Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

The quaint, white church in Smallville is claustrophobically crowded. Bruce feels prickles of sweat under his suit as he looks at Clark and Lois where they stand before the altar. The minister finally reaches the crucial part, speaks the words, “If anyone here knows why these two cannot be married, let them speak now or forever hold their peace.” Dick and Alfred seize hold of him, Diana tries to clamp a hand over his mouth, but he still shouts his protests. Shouts that Clark can’t marry Lois. Not now, not before Bruce has had a chance to win him.

Clark looks sad but tells him, “You waited too long, Bruce. It’s too late.” He slips a huge diamond ring on Lois’ finger and they’re both laughing at him now. Everyone’s laughing at him and pointing as Lois waggles her fingers right in his face to make sure he sees the ring.

He wakes up every time as Clark sweeps Lois into his arms and flies away with her, forever out of reach.

-1-

Bruce raised a hand to block the light as Alfred opened the curtains. “Is that necessary?” he grumbled as he turned and burrowed his face into the pillow.

“It is past noon, sir.”

Well, there was that. “Just as well,” he said and sat up. Legs drawn up, he rested his head against his knees as the last humiliating echoes of the dream faded away.

Alfred poured out a cup of coffee and passed it to him. “Bad dreams again, sir?” he asked. A stranger to the household might have thought Alfred’s voice was colored with only mild curiosity and nothing more personal. Bruce heard quite a bit more than that and, after a sip of the fortifying brew, he pulled up a small smile of reassurance.

“Not too bad this time. There was a wedding, actually.” And surely a wedding, even this one, was an improvement on the nightmares where he endlessly relived his parent’s murder or didn’t save Harvey, or all the others lined up and waiting in his subconscious.

“Indeed? May one inquire after the identity of the happy couple?”

Bruce eyed him warily and leaned back against the headboard. He seldom kept secrets from Alfred; that tended to be an exercise in futility, after all. On the other hand, he wasn’t ready to share this particular bit of knowledge, even with Alfred. Maybe he never would be. He drank some more coffee and felt the warmth of the brew, combined with the late summer sunlight ease some of the ache from his muscles. As casually as possible, he said, “It was Clark and Lois Lane.”

“I see. Quite a happy occasion, then?”

Bruce glanced away, shrugged. “I suppose. If you’re into that sort of thing.”

“Just so. Curious such a seemingly happy occasion should be a cause of distress.”

On his way to the shower, Bruce paused to turn back and fix Alfred with a suspicious look. Intent upon straightening the bed, Alfred appeared to take no notice. “Distress? Alfred?”

“Oh, I’m certain it was of no significance, Master Bruce.” Alfred fluffed the pillows and propped them against the headboard. “It’s only that you were talking in your sleep, sir.”

“Was I?”

“It was scarcely decipherable, although I did just make out something about you knowing a reason, and that you wished Master Clark to abjure from something.”

“Abjure?” Bruce’s eyebrows climbed towards his hairline. “I muttered ‘abjure’ in my sleep?”

“Well, it was something like that. As I say, Master Bruce, it was rather indistinct.”

“Was that all?”

“Essentially.”

Well…that was vague enough. “I wonder what I meant.”

“One can but speculate, sir.”

Bruce gave him another wary look, dissatisfied with that reply but unwilling to pursue it any further right now. He went on into the bathroom and braced his arms against the counter to consider his reflection and concluded he looked like a man who had put in a lot of late hours recently. Nothing new about that, of course, although his sleep had been more troubled than usual of late—and not only by visions of Clark marrying Lois. Ever since the Justice League tangled with John Dee, in fact. He had fought off Dee’s attempt to get into his mind but witnessing the effects of the nightmares Dee had inflicted on his friends and colleagues, the way Dee had tapped into their greatest fears, had profoundly shaken him…

*~*

“I’ll be over in a few minutes,” Batman said into the communicator. “Whatever you do, don’t go to sleep.” Why hadn’t Clark answered? He could be out, of course, but some ineffable apprehension spurred Batman to get even more speed out of the Batmobile as he headed for 344 Clinton.

That still wasn’t fast enough. Even as Batman climbed through the bedroom window he could felt his heart sink. Clark was curled on his side in bed, sound asleep—and already caught in the depths of whatever nightmare Dee had sent his way. As Batman approached, Clark began to thrash and cry out. He flung out one arm and struck the nightstand, shattering his glasses and the lamp.

“Clark!” Batman caught him by the shoulders and shook him, hard. “Clark! Wake up!”

The only response was a frantic, garbled cry as Clark struggled against his hold. He effortlessly shook off Batman’s hold and struck him with enough force to lift him off his feet and fling him across the room. Batman crashed into the wall and slid down.

