Archive of Our Own ^beta

A blink: the entire warehouse is engulfed in a vicious flickering orange. The explosion blasts Superman back; heat rolls off the wind in waves, flames ravaging the vicinity at a rapid pace. Smoke from the fire curls into tendrils and floats up to the clouds.

Thank goodness Clark got all the workers out just in time. He can fight without worry now. One of Brainiac’s many drones zooms out from the wreckage head-first at him — Clark dodges, eyes burning a red just off the shade of the fire, aiming for circuitry between joints. But the drone absorbs the impact, shit, so that won’t work— Superman gears up to throw a punch—

A rapid blue-grey figure blurs into focus.

Clark leaps back reflexively; the ambushing man takes down the drone with a well-placed kick, ripping the head clean off in a shower of sparks. In the Metropolis night, city skyscrapers illuminate the dark sky in pinpricks of light. With the warehouse still burning behind him, the man smiles.

“Missed me?” he calls.

Clark feels a returning grin spread over his cheeks. “Nightwing!”

A few minutes later, after putting out the fire, dealing with the police, and checking on the workers, Superman lands on the ground next to Dick, who’s waiting for him patiently. There’s nobody within earshot; there’s no need for codenames.

“Dick,” Clark greets again, not any less pleasantly. “What are you doing here?”

“I’m assuming you’re done here,” Dick says cheerily. “You’re free now, right? Come to the Manor for a bit. Bruce has a new case he needs help with, though he’s too stubborn to ask, I reckon. Don’t come in costume, though.”

That does sound like Bruce. “Of course,” Clark agrees, no hesitation, and Dick beams. “Need a lift?”

“I’d never say no to a fly with my favourite Supes,” he says, with a wide-eyed innocence that, in hindsight, should have been telling.

But Clark almost never turns down an invitation to the Manor, anyway. Even fewer times does he turn down an invitation to see Bruce. Scooping Dick up with his cape, a rush of cool air bites at Clark’s cheeks as he sends them hurtling in a direction that he knows, now, deeply by heart.

“SURPRISE!”

A shower of colourful rainbow confetti assaults his face, and Clark sputters before wiping them away. He hadn’t been listening for anything unusual; Dick had incessantly chattered away until the doorstep, which must have been intentional. “Happy birthday,” Dick crows, looking supremely pleased with himself. “We knew you’d be busy the whole day, so we made sure to only fetch you at night. Did we get you? Did we?”

And— what? Clark doesn’t know what to do with this, Christ. He only— it hadn’t even crossed his mind, that Dick had actually remembered.

“Dick,” says Clark, a little overwhelmed. “You didn’t have to—“

Dick grabs his wrists and tugs him forward insistently. “It’s not just me, come on.”

Sure enough, the living room is packed and explodes into cheers of well-wishes when they spot him. There’s Kara and Conner and almost all of Bruce’s kids — Tim, Jason, Steph, Cass, Barbara, Duke, and even Damian sulking in a corner with a grudging ‘happy birthday’ of his own — some members of the League, his friends from all over, Alfred pouring out drinks, and— Jesus. Clark stops dead in his tracks, a tightness building in his chest.

It’s a startling reminder, with how isolated he feels sometimes, that there are so many people willing to care for him.

So then his friends and family are coming to him, patting his back, shaking his hand, wishing him happy birthday, and for a moment he feels like Superman again, with adoring masses reaching out to touch him, scrabble at him, venerate him, except these people aren’t here for Superman. They’re here for Clark, and that knowledge makes the back of Clark’s eyes sting even as he smiles so wide it hurts. 

“You guys,” he says, helpless. “Thank you, but I don’t— I never—“

“You never asked,” a low voice says from behind. “But when do you ever?”

Clark whirls around at breakneck speed. He’d been scanning the crowd for that voice, that familiar heartbeat.

“Bruce.”

And Bruce is leaning against the doorway, his arms folded, eyebrow raised ever so slightly. He’s dressed casually, in slacks and a black turtleneck that makes him look— good. As always. Clark’s heart skips a traitorous beat. The fabric is tight, long sleeves clinging to the bulk of Bruce’s arms and the width of his broad shoulders. What’s more damning is the knot in Clark’s throat at the angle of Bruce’s half-smirk, the blithe tilt of it; the contrast to the steady intensity of his gaze.

“Bruce,” Clark repeats, inane.

“I’ve waited four years to say this again,” Bruce murmurs. “Happy birthday, Clark.”

Just like that, everybody takes that as their cue to settle back into what they were doing before. Tim and Kon and Jason resume their video games with quite a few spectators. Diana and Hal move to the kitchen; Shayera goes to the buffet, Barry and Wally are already there, and other conversations strike up again. No doubt they’ll come find him later on, but for now, they back off, and Clark is even more grateful, because he feels the pressure of the attention off him like a weight eased.

But Bruce hasn’t moved. God, having to focus solely on that deep wry voice and the depth of those slate blue eyes and the fact that he’s actually here, celebrating Clark’s birthday in his house, is hardly much better.

