was–”
He waits for me, face crumpling, “You were what, Bruce? You broke off a committed long-term relationship for what?”
“I was afraid,” I finally manage and Clark closes his eyes like I’ve slapped him. But I’ve started now, and I can’t stop the word-vomit once it’s uncapped from coming. “I was terrified of how deeply I had come to lean on you. How desperately I needed you just to function each day. I needed you just to breathe, Clark. It was–it was the most vulnerable frightening thing I could possibly imagine. Because I would think of ever losing you and everything would shut down. I couldn’t handle it. Combined with the other things I had been telling myself, no matter how foolish it sounds now, I thought I was doing the right thing for us both.”
“So, to be clear, you thought breaking up with me would save you from losing me later on? Is that correct?”
I shrug a shoulder, “I told you it doesn’t make sense. But at the time, it did. I kept having these nightmares about my–about my parents,” I struggle through mentioning them and watch Clark’s expression visibly soften, “Only it wasn’t their faces I saw anymore. It was you. You were dead in the alley and I was holding your body. I got messed up. I let it take over everything and instead of dealing with it, talking to a therapist, or to–to–”
“Me,” Clark murmurs, “Talking to me.”
“Yes, you. I should have talked to you. But I didn’t. I decided what was best and made a choice for us both. I ran.”
Clark’s lips are pressed into such a tight line they’re bloodless and I watch as he digests what I’ve said, anger ebbing and flowing in his posture, warring with the hurt I’ve caused him. He’s silent for so long, I lean against the door at my back and wonder if I should just leave. If making a silent exit is even possible at this point.
“You are the most infuriating man I have ever met.”
I blink up at Clark, feeling resignation finish hollowing me out. I’m so tired I can barely stay standing. I had expected this. I deserved this.
“I know.”
“You took years away, we could have spent together–years where I wanted to punish you and then myself for having fallen in love with you.”
I nod, the burn at the backs of my eyes the warning I need to grope for the door handle again. I’ve overstayed my welcome and I need to go. Clark has been kind enough to let me explain why and now I need to get out. He doesn’t deserve another breakdown in his apartment where he feels obligated to comfort me.
My hand closes on the doorknob just as Clark strides across the room and smoothly fists a hand in my shirt to drag me up on my toes. I didn’t even see him move.
“Stop fucking running away from me, Bruce,” he snaps angrily, then his mouth is crashing down into mine and I’m falling without a parachute.
Clark kisses me hard, the edge of anger sharp and cruel at the start and then replaced with a desperate yearning that I echo back to him as I respond like a teenager making out for the first time. I’m lightheaded and starving, my skin tingling everywhere Clark’s hands go. Burning from the inside out, I feel Clark lifting me off the floor and I respond by wrapping my legs around his trim waist to help counter my weight.
I’m not a small man but Clark has always made me feel like one.
It’s been so many years, but making love with Clark Kent has always felt as easy and as welcome as breathing.
He carries me to his bedroom and we manage to get halfway undressed before both of us end the fun too early–rutting and panting in a messy tangle on the mattress. I’m half-drowned in Clark’s duvet as Clark lays on top of me, pressing kiss after kiss into my neck and chest. My shoulders.
I’ve never felt better in my life.
“You stubborn, arrogant, foolish, asshole.”
I hum back, my mind high off the adrenaline and touching. My touch-starved skin reveling in any contact at all. My brain doesn’t seem to be able to comprehend the insults. It only hears Clark’s voice saying them.
And that’s all I want. To keep hearing him whisper into my skin, kissing me, loving me.
“I never stopped loving you,” Clark breathes, biting a mark into my collar bone and I grunt, carding a hand through his hair, “You fucking ruined me and I still wanted you.”
“Even now?” I whisper, my heart lodged tightly into my throat threatening to ruin the high.
Clark’s mouth finds mine again and he kisses me deeply, softer and less angry than before. The edge to the kiss is gone and in its place I feel the achingly gentle taste of forgiveness. Something like hope and corny like a hallmark romance.
“Yes,” he peers down at me, his eyes absolutely earnest, “I never stopped wanting you. That hasn’t changed.”
“I’m sorry.”
“I don’t need more apologies.”
I wait for him to say more, but he doesn’t. Clark lets his weight press me deeper into the mattress as he presses an ear to my chest and lies down. Sleep suddenly feels nearer and I fight it to keep awake. I don’t want to fall asleep only to realize this has all been a dream in the morning.
“What do you need now, Clark?” I whisper gently, tracing patterns into his neck. He could name anything and I would give it to him. I’m done trying to pretend I can live without him. I’ll never live without him again if he’ll allow it.
“You,” he murmurs and sounds sleepy too, “And time, Bruce. We have time now. We’ll work it out.”
I blink tiredly up at the ceiling, “You promise?”
The light sound of a snore is my answer and strangely, the snore is so real and genuine I feel my body going lax and my eyes sliding closed to follow him. For the first time in years, I don’t dream of Clark dying in the alley instead of my parents.
I dream of this. Of Clark and I growing old together. And I can’t wait to tell Clark in the morning.