Clark cried out in terror again and covered his face. For one horrified moment, Batman thought Clark was trying to claw out his eyes. That decided him. He couldn’t take the risk that Clark might harm himself while in this state. There would be time to feel guilty about this later, he decided, and reached for the lead-lined pouch on his belt.

With the chunk of Kryptonite in his hand, Batman approached the bed. Logically, he knew the piece of meteorite didn’t really glow with a deeper and more malevolent green the nearer he got to Clark--it just felt that way. Clark moaned and curled in on himself, away from the deadly radiation.

“I’m sorry, I’m sorry,” Batman murmured and stroked Clark’s hair. He shouldn’t indulge in these secret, stolen moments; they only made him crave so much more. He let himself marginally off the hook this time, when Clark seemed to calm at his touch, his assurances that everything would be all right.

He took a chance and slipped the shard of Kryptonite back in its pouch. Instantly, Clark relaxed against him. Tremors still coursed through the powerful body from the nightmare, though. What could so badly frighten the man who was well-night invulnerable to everything? “Where are you, Clark? What’s happening to you there?” There was no answer, beyond a frantic moan and another violent shudder. Batman longed to sooth the fear away but even if that could be allowed this was hardly the time.

“Come on.” Batman wrestled Clark around so that he was in an upright position now. It took every ounce of strength he had and then just the sheer will to do so, but Batman finally got Clark on his feet and over to the window. He shot off a grapple, got a firm grip on Clark, and swung out, landing heavily by the Batmobile. He staggered for a moment under Clark’s weight but then found his footing and maneuvered Clark over and into the car. He snapped the reinforced seatbelt into place and then leaned on the roof for a moment, breathing hard.

Headlights cut towards them and Batman hastily sprang behind the car’s wheel and peeled out of the alley before any of Clark’s neighbors noticed anything. Even if someone did see something, it was likely they would only wonder why Batman had just kidnapped that nice Mr. Kent.

Heedless of any speed limits, he headed straight for the Javelin and soon found it was only moderately easier to wrestle Clark out of the car and up the Javelin’s boarding ramp. Once inside, he settled Clark as comfortably and securely as possible, and took some small comfort as he noted Clark did seem calmer now. He was still trapped deep in John Dee’s twisted nightmare world, though. Crouched beside him, Batman watched the rapid eye movement that told of Clark’s dream state. The restless, anxious way his head rolled against the headrest made Batman think Clark was desperate to escape from whatever horror had unfolded.

He patted Clark’s knee and stood up again. He tore open a packet of dissolvable stimulants and carefully pried Clark’s mouth open enough to pop in the pills. He didn’t have a lot of hope they would work but he was about out of ideas.

When J’onn got there with an unconscious Green Lantern in tow, Batman was glad to step aside and let the Martian Manhunter take charge of Clark as well. His own talents could be put to much more productive use right now in tracking down John Dee.

It wouldn’t be enough just to stay awake, Batman realized as he drove through the streets of Metropolis. All it would take was one split second of vulnerability and Dee would find his way into Batman’s mind. No, he needed a more direct shield, something John Dee would bump up against and be unable to get around or through. He needed something planted at the back of his mind, on constant loop, like a song you can’t get out of your mind.

A song… As inspiration struck, he cycled through song after song, the perfect choice suddenly blasting from the radio. It was a tune he remembered from childhood, so simple and innocent. So ironically perfect.

Frère Jacques, frère Jacques,
Dormez-vous? Dormez-vous?
Sonnez les matines! Sonnez les matines!
Din, dan, don. Din, dan, don.

“Are you sleeping, are you sleeping,
Brother John? Brother John…”

Batman started to smile as he drove along.

*~*

When it was over, Clark had characteristically downplayed the extent of his nightmare, only saying that it had been a of his teenage years. Bruce had caught the look J’onn shot Clark’s way, though, a look that made him suspect there was at least a little something more to the story. He hadn’t pressed Clark for details. Batman trusted that Clark would let him know if he ever wanted to talk about it. One night, when they were both on monitor duty, he did…

*~*

“Thank you, by the way,” Clark said as he settled into the chair beside Batman, scarlet cape brushing the floor.

Attention firmly fixed on the multitude of screens, Batman asked, “For what?”

“Bringing out the Kryptonite the other night, when you came to my apartment.”

Not sure how to respond, Batman grunted and adjusted a control an infinitesimal fraction. Voice gruff, he said, “Strange thing to thank me for.”