“Whose idea was this?” Clark asks, giving into the temptation to walk towards Bruce.

“Does it matter?”

“Of course it does.”

“Come on,” Bruce says, evasively. “You really didn’t know something was up? After you didn’t get any wishes from anyone here at midnight? Not me, not Diana, not even your own cousin and son?”

“Ma wished me at midnight,” Clark points out. “Lois and Jimmy did too.”

Bruce pushes himself off the doorway and finally breaks eye contact with Clark, shaking his head. “Christ,” he snorts, running a hand through his hair. “You truly do underestimate your presence in people’s lives.” He looks at Clark again, searchingly. “You thought I was going to go the whole day without wishing you once?”

I know you the best, Clark carefully doesn’t say. Meaning I know how you push and pull, sometimes. “I don’t know. You could have been busy,” he reasons instead.

At that, Bruce is— he goes strangely, abruptly unreadable. He nudges Clark, forcing them to lock eyes again; and he’s serious. Intent.

“I would have,” he says, sharply. “Somehow. I did four years ago. I did eight years ago. I did twelve years ago. I would have now.”

Then he’s leaning back again, off-hand, and something occurs to Clark.

“By the way, who’s on patrol tonight, then?”

Bruce lifts a lazy shoulder. “I called in a few favours.”

Clark almost can’t believe what he’s hearing for a second. Jesus. For Bruce, to miss patrol in Gotham—

“Bruce,” Clark says again, ribcage tight. “I— thank you. You really didn’t have to—“

“Oh, save it, Kansas,” Bruce cuts in. But it doesn’t come out cruel or mocking. It comes out amused, warm, and just a tinge exasperated. “I didn’t have to; I wanted to. Just accept the birthday wishes, alright? I’ve been keeping track, meaning I know you’ve been doing nothing but working all day. We’re going to cut some cake — Alfred even made beef bourguignon. It’s good food, good company, so for once in your life, just take it.” Then he softens, adds, “You deserve it.”

Clark turns away so Bruce can’t see the expression he makes. He can’t— he has to pretend. He has to pretend his heart doesn’t do a free-dive off a cliff; pretend his chest doesn’t sear with the excruciating longing to pull Bruce close, to clutch the nape of his neck and kiss that clever mouth.

Because Clark doesn’t get to do it, to even want it. He’s asked for enough — he’s received enough. He’s not stupid; he knows what kind of person Bruce is. There’s no way that— well. Bruce doesn’t factor in touchy-feely things like emotions, like— like Clark does, he doesn’t— God. He doesn’t love Clark back, and Clark can’t blame him for that, and Clark isn’t going to fuck it all up by imposing his feelings, either.

Never mind that Clark yearns to wake up next to him, sun-kissed mornings dipped in warm viscous honey beside Bruce’s grumpy frown before he drinks his coffee. Never mind that Clark wants to take care of him, the way Bruce so rarely takes care of himself, remind him to eat and drink and sleep, to laugh helplessly at his terrible Brucie jokes and stroke his cheek, kiss his little narrow-eyed scowl into a smile. Never mind that Clark wants to tell Bruce, over and over, how spectacular he is, how brilliant, how intelligent, disciplined, how kind and charismatic and breathtaking — how worthy he is of love, even though he doesn’t seem to agree.

Because Bruce wouldn’t accept it, Clark’s love. But one day he’ll find someone that he can accept it from, that he can love back. (Someone that isn’t Clark.) And Clark can only hope that whoever it is will be able to safely give Bruce what he wants and needs; Clark can only hope that whoever it is will make Bruce happy.

“We should go to the dining table,” Bruce is saying, pulling Clark out of his contemplation. Clark regards him warily; there’s a smug note woven in his voice, now, in the twitch of his lips. 

“Why?”

“To cut cake, of course,” smirks Bruce. “I’ll be sure to sing happy birthday very loudly.”

“Ugh,” Clark groans, that wicked tone only making the splotchy flush climbing up his neck worse. “You just like embarrassing me, don’t you?”

Bruce smiles flickers away, almost as if Bruce forgets himself for a second — which— which can’t be, of course, because he’s in such perfect, deliberate, exacting control over his body all the time — into a very patented Bruce Wayne leer for half a second.

It melts away so quickly Clark thinks he imagined it.

“Naturally,” Bruce says. “Don’t ask obvious things. Now come; I’m actually going to ask Alfred to bring out the cake.”

Clark endures the full ten minutes of singing songs and blowing candles. He enjoys the actual eating of cake after that staggeringly more; he chats easily with the rest, catches up with a few of them and jokes with the others.

Bruce is by his side most of the evening. He hovers silently, taciturn, exuding that comforting warmth and dry humour that comes out when he’s in a good mood. Clark can appreciate it; he knows Bruce’s social battery drains quick, Bruce Wayne persona or not, even if he’s good at hiding it. Bruce is probably— he can probably sense Clark craving the familiarity of his company, gravitating towards him whenever he moves too far or leaves for too long, and that’s why he stays near Clark as they make rounds around the room.

Whatever the case, Clark is finishing up his beef bourguignon with Bruce on the chair next to him when Jason approaches.