“Not really. It helped save my sanity.” Clark told him then about the hidden fear that John Dee had tapped into, that his powers might one day rage out of control and leave him in a world of ruins, everyone he loved dead at his own hands. His words were quiet and measured and conveyed all of the horrifying images all the more vividly for that sparseness. Batman experienced the terror right along with him as Clark described how in the nightmare he had incinerated Lois with his heat vision.

“Clark…” Batman found his own words failed him. That this nightmare scenario had taken place against the backdrop of Clark out on a date with Lois struck him as particularly tragic. For lack of any words, he touched Clark’s arm.

Clark glanced at his hand, the black gauntlet in stark contrast to the bright blue of Clark’s sleeve. “Most of my powers, as they came in, were pretty awesome,” he said and sent a shy smile Batman’s way that was difficult not to return. “The speed, the able to leap tall buildings stuff, and then to find out that on top of all that I could fly—it was just…wow.” He smiled as if in fond memory of that first, exuberant flight. His smile turned somber then. “The heat vision scared me to death,” he confessed in a soft voice. “I was afraid to open my eyes, to look at Ma and Pa; terrified something would happen just like in the nightmare.”

“You learned to control it, though,” Batman said. He tried to imagine what it must have been like for a teenaged Clark as he fully came into his powers, some of them exhilarating, others frightening, maybe all of them confusing.

Clark nodded. “Once I was able to calm down it sort of…just came to me, like an instinct; as easy as walking, or flying, once I got the hang of everything.” His expression turned rueful. “Pa helped by telling me that if it came to it, he would find a real life Professor X to make me a pair of ruby quartz glasses, just like Cyclops wore to control his optic blasts.”

Batman canted a look of disbelief his way. “You made that up.”

“Did not.”

Pa Kent—secret X-Men geek. Who would have thought it? Although upon further consideration, that did help explain why nothing about his son had ever freaked Jonathan Kent out.

“Anyway,” Clark went on, “that’s what you did when you came to me with the Kryptonite. As deep as I was caught in the nightmare, there was a part of me that knew it would be all right, that someone was there who could help.”

Batman had conflicted feelings about just how much Clark had been aware of. “I didn’t think you were even aware of me.”

Clark’s reply was unexpectedly cryptic. “I was aware.”

Batman refocused his attention on the monitors and controls. Gruff once more, he said, “Anyone would have done the same.”

“I don’t think so, Bruce. Not anyone.”

They were quiet for a time after that, the silence charged with…something. Not uncomfortable, though; nothing awkward, despite the thoughts that raced through Batman’s head.

Just before Flash and Green Lantern were due to relieve them, Superman said, “If you don’t have any plans for breakfast, I know this place that makes the best waffles…”

*~*

That’s when it had started, this current phase of things anyway, Bruce realized as he turned off the water and stepped out of the shower. He reached for a towel and thought about how, since then, he and Clark had shared a lot of breakfasts in Metropolis or Gotham, whichever was closest. Breakfast had expanded to include lunch and dinner whenever one of them was in the other’s city. Of late, there had been quite a number of dinners as Bruce increasingly found that business took him to Metropolis.

As he briskly dried off and slipped into his robe, he seemed to recall that Lucius Fox had recently mentioned something about a potential labor dispute at The Daily Planet. He might head over there today and check into that.

“Alfred?” He belted his robe and headed back to his bedroom.

“Sir?” Alfred had set out his clothes for the day and was currently occupied in choosing the correct tie and cufflinks to go with it.

“You know, I can actually pick out my own clothes now.”

Alfred dignified that comment with one eloquent eyebrow.

Bruce examined the tie Alfred had selected. It was one of his favorites, with a rather bold blue paisley design on black silk. Dick had given it to him for Father’s Day three years ago. “Would you clear my schedule for today, please?”

“Very good, sir.” Alfred presented him with today’s cufflinks. A gift from Tim last Christmas, they were stainless steel with a band of black onyx just slight off-center; clean and classic, and another favorite. “Shall I arrange for your private jet to standby for immediate departure to Metropolis, or may I persuade you to have lunch with Master Dick and Master Tim first?”

Bruce stared at him. “What makes you think I want to go to Metropolis?”

There went that damned eyebrow again. “It’s Thursday?”

Well, so much for keeping secrets.

~*~

It would never happen, of course, but if Batman ever wrote a memoir the only possible title would be Everything I Know About Interrogation I Learned from My Butler.

“Ah, I see,” Alfred observed after he had skillfully extracted every pertinent detail. “I was not aware that you had added clairvoyance to your vast array of skills.”

Bruce had never unearthed conclusive evidence that the British had invented snark, only that they had perfected a certain subtle strain of it. Arms folded over his chest, he asserted, “I never said I thought the dream was some kind of premonition.”

“Yet you regard the events it depicts as somehow inevitable.”

“Only some of them. I don’t think I’d actually make a spectacle of myself like that.”

“I should hope not. Contrary to popular belief you were not raised by wolves. Master Bruce,” Alfred continued briskly, “you know quite well what this dream means. You also know what must be done in the face of fear of that sort.” He gave Bruce a firm, no nonsense look that was in no way devoid of sympathy.

“This is a little different, Alfred. He loves Lois.”

“Has he said so?”

“Not in so many words. It’s one of those things you just know. The Earth revolves around the Sun. E = mc squared. Superman and Lois Lane are the greatest romance of the 21st century.”

“And yet those other things had to be investigated and proved before they could become common knowledge. Do what you’re best at, Master Bruce.”

He made a face at that. “I don’t really think he’ll respond well if I dangle him off The Daily Planet building.”

Alfred’s only reply was a trenchantly unamused look.

Bruce sighed. “I’m not putting him under surveillance, either.” Clark would discover it no time flat, for one thing and then there would be exactly the kind of scene Bruce wanted to avoid.

“I should hope not. Observe and deduce, sir,” Alfred said on his way to the door. “Failing that, ask his mother.”

“Oh, yes, very helpful,” Bruce grumbled at the closed door. Still, Alfred could be onto something there. What did the evidence support? As he dressed, something else occurred to him, quite possibly the most important question of all. Yes, Superman and Lois Lane were supposed to the great romance—but had anyone ever asked Clark Kent his thoughts on the matter.

A trip to Metropolis was definitely in order, he decided as he fastened his cuffs and picked up his tie. Knotting it on his way downstairs, however, he thought that could be postponed until after lunch, and went in to join the boys.

Chapter Text

“Something I should know about?” Bruce asked as he came up behind Clark and looked over his shoulder, right at a computer screen that currently displayed a selection of overpriced engagement rings. Other open windows ranged from Bachelor Parties to How to Choose a Best Man, Rehearsal Dinner Do’s and Don’ts and Exotic Honeymoon Getaways. He would not jump to conclusions. He would bide his time and await an explanation. He would get his heart rate under control before Clark noticed it had abruptly sped up.

Clark tipped down his glasses to look at him. “Are you okay?”

Well, two out of three wasn’t bad. “I’m fine,” Bruce said. “One espresso too many.”

“You might want to give decaf a try.”

“Uh-huh.” He leaned closer to look at the screen. That this move also put him in closer proximity to Clark was purely coincidental, of course. Close enough that their shoulders brushed and he could appreciate Clark’s cologne. Citrus and green leaves, warm spice, a base note of cedar and sycamore; earth and sun and quiet power—Bruce entirely approved. Fortunately Clark had the one desk in the newsroom that was almost secluded and made possible moments like this. He dropped his voice dropped to a whisper anyway as he said, “I might want to wear fuzzy slippers out on patrol but it’s not going to happen.”

Clark squeezed his eyes shut. “You know that image is going to be stuck in my head now.”

“Live with it. So?” He nodded at the screen again and pulled up a chair to sit down beside Clark.

“It’s this thing called research. You may have heard of it.”

Bruce felt his heart resume its normal rhythm. “Ah. For a hard-hitting exposé on what a colossal scam the whole wedding industry is?”

Clark gave him a cocked eyebrow look that was every bit worthy of Alfred. “And people wonder why you’re a confirmed bachelor.”

Bruce could have given him an exclusive on that—but there was still data to gather. “Not an exposé?”

“It’s for the Sunday Lifestyle section.” Clark scribbled some notes and closed the engagement ring page. “Cat Grant wants us to do a Bridezilla vs. Groomzilla piece.”

“Who’s doing the bride’s perspective?” Bruce asked and felt his treacherous pulse rate speed up once more in anticipation of the reply.

“Lois,” Clark confirmed. “You’re sure it’s just too much coffee?”

“It’s nothing.” He shook his head and tagged on the first thing that popped into his head, “The boys are having some trouble in school. That’s all.”

“Oh.” Clark looked like was having some trouble connecting all the dots between the boy’s schoolwork and Bruce’s anxiety. “What kind of problems?”

“Just, you know,” he cast about for something, “not keeping up their grades.” Blatant lie; they were both Straight-A students. “It’s all the extracurricular activities,” he explained. And what the hell, the hole was there, might as well dig it deeper. “I may have to make them cut back.”

“Uh-huh.” Clark pushed at his glasses and fixed Bruce with an uncertain look. “You know it’ll break their hearts if you limit their extracurricular activities.”