“What’s up, Big Blue,” he announces, pushing paper plates away so he can sit at the edge of the dining table. “Do I have a surprise for you, courtesy of your cousin Supergirl.”

Clark blinks up at Jason, startled. He chews his last bite of bourguignon and swallows, just as Bruce warily helps him to ask, “What surprise?”

The apprehension in Bruce’s voice is pretty funny. Then again, this is Jason they’re talking about, so Clark can’t say he doesn’t share similar sentiments.

Jason’s gleeful grin bordering on manic isn’t quite helping things either. “Are you ready to discover the wonderful experience of getting drunk?” he declares, pulling out a wine bottle from behind him. Except Clark can see through the glass that it— it isn’t quite wine, it’s some sort of sea foam green carbonated liquid, bubbling and effervescent, and he accepts the bottle with a bewildered smile.

“Oh, I— thank you?” Clark starts, inflection sounding more like a question than thanks. But then he continues, more firmly, “Thank you so much, Jason, you really didn’t have to. It’s very thoughtful and I appreciate it. What exactly is—“

He’s halfway through his sentence when Bruce snatches the bottle up and affixes Jason with a flat glare.

“No,” Bruce says. “What the hell is this?”

“Stop being such an uptight bastard, Bruce, it’s not your birthday,” sniffs Jason, folding his arms. “I got it off-world. Besides, Supergirl said it’s perfectly safe for Kryptonians. It just exerts a near-identical effect to alcohol on them.”

“Still, we should be wary of side effects,” replies Bruce sharply. “Clark hasn’t been drunk before. We also don’t know how his powers will be like under the influence, or— whether he’ll be safe.”

“I’ve been drugged before,” points out Clark.

“Not helping,” growls Bruce. His shoulders are taut, and— Clark pushes away his empty plate and reaches out, sliding a hand over Bruce’s back, hoping to ease some of the tension. Sure enough, Bruce’s gaze flickers towards him for a split second, before he exhales inaudibly and relaxes, just a fraction, irritation bleeding from his scowl.

“It’ll be fine, B,” Clark says, softly. “I can drink it now. We can drink it together. You’ll be here, won’t you? You and everybody else.” He smiles; not one of his big ones but quick and furtive, directed towards Bruce and Bruce only. “Besides, I would love to try it, you know. To— experience something new with you.”

Bruce still doesn’t move away from his touch.

“You’re incorrigible,” he tells Clark.

“Is that a yes?”

“No. It’s not a good idea. Aren’t you the one always telling me to stop drinking?”

“Please?” Clark lets his eyes go wide and pleading, what Lois likes to call ‘puppy dog eyes’, and he’s not really expecting it to work, but Bruce knits his brows together and looks away.

“Jesus, that’s dirty pool,” says Bruce, taking on a rasp that makes Clark swallow, “Kent.”

“Fucking hell,” complains Jason suddenly. “Hello? I’m still here, guys.” He rolls his eyes before hopping off the table. “Whatever. Happy birthday. I’ll leave you to it. There’re empty glasses beside the champagne and bourbon on the coffee table over there, if you need it.”

And then the two of them are left at the table. Clark stands; he prods at Bruce, urging him to follow, and they go to sit at the couch in front of the wide-screened television where Kon is yelling very loudly as they play Mario Kart. Cass moves to make space for them, and Bruce reaches to pour a glass of bourbon for himself.

“Can I have some?” Tim whispers to Clark, making a swipe at the glass. Bruce holds it away, unamused.

“No,” he says. Clark bites back a smile. The Waynes never fails to make him feel— a kind of warmth, a kind of comfort. Bruce might deny it, but he obviously cares for them, so deeply and so strongly. They bicker like family. They are family. It’s— nice.

Either way, Clark attempts to open his bottle as Bruce swirls molten, golden alcohol in his glass. It takes some minuscule effort, but Clark doesn’t need a wine opener, and as he pops it open liquid fizzles out and almost spills over his plaid shirt and jeans.

At Clark’s feet, Steph is seated on the carpeted floor, leaning against the sofa. She looks up at the sound. Both her eyebrows shoot to her hairline in shock.

“You’re drinking?”

“Clark is drinking?” Kon says loudly, with equal astonishment, finally looking away from his controller.

“Oh, this is bound to be good,” sniggers Arthur who’s walking past, and he holds up his own beer in a mock toast before downing it. Clark is surprised Bruce even has beer in his house; Bruce has certainly shown no taste for it, calling it ‘cheap’ and ‘plasticky’, even though he drinks shitty stadium beer whenever they go for baseball games together anyway.

Bruce prompts Clark to disregard all of them. “Here,” he says, lowly, even as the kids around them erupt into noise as someone crosses the Mario Kart finish line, “let me.” He takes the wine bottle and pulls another crystal glass closer, tipping that green liquid into the glass. He fills it to about a quarter, and Clark wants to tell him that it’s fine, he can pour more, but Bruce is already passing the glass over, and their— their fingers brush, warm and tentative, which shouldn’t be anything to write home about — because considering their line of work, he’s touched Bruce far more than this, he’s— he’s seen Bruce in far less clothes, has been in much more compromising situations.