“I know, but it can’t be allowed to negatively impact their schoolwork. Anyway, I’m sure it will work itself out.” Especially since it was an entirely non-existent problem. “So, you and Lois? I suppose you compare notes a lot. Late night brainstorming sessions where you share your white picket dreams?” Clark was really looking at him very oddly now.

“Yes, and then we braid our hair and paint our toenails and try on dresses. I look darling in a jewel neckline with cap sleeves.”

Bruce frowned; sarcasm never sounded right from Superman. Not to mention, since when did he know anything about necklines and sleeves? “No, no,” he murmured as he gave Clark a long and considering look. “That would be all wrong. With those broad shoulders and slim hips? You want a strapless sheath.”

“A strapless sheath?”

“Maybe an A-line. In royal blue,” Bruce added as he pictured it. “I think your eyes would really pop in royal blue.”

Clark gave him a dubious look now. “Why do I get the feeling you’ve given this some thought?”

“You never know where our adventures may take us,” Bruce said with an enigmatic, lofty air. “More to the point, why are two Pulitzer Prize-winning journalists doing lifestyle puff pieces?”

“Perry says it’s good to mix things up now and then, get some fresh perspectives.” Clark glanced away, down at his notes. “Besides, it doesn’t hurt to be prepared in case an opportunity to propose ever comes around.”

Unusual way to put it, although with someone like Lois, spontaneity was likely standard operating procedure. “Do you have someone on your radar?” he asked, and impressed himself with how blasé he sounded.

Clark cast an oddly surreptitious look his way. “Maybe,” he said and glanced away once more.

Bruce licked his lips. “Is anything imminent?”

“Not imminent, no. It’s…complicated.”

“By what?” All right, that may have come out a bit more sharply than was entirely necessary.

“This other person,” Clark shrugged, “they haven’t exactly sent a clear signal how they feel about me.”

That was…interesting. Quite possibly revelatory, in fact, the more Bruce thought about it, and his pulse sped up once more. Before he could inquire further, however, Clark murmured, “Company’s coming,” just before Steve Lombard came up behind Clark and smacked him on the back. Instead of going into full on Man of Steel mode so Lombard would break his hand, Clark moved with the slap and fell against his desk. “Hey, Steve.”

“Hey, Kent! Brown nosing the big boss man, huh? How’s it going, Brucie?” Lombard thrust out his hand as Bruce got to his feet.

Bruce seized the hand and pumped it vigorously; so vigorously Lombard got a pained look on his face and shook his hand as if to restore feeling when Bruce let him go. “Oops, my bad.” Bruce flexed his hand and looked sheepish. “Been working out a little. Skeeve Bombard, right? The sports editor? Perry White said I should talk to you about some ideas I have.”

“Uh,” Lombard looked uncertain, “that’d be great, Brucie. It’s Lombard, though, Steve Lombard.”

“Isn’t that what I said, Skeeve? You don’t mind if I call you Skeeve? You can call me Mr. Wayne.” Out of the corner of his eye he could see Clark press his forehead against the computer monitor. “Listen,” he continued with Lombard, “I think your sports page is top notch and all but there’s always room for improvement, right?”

“Uh, right.” Lombard looked around as if he hoped someone would rescue him.

“I mean, all that football and hockey is great but where’s the squash coverage, Skeeve? Where’s the polo, the rowing, the dressage, the, the croquet? Skeeve, seriously, where’s the croquet?”

“Uh, that’s not really what you’d call a competitive sport, Bru—Mr. Wayne.”

“Well I can see you’ve never witnessed the cutthroat matches I have then.” He threw a comradely arm around Lombard’s shoulders. “Come on, Skeeve, I’ll buy you a cup of coffee and tell you all about the time Ronnie Vreeland and I were down to the last wicket with an all expenses paid week at Meditrina Spa and Resort on the line. Have you ever been to Meditrina, Skeeve? It’s like—what’s that thing it’s like, Lark?”

“Clark. Umm,” laughter had nudged his voice up, “a nirvanic bacchanal?”

Bruce snapped his fingers. “The very thing. Skeeve, it’s like a nirvanic bacchanal. They exfoliate you to start with—have you ever been exfoliated, Skeeve?—with this scrub made of coffee, crushed sugar, almonds, and lemon oil. Then you’re wrapped in this Jasmine Rose Rhassoul Clay that comes all the way from Morocco and draws the impurities from your body. While all that’s going on, they spray you with this mist of quince and orange blossom…” He led Lombard away, regaling him with tales of the spa as he furiously reviewed everything Clark had said, fairly certain something vitally important had transpired that would provide all of the conclusive evidence he required.