But this close on Clark’s birthday in Bruce’s house, nearly squished together on the couch, Bruce making brief eye contact as their heads tip close together, it’s— Christ. There’s pink creeping into Clark’s cheeks; he feels drunk already and he hasn’t even had a single sip.

“Cheers,” Bruce says, dryly, and clinks their glasses together before gulping down his bourbon.

Clark takes a cautious sip of his own. To his amazement, it’s not unpleasant. Quite the opposite, in fact. There’s a slight burn as it skims down his throat, but the crackle of carbonation adds texture to the sour-sweet tang that unfurls in his mouth and settles there.

He looks up, and Bruce is watching him closely.

“Good?” he murmurs, rough.

“Very.” Clark smiles and holds up his glass, then he takes another sip, bigger this time. He shifts a little closer, so that their thighs are pressed firm together in a line of heat that sends an electric zing down Clark’s spine.

Bruce doesn’t stiffen, but he looks away, staring down at his reflection in the bourbon.

“Incorrigible,” he repeats to himself, perplexingly. Clark tilts his head.

“What?”

“Nothing,” Bruce says. “Nothing at all.”

Clark has been missing out his whole damn life.

One hour later he finds himself arm wrestling Arthur, except the world is a little wobbly so he can’t seem to get a good grip, and how did he get here again? So far he’s drunk— what, three, four cups, and God is the drink strong, or maybe Clark’s just a lightweight, but either way nobody can blame him — it’s his first time, and he really has been missing out. His head is blissfully empty; his thoughts slip away from him like water when he tries to grasp onto them; everything is bright and loud but not in the way it gets when he’s overstimulated, just in a kind of peaceful enjoyable fuzzy way.

J’onn is saying something. It’s probably not that funny, but Clark is laughing so hard he’s doubling over anyway, struggling for breath he doesn’t need.

“That—“ he wheezes, slamming a fist on his thigh, “that— is hilarious. Good one, J’onn—“

“Clark,” comes a voice, and the half-empty glass in his hand is promptly taken away. “Clark, that’s enough.”

“Bruuuuce,” says Clark mournfully, and maybe it comes out a little more plaintive than he meant it to, the words feeling heavy and sluggish in his mouth, “it’s fine, come on, I can have some more, it’s my birthd—“

“Clark,” says Bruce again, his handsome face still swimming in and out of vision, though his mouth seems to be pressed into a thin line. “Kal, I can’t understand what you’re saying. You’re slurring too much.”

Clark opens his mouth to say something else, but Bruce is dragging him away from Arthur and depositing him on an armchair nearby. When he tries to hurriedly stand, the universe slopes and tilts, vertigo tripping him over, equilibrium lost; he stumbles, but the solid weight of Bruce catches him with an oomph, and it’s nice. The reassuring strength of Bruce is nice. Clark wants to stay forever in Bruce’s arms.

“You’re heavy,” Bruce says, awkwardly, and it sounds— strange, fond, affectionate, so un-Batman like that Clark giggles, reaches up to clamour at his face, his cheeks, feel Bruce’s warmth under his fingertips. Bruce goes rigid and helps him back to his chair in record speed, until Clark succumbs to gravity and lets his hands fall.

It’s late, Clark recognises dimly, as his head lolls back on the chair — people approach him, one by one or in groups, to wish him one last happy birthday and take their leave, and he gives them hearty hugs and cheek kisses and profuse thanks as they go. Even in the midst of his blissed-out fervour Clark makes sure to nag Conner to return early because he has school the next day.

It’s not enough; Clark still wants some more of that green liquid. He musters up enough concentration to use super speed to avoid Bruce and pours more from the bottle into his glass. He blinks rapidly to try and gauge the depth, hands shaking, and some of it splashes out onto the table. Eventually he successfully fills it up and goes back to sit where Bruce is on the couch, frowning at him with that little annoyed glower he gets whenever Clark disobeys an order during a mission.

“You need to stop.”

“I thought you were supposed to drink with me,” cries Clark dramatically, flopping backwards onto the couch, slumping on Bruce’s shoulder. He’s halfway clambering onto Bruce’s lap, but Bruce pushes him off without much difficulty, lips pursing in a strange unhappiness that Clark hates hates hates. “Why! Are you still so! Tense! Always so tense all the time, B, I just want you to be happy, please?”

He punctuates this by taking a large swig of more green liquid, letting it blaze ruthlessly down his throat, and offering it to Bruce. Bruce holds up a hand, that stupid concerned frown still on his face, and Clark doesn’t know what he’s worrying about this time.

“I knew this wasn’t a good idea,” Bruce mutters. “Look, Clark, I did drink. It’s just that my tolerance is— well, leagues better than yours, evidently. I’m confiscating this again.” He swipes at Clark’s glass, but the damage is done; Clark’s drunk most of it already.