*~*

“The Fields?” Bruce asked as he used his phone to scroll through the DVD offerings at CrimsonCube. After he’d made Lombard’s day, he had cheered up the lives of some of his other employees and eventually made his way back to the newsroom and Clark, where plans were made for an evening of takeout and a movie. He tried not to think about how it almost sounded like a date.

In his shirtsleeves now, tie loosened, Clark looked over from the printer as he swapped out cartridges. “What’s it about?”

Bruce hovered the cursor and read, “A young boy and his family are terrorized by a mysterious presence in the endless fields of corn surrounding their old farmhouse.” He looked at Clark. “Could be nostalgic for you.”

“Har har, hilarious.” Clark clicked PRINT again. “What else do they have?”

“War Horse?”

“Does the horse die?”

“I have no idea.”

“Because I can’t watch anything where the horse or dog or spider dies.”

Head cocked, he had to think about that one. “Spider?”

“Charlotte’s Web.”

“Ah. So no Bambi?”

“Or Old Yeller.”

“Duly noted.” Bruce searched some more as Clark printed out his story. Titles were suggested and rejected as Clark shuffled his pages together and sent them off to Perry White before he came back to look over Bruce’s shoulder. He wondered if it was coincidence that their shoulders brushed. And was Clark intrigued by his cologne? Difficult to tell, and he could hardly ask, but Clark didn’t appear in any rush to move away.

“Shutter Island?” Clark suggested.

“Leonardo DiCaprio’s a patient at the mental hospital and hallucinates everything.”

“Well thank you Mr. No Spoiler Alert.”

“It’s pretty obvious in the first couple of minutes.”

“Iron Man?”

“Billionaire industrialist disguises his secret crime fighting with a decadent lifestyle, assisted by a British butler. Where have I heard that before?”

“One, Tony Stark doesn’t exactly disguise anything, and two, JARVIS is a computer program.”

“Six of one, half a dozen of the other. Pick something.”

Clark tapped Captain America.

“Why would we want to watch Captain America?”

“Why wouldn’t we?” Clark countered, perfectly reasonable. “We watch The Gray Ghost.”

“It’s not the same.”

“It’s exactly the same.”

As Bruce worked up a list of how it was completely different, Clark thoughtfully remarked that it was too bad they couldn’t get Lord of the Rings. Bruce looked at him. “Why can’t we?”

“Well,” Clark looked back and then away, “it’s kind of long. We’d need more than one night to watch it all. Are you going to be here more than one night?”

On the face of it, that was an entirely straightforward, uncomplicated question, no reason at all to suspect it contained any hidden meanings or subtle clues. Nonetheless, Bruce examined every syllable within an inch of its life for those very things. “Not this time, no,” he said at last, with the sense that he had arrived at some very important destination.

Not quite looking at him, Clark asked, “Maybe next time?”

That question sounded equally innocuous, almost off-hand, and Bruce knew he could be on the verge of leaping to another kind of wrong conclusion. He didn’t think so, though. Instinct could be as vital as any cold, hard fact, and right now his told him that he could almost be looking into a mirror as he watched Clark. “Maybe,” he said and briskly added, “All right, we’ll watch Captain America and his magic shield tonight.” He clicked to reserve it.

“Are we ready to go?” he asked as he stood up and slipped his phone back in his jacket.

Clark shrugged into his coat, grabbed his backpack and slipped his laptop and notebooks inside. “Ready.”

“Capriccio’s or China Moon?” Bruce asked as they headed for the elevator. He waved cheerily at Steve Lombard, who looked a little twitchy as he hastily ducked into the men’s room.

“We ate at Capriccio’s last week.”

“So China Moon?”

“Sounds good,” Clark said as they got into the elevator.

Yes, it did, Bruce thought and pressed L. “Remember the first time we ate there and you wanted a fork instead of chopsticks?”

“Hey, I just needed some practice. We’ve come a long way since then.”

And while Bruce realized it could become a bad habit to examine everything Clark for extra layers of meanings, there was a certain look in Clark’s eyes as he said that, a hint of a shared secret in his smile, that made Bruce think he was meant to hear unspoken words this time.

Although he wasn’t sure he entirely cared for that remark about practice.

*~*

Comfortably seated on a couch Clark had bought at a thrift store, wingtips off, collar unbuttoned and sleeves rolled up, Bruce expertly manipulated his chopsticks and conveyed another chunk of honey shrimp to his mouth. It was delicious, just enough batter to make it crispy as he chewed, sweet and tangy flavors flooding his mouth. His frown had nothing to do with the quality of the food but everything to do with the books stacked on Clark’s coffee table. Dream Dictionary for Dummies, Man and His Symbols by Carl Jung, Dreamer’s Dictionary: From A to Z... 3000 Magical Mirrors to Reveal the Meaning of Your Dreams, and Exploring the World of Lucid Dreaming.
“Something you want to talk about?”

Beside him, Clark was even more comfortable in jeans and a faded red t-shirt, bare toes curled in the thick, plush carpet. He skillfully used his chopsticks to steal a piece of shrimp off Bruce’s plate. As he popped the shrimp in his mouth, he dragged his backpack over to dig out another book. This one bristled with a rainbow of Post-It notes. “Some of it’s research for an interview I have scheduled with the author,” he said as he handed the book to Bruce.

Bruce helped himself to some of Clark’s almond and cashew chicken as he looked at the book, Mister Sandman, Send Me a Dream, by Lacey Lafarge. He frowned some more at the ‘LL’ name, until he turned it over to look at the author’s photograph. Ms. Lafarge, it appeared, was a grandmotherly type, likely well into her sixties. He glanced up to find Clark watching him with some amusement. “Any good?”

“Umm.” Clark stole another piece of shrimp. “She’s kept a journal of her dreams since she was about seven and turned it into this memoir. Some of the things she describes, I think she’s had encounters with the Endless over the years. She identifies them according to Jungian archetypes but they kind of ring a bell.”

Bruce looked at her photograph again. “Could she be a metahuman?”

“That’s one of the things I hope to find out.” Clark looked at the stack of books as Bruce placed the Lafarge one beside them. “I’ve been reading up on dreams a little bit on my own, since the thing with John Dee,” he confessed.

Bruce nodded and reached for his fortune cookie. “It’s good to understand our fears,” he said as he broke open the cookie and picked up the slip of paper that fell out. You are the master of every situation. If only that were true, he thought, his mouth quirked with an ironic smile. He hadn’t felt less in command of a situation in a long time. “Alfred reminded me just recently that it’s also important to confront them straight on, before they sink in too deep and derail our lives.”

Clark gave him an impressed look. “Alfred said that?”

“Well, he may have been a bit more succinct about it.”

Clark broke open his cookie and made a wry face at the fortune inside. “Why were you talking about fear? Scarecrow back on the loose?”

“No, not because of Scarecrow. This was more personal. I…” Was he really going to do this? Did he have any choice? “It was about this dream I had.” He indicated the fortune Clark had set aside. “What’s it say?”

With another faint grimace, Clark picked it up again. “You are not a person who can be ignored.”

“Well, that much is true,” Bruce said and continued as Clark shot him a startled look. “I haven’t been able to ignore you since I met you—and believe me, I tried.”

Quiet, gaze dropped to the coffee table as he rubbed a scuff mark, Clark asked, “Why?”

Bruce looked at a frayed spot on Clark’s jeans; the faded denim worn away to white thread at his knee. Right at this moment he would have given everything to possess even a thimbleful of the rakish sophistication attributed to him. “Because I was afraid you were too good to be true. Because every time I lose you it hurts like hell.”

“Bruce--”

Speak now or forever hold your peace… “Because I’m in love with you,” he said and waited for whatever happened next. It was a clumsy declaration, not a trace of suave panache in sight, and there was every chance he had just made the biggest mistake of his life. No way to undo it, though. For one extraordinary moment he didn’t even want to. As the seconds ticked by, however, and Clark just sat there and looked stunned, the momentary exhilaration Bruce had felt at the admission began a slow fade guaranteed to leave dull regret in its wake.

“I’m sorry,” he said as he scrambled to his feet and scrambled for his shoes and coat. He started for the door. “This was a mistake.” One he would bitterly regret all the rest of his life. “Forget it hap--”

“Don’t you dare do this!” Clark effortlessly pinned him against the door. “You do not get to drop a bombshell like that and then take it back and run away in the same breath. Bruce…” He exhaled a sigh that ruffled Bruce’s hair and eased back, but he kept a hand pressed to Bruce’s chest. “Bruce, I thought we’d date a little, work up to things gradually.”

Hope began to flicker back to life. “Haven’t we been working up to it for years?”

His smile tinged with something sad and longing, Clark nodded. “I guess we have.”

Bruce bit his lip. “I thought you’d be happier about it.”

“Bruce…” Another sigh, and with a faintly exasperated look on his face, Clark shook his head. “For the world’s greatest detective, sometimes you’re really an idiot.”

Not sure how that was helpful, Bruce demanded, “Clark, what do you want me to do?”