He hears someone — Dick, maybe — coo about them being cute. But Bruce still has his arms folded defensively, and Clark can’t look away from him. Bruce says something in response; cuttingly, warningly. Clark can’t parse out the exact words, just the tone of them. He’s too lost in the shapes Bruce’s lips are making, the lines around his mouth and the slight dimple that he knows peeks out whenever Bruce smirks. Bruce’s widow’s peak has Clark longing to push his hands into Bruce’s hair, mess it all up, and Bruce still hasn’t shaved his stubble. Clark wants to run his lips over his jaw and feel that stubble burn against his skin; he wants to push between Bruce’s legs and fall to his knees, to let Bruce know how much he’s loved, to worship him, to care for him, to— to—

“You’re staring,” Bruce says, when Clark’s been silent for too long and Dick has moved away. He doesn’t glance back at Clark; his back is ramrod straight and he’s facing straight ahead, very carefully not leaning sideways into Clark. He— there’s that blankness in his expression he gets when he’s uncomfortable, when one of his many many boundaries are being pushed, and Clark immediately pulls away, horrified, ignoring the way his head spins as he does so.

“Sorry,” he says abruptly. Guilt laces through him. “Sorry, Bruce. I didn’t mean to.”

Bruce’s head snaps to him. “To what?”

“Your— you— personal space,” Clark mumbles incoherently, making the effort to speak slower, to try and separate the vowels and the consonants even though his tongue still isn’t cooperating. “I know you— value reason. And I know even though we agree on so many things — even though we both fe— fear turning into our enemies, not knowing where to draw the line — even though we’ve lost so much, strun— struggled— um. Even though it’s hard for me to ever be myself, and you as well, we can always be ourshel— ourselves around each other. And— if I ever make you uncomfortable—“

Clark forgets what he’s about to say, his head going bleary with static. That doesn’t seem to matter to Bruce; Bruce’s throat works as he swallows. Clark gets distracted by his Adam’s apple, the line of his bare throat hidden by his turtleneck, and almost doesn’t catch what Bruce says next.

“Even inebriated, you’re shockingly eloquent,” he mutters. Then, more clearly, “Don’t worry about it, Clark, really. You can get close if you want.”

Clark’s chest blooms with equal measure hope and happiness. “Really?”

“Don’t make me repeat myself.”

Clark scrambles back over and shoves his ear unceremoniously against Bruce’s chest. It’s not really necessary, because Clark can hear his heartbeat anywhere, but this way— this way Bruce knows, this way Bruce won’t scold Clark for listening in without permission again, and then he says, triumphantly, “You’re not lying.”

Bruce’s chest, previously rising and falling steadily, has gone motionless, but Clark doesn’t pull away; he listens to the familiar da-thump of Bruce’s strong beating heart and lets it wash over him like the world’s most soothing balm. It sounds a little different — faster, louder — but Bruce can also control his heartbeat to an astonishing degree, so Clark closes his eyes to just enjoy the sound.

“What the hell is he doing?” asks someone that sounds like Tim.

“I don’t know,” says Bruce, stiffly, and it sends vibrations all throughout his chest that makes Clark want to purr in delight. “He’s— drunk.”

Clark pulls away sullenly. “I’m not drunk,” he tells Bruce.

“Come to me again when you can say that clearly,” Bruce mutters, sardonic.

Vaguely Clark registers that there are only a few people left in the Manor’s living room, but it’s still lively around them, bustling with noise, and Tim has to raise his voice to be heard. “By the way, Bruce,” Tim reports, “I meant to ask for updates on the Ruchel case. Do you need help? I saw some movement by the docks the other day, I could look into it.”

“No need,” replies Bruce, clipped, going into that laser-focused mission mode that never fails to bedazzle Clark, and he rattles off a bunch of case details Clark’s addled brain can’t quite keep up with; he’s too busy looking at Bruce. At the way that black shirt suits him like a second skin, because he’s always so good in the shadows, so comfortable in them, but really there cannot exist light without darkness, and Bruce is the best man Clark has ever known.

Christ, he’s just— beautiful.

Bruce has worn suits tailored to flawlessness, tuxedos ironed out to a degree of perfection, emphasising the definition of his waist and hips and shoulders. Most of the time Clark sees him he’s wearing a skintight suit that leaves almost nothing to the imagination. Other times Clark sees him like this, in casual clothes, without all that armour, in more ways than one, and— Jesus. It doesn’t matter what he’s wearing or what he looks like, because that intensity and that charisma and that body with a history written all over it, it’s all Bruce’s. Clark aches with it, in a strangling of his windpipe, bones of his ribcage pulled taut and merciless; he’s trembling with it, these feelings that he can’t contain — the bursting in his chest he’s been struggling to crumple and toss away for so so goddamn long. Weeks, months, years.

Bruce is still talking about the case. Ever the detective, that one, and God — Clark loves him. Clark loves him so much. His endless inventiveness and resourcefulness, that iron-forged discipline and skill. That intelligence, that cleverness and wit; his surprising charisma, his constant unfriendliness, his ceaseless paranoia and fundamental belief in truth and justice and making the world a better place.

Suddenly Clark is upset. Upset, and annoyed, because he knows Bruce doesn’t see himself the way Clark sees him, that self-blaming perfectionist bastard that he is. He’s always so obsessed with control. Always so hard on himself. Always in pain, self-inflicted or not. Never getting enough rest; so cynical, and sometimes so— so cold, on purpose, because he doesn’t believe himself worthy of love, when he deserves everything. (He deserves more than Clark can give to him.)

Clark flops back onto the couch theatrically and thinks about it for a moment. Honestly, it’s not that terrible an idea, right? To tell Bruce he loves him. Bruce should know that the people around him love him, Clark included. Lord knows he doesn’t get told it enough. And if this is all Clark can offer, his meagre, paltry heart on a silver platter, carved out from his chest with jagged shards of glowing Kryptonite, so be it.

“—mobile?” Tim is saying.

“The custom modifications I based on retractable functions from other machinery. The engine is nowhere near legal, so I don’t think that’s of any help to you, if that’s a requirement.” Bruce puts his hands on his knees, gesturing slightly with those calloused hands Clark wants to reach out and hold. They’re so close, now; Clark can easily move to interlace their fingers, squeeze Bruce’s palm reassuringly and nose at his cheek. He’s already halfway reaching out before he catches himself and clumsily pats Bruce’s thighs instead, which, come to think of it, isn’t much better.

Bruce stops talking and glances over at him. Clark offers him the most convincing blinding smile he can muster. Bruce’s brows furrow, something indistinct crossing his expression, the sides of his prominent jawline sharpening as he clenches his teeth, but otherwise he says nothing.

“What are y’all talking about?” asks Dick, wandering over, and Bruce’s attention is pulled away again as they enter a separate conversation about Bludhaven’s latest villains.

Clark is still considering Bruce’s hands. They’re slack and broad, warm, around Clark’s size. Bruce’s touch is rare, but not non-existent; his touches are always so exact, so precise in their deliberate pressure, the carefully calculated length of them, that he thinks Bruce is overly conscious of it. A hand on his back, fingers on his forearm. Foreheads tipped together after a life-threatening mission; a brief clasp on his shoulder, supportive and reassuring.

Clark inhales curiously. Bruce smells good, too. Clark usually hates his godawful Bruce Wayne colognes, whenever he wears those to functions or galas. Clark knows it’s on purpose, the heaviness of the gaudy scents to the point that even someone without super senses would get nauseous. But Bruce is wearing none of that now, and it’s just the clean scent of his shampoo — beneath that, musk and salt: the smell of— of home.

The concept of home, to Clark, is still— it’s complicated. For Clark, who’s always been so removed from his origins — who’s been always painfully aware of the fact that he always has to— has to hide, to always have self-restraint, because the stakes are too high — who has gone from Smallville to Metropolis to his Fortress of Solitude, to all over the world, to space and other worlds — so untethered to anything, anyone, all alone—

His home isn’t a place, then, not really. His home is with the Justice League. His home is with his friends, with his family. His home is—

Well. Clark spends a lot of time in the Manor. Clark spends a lot of time with Bruce. So maybe that’s it: it’s what he feels when he sits by the fireplace at night with Bruce next to him. It’s what he feels when he sees the corner of Bruce’s lips quirk up reluctantly as Clark watches him when he works in the Batcave. It’s Bruce. That’s how it feels to come home.

“I love you,” says Clark, casually, curled up on the couch looking at Bruce.

Dick stutters shut mid-sentence.

The living room goes pin-drop silent.

Clark thinks it’s a bit of an overreaction, considering he’s done nothing but tell a deep, fundamental truth, so there’s really no need for everybody to be looking at him like that right now, with a varying range of expressions from wary to flabbergasted to delighted, and really why isn’t everybody in love with Bruce? How is this anything to write home about?

Slowly — very slowly — Bruce turns his head.

“Oh my God,” says Jason from where he’s seated by the door. “I’m a genius. It’s happening, everybody stay calm…”

“Sorry?” says Bruce, very calmly.

“I love you,” Clark tells him again, unfazed.

“You love me,” Bruce repeats, voice low, without inflection, his mouth pulled into a blatantly offbeat, stiff smile. “Great. Thank you. It’s— a nice sentiment.” Pause. “I know I don’t say it often, but I— I mean, I too consider you a close friend.“

Bruce can be such a dumbass. “No,” clarifies Clark. “As in, I’m in love with you.”

Another silence stretches. It goes on for far too long, and— God, his brain is still fuzzy. Clark feels like falling asleep in Bruce’s lap.

“What the hell, this is how it happens?” mutters Arthur from a distance away.

“Clark,” at last he speaks, and Bruce’s expression is— his artificial smile is nowhere to be seen, his face a mask so blank it’s eerie, as though he’s been carved from stone. “Clark. You’re drunk. You don’t know what you’re saying.”

“No,” echoes Clark stubbornly. “I mean it. I’m in love with you.”

“You’re in love with me,” says Bruce, flatly. “After years of knowing each other, just like that. You’re suddenly in love with me.”