“I want…” Clark touched his face and Bruce felt his traitorous heartbeat start up like a jackhammer. “Kiss me?” Clark asked, and anyone would have thought he expected to be turned away, he sounded so hesitant.

“I can do that.” He could do that, he repeated, and moved to meet him as Clark leaned toward him. It was clumsy for a moment because Clark was taller than him and neither one of them knew what to do with their hands at first and their noses bumped. Funnily enough, that helped, bleeding away the bad tension with laughter so only the good kind remained. Still smiling, Bruce promised, “I can do better.”

“I should warn you,” Clark said, playful and teasing, “I’ve been kissed by the best.”

“Not yet you haven’t,” Bruce growled as he tugged him back to the couch.

“I’ve been kissed by a mermaid.”

Bruce tugged him down and kissed the corner of his mouth. “Sometime you’ll have to tell me how that worked.” Before Clark could say anything, Bruce kissed him again. Rakish panache might be in short supply but he liked to think he had acquired a certain expertise over the years. He cupped Clark’s face in one hand to angle his head just right as he leaned in for the kiss. This time there was no collision, only a soft brush of lips. He caught Clark’s lower lip between both of his and nibbled, darted the tip of his tongue against the tender flesh.

“You could,” Clark almost sounded breathless as Bruce kissed his chin, “you could go a little faster.”

“Umm umm.” Bruce slid his fingers into Clark’s hair and kissed his forehead. “I have waited much too long to rush things now. We’re going to neck like we’re sixteen and just invented making out.”

“This is payback, isn’t it?” Clark groaned and squirmed against him as Bruce bit his earlobe and then found a spot right behind his ear that made him whimper with pleasure as Bruce licked it again and again.

“Payback?” Bruce breathed against his ear.

Still breathing hard, Clark shifted them around so Bruce was sprawled back against the couch while Clark hovered over him. “For making you watch Captain America.” Clark undid Bruce’s necktie and unbuttoned his shirt and bent his head to kiss the hollow of his collarbone.

“No payback,” Bruce told him, his own breath catching as Clark’s tongue darted out to taste him. “It’s our reward.” He threaded his fingers through soft black waves as Clark kissed a slow, languorous trail down his body.

“Nice reward.” Clark discovered one of his more recent scars, a souvenir from Two-Face, and kissed it with the kind of reverence bestowed on something precious and sacred.

Pleasure shuddered through Bruce—and something more. Something that felt warm and tender and as if it had the power it to search out all of his wounds, even the very oldest, and heal them. He tugged and wrestled Clark back up so they were face to face and brushed tousled hair of those brilliant blue eyes. “I dreamed I lost you. That I waited too long to tell you…this.” He waved his other hand as if to encompass the splendid, humbling, awesome truth of them like this, finally like this. “And then you left me, forever.”

Sweet and sad and solemn, Clark moved in to kiss his forehead, an eyelid, the corner of his mouth. “Bruce, I have loved you since right about the time chewed me out for having the audacity to swoop in and save you from Brainiac. I will never stop,” he said and Bruce could hear the vow in his voice.

Bruce frowned up at him, however; he remembered that moment. “I told you I had everything in hand.”

“He was about to zap you with a deathray.”

“He would have missed.”

Clark heaved a gusty sigh that ruffled Bruce’s hair. “You’re still fit to be tied about that?” He buried his head in Bruce’s shoulder with something suspiciously like a snort of laughter. “You’re impossible.”

Bruce stroked his back, hiked up the red t-shirt to feel warm, bare skin. “It’s not likely I’ll mellow with age.”

Clark kissed his neck. “I don’t know, I’ve been known to be a really positive influence.” He nibbled an earlobe as Bruce rubbed lazy circles along the small of his back. “You said something about making out like we invented it?” he murmured against Bruce’s temple.

Bruce smiled and shifted so he could hook one leg around Clark and draw him even closer. “Are there any alien invasions on the immediate horizon?”

For a moment Clark frowned in confusion but then a slow, appreciative smile curved his lips. “Not a one.”

“Asteroids on a collision course for Earth?”

“Nope.” Clark caught Bruce’s free hand and kissed the inside of his wrist.

“Luthor still in Belle Reve?”

“Umm hmm.” Clark planted a kiss to the palm of his hand.

“Any earthquakes, tornadoes, boll weevil infestations about to break out?”

Clark kissed the tip of each finger and smiled. “No, no, and no.”

“Then yes,” Bruce slid both hands around the back of Clark’s neck, caressing his nape as he drew him close, “let the nirvanic bacchanal commence.”

Clark grinned at him and went in for another kiss that felt like it might go on forever.

That sounded just about right.

…And let no one put asunder…