Clark’s words are still slurring together, but he tries very hard to make it work. “Suddenly? Bruce, you truly have the emoshio— emotional awareness of a rwor— rock. Come on. I’ve been in love with you for years. Just ask Dick.”

And Bruce, he— he reels back, like he’s been struck a physical blow. The vacantness of his expression is now fraught with something raw, exposed. Another beat; then he whirls around sharply to glare at Dick, who has a relatively distinct deer-caught-in-headlights grimace.

“Uh,” says Dick. All the people in the room look between the three of them. “I mean. Yes. It was… obvious? And. You know. Uh. Okay… we should take our leave.” He raises his voice pointedly when Jason opens his mouth. “Everybody here should take their leave.”

In the next ten seconds, when Clark frowns in puzzlement as Dick and Alfred shepherd everybody out the door including themselves, Bruce remains extremely, terribly still. Then he shoots to his feet to viciously tip the glass of Clark’s drink on the coffee table over. It breaks with a piercing shatter, and Bruce turns to Clark, his lips curled mockingly. Angrily. So full of rage, except throughout the years that rage has tempered, and at the nonsensical reappearance of it Clark doesn’t bat an eye.

“Seriously,” Bruce says. “You’re telling me that you. Are in love. With me.”

Clark frowns at the shards on the floor in concern.

“Look at me, goddamnit,” snarls Bruce, and Clark glares at him defiantly.

“What was that all about? You could have gotten hurt.”

“Answer me.”

“I already said I’m in love with you,” Clark rambles impatiently. “What more do you want? I’m terribly, horribly, hopelessly, in love with you, okay? I would give my— my life for you, I know you better than anybody else in the world, and I think you’re a far better man than I am. I think that you’re the most brilliant, the kindest—“

“Fuck,” spits Bruce, sharp and abrupt. “Stop.” But then all the fight seems to go out of him, and he sags; inexplicably, he looks tired all of a sudden. “Fuck,” he says again, softer. “This is— cruel. Christ’s sake — you’re drunk, Clark. It’s easy to get things mixed up. And—“ He stops, fists flexing, clenching and then unclenching, leaving crescent-shaped marks on his palm. “Please don’t do this to me,” he says evenly. “Don’t give me—“

He doesn’t finish that, either, but Clark’s body has already been feeling uncharacteristically heavy, an almost all-consuming sensation.

“‘m sleepy,” he tells Bruce wistfully. And Bruce just— he softens further, rubs an absent hand over his face, as Clark spreads out on the couch and stretches like a long-limbed cat, settling into the cushions to drift off to slumber.

“Okay,” Bruce says, quiet. “Jesus. Okay. Sleep.”

Clark exhales, joints loose, his muscles laden with lead; but his heart is light and his head is pleasantly empty, blissed out. The only thing he needs to know is that Bruce is here with him. That he’s staying. And as Clark closes his eyes to sink into the beckoning siren’s call of darkness, there’s a rustle as a warm cozy blanket is pulled over him.

The last thing he feels, before he blacks out, is the hot tentative brush of skin against his forehead. Barely there — but still there.

There’s a pounding headache throbbing in Clark’s skull, ramming against its sides and sending sharp sparks of pulsing pain across his head. An unfamiliar feeling of nausea, not unlike when Kyrptonite is in the vicinity, roils around in the pit of his stomach, as he fumbles around for his glasses and puts them on.

Clark clocks his surroundings with a wince. He’s in his guest bedroom in the Manor, the one he always stays in when he heads over, his belongings scattered messily around the room. Sunlight is streaming through the curtains, and although he has to squint against the light, its energy eases his headache slightly.

Still. Clark feels like shit. There’s acidic bile rising up into his throat, and it takes everything he has not to roll over to the side and hurl.

What the hell happened? He remembers— he remembers Jason giving him the drink. He remembers actually drinking it. He remembers bits and pieces, flashes of laughter and glee and responses to ‘happy birthday’s. Clark must have knocked out sometime in between all that, except— except he can’t think about it too much, because his headache is battering, persistent, and he still kind of wants to throw up.

Bruce is nowhere to be seen. But— Clark tosses a glance at the armchair in the corner of the room; from here, if he turns up the temperature receptors on his skin, adjusts his vision, he can sense the lingering warmth around it, the presence of a person there just moments before, not to mention the familiar scent still in the air. 

Clark expands his hearing.

It doesn’t take long to find Bruce. Bruce’s hand is already at the doorknob of the main entrance of the Manor when Clark throws himself forward, forcefully, with all the will he can muster, to superspeed his way to Bruce.

Their eyes lock. Bruce freezes. He’s dressed to the nines in one of his usual Wayne CEO suits, a neat navy blue three-piece that brings out his eyes. They stare at each other for a second, but Clark’s seeing double, and, God, maybe he shouldn’t have used his superspeed — he hunches over, the nausea hitting at full force again, and staggers sideways while clutching his stomach.

Bruce spurs into action swiftly, reflexively. He steps forward to wrap a protective arm around Clark’s bicep, propping him upright, and when he speaks, he— something’s wrong. He sounds calm, sure, but polite to a degree of— distance. Cold, almost. Much like he had when they were first starting out in their friendship, or whenever they get into one of their big blow-out arguments, or when Clark inadvertently frightens him by pushing too far. “Careful, there,” Bruce says, lightly and evenly, while Clark swallows hard. “I think you should go back and rest. Alfred can make you eggs for breakfast.”

As soon as Clark straightens up, Bruce abruptly lets him go and takes a conspicuous step away from him. Clark just blinks rapidly, bemused. What the hell is up with him?

“What the hell is up with you?” he demands to Bruce’s pleasantly placid expression. “You were— leaving? You could have at least woken me up to say goodbye.”

Bruce snorts delicately. Patronisingly.

“For what reason? I’m a busy man. What’s next, you want a goodbye kiss?”

Clark flinches. Bruce clocks it; his expression darkens, a moment so brief anyone else would’ve missed it, before it smooths over again.

“Let me rephrase,” Bruce says, looking as though it takes a great effort to speak. “How are you feeling?”

Clark considers pushing the subject, but the throbbing in his temple distracts him. “I don’t know. I think I finally understand what a hangover feels like. Gosh, it’s like I’ve been through the wringer.”

“Is the sunlight helping?”

Ever the detective. “Yes. The recovery rate is just slower than normal, I think. Remind me to ask Jason what exactly was in that drink, my goodness.”

“Alfred made you a hangover cure. It’s in the kitchen. Kara gave the recipe.”

“You mean you asked Kara for the recipe?”

This elicits no reply. Clark feels his brows knitting together, scrunching up his nose, the more the silence stretches, pulled like taffy, and— and Bruce is back to looking at him steadily, searchingly, strangely blank.

“Christ,” he mutters, suddenly. “You don’t remember.”

Oh, God. Remember what? “I embarrassed myself, didn’t I,” groans Clark. “Oh my God. What did I do? What did I say? Who saw me drunk? For how long was I drunk? When did I even pass out? I can’t believe I passed out at— my own party. Shit.” Bruce still doesn’t say anything, a muscle in his jaw jumping, and Clark pinches the bridge of his nose hard with two fingers in thought. What did he do? His headache is easing slightly with the sunlight diffusing through the Manor windows. There are more flashes coming back to him now, sharper and in clearer definition. He talked to a bunch of people. He sang off-key karaoke with Hal. He arm-wrestled with Arthur. He— stared a lot at Bruce. He spaced out while looking at Bruce. He—

He—

Shit.

Shit. Darn. Shit.

“Bruce,” says Clark, quietly horrified. Jesus. No. This cannot be happening. “Bruce,” Clark repeats, mouth dry. He wants to throw up again. “B. Please. B, I am so sorry—“

All at once, Bruce drops his act of vapid cordiality. He voice goes toneless. His expression goes flat.

“You’re sorry,” he echoes, hollowly.

Shit. This is exactly what Clark has been trying so damn hard to avoid, all these years. Now what? All it took was one stupid screw up, and here he is, all because Clark couldn’t keep his goddamn mouth shut, and now Bruce is already slipping away, and he has to deal with the aftermath of Clark’s wretched pitiful bleeding heart, these feelings that Clark should have tried to contain, to at the very least keep to himself, because— because he would never jeopardise their friendship by being greedy, Jesus, Bruce has to know that, he has to — because Clark would never risk losing his partner, risk affecting the work they do that both of them care so much about‚ because he would never risk losing Bruce.

“I’m sorry,” Clark implores again, helpless, pleading, begging. “Forget all about it. Ignore it. It doesn’t have to mean anything. It doesn’t— I don’t— I was drunk. I would have never— I just—“

“You never would have what?” Bruce interrupts, with a deadly sort of impassiveness. “You never would have said that you loved me? You never would have said something so farcical, so absurd, so ridiculously laughable?”

And that throws Clark off.

“What?” Clark says, slowly. “No, Bruce. I meant—“

“You’re sorry,” Bruce scorns, and then he laughs, a short huff of air with no humour behind it, nothing left but pain and irony. “You’re sorry that the thought of being in love with me, with someone like me, is thoroughly impossible? Is that it? You’re sorry. You’re sorry that you got drunk off your ass and said something stupid. Of course you are. You’re sorry that you said you fucking love me. Because—”

“No,” shouts Clark, his voice booming, before Bruce can so much as get another word out. Bruce’s lips purse fractionally at his vehemence. “No, you dick,” Clark hisses, softer this time but no less fervent. “I’m sorry that I am in love with you. I’m sorry I didn’t tell you sooner. I’m sorry I told you at all.”

Bruce’s heartbeat has been elevated this whole time. It’s uncharacteristically deafening in Clark’s ears. And at that, it skips a breathtaking beat; but Bruce’s face betrays nothing, instead flattening to a glare. “Are you still drunk?” scoffs Bruce, and Clark grits his teeth so hard it makes a clack.

“I’m not drunk,” he snaps, incensed, “for Rao’s sake. I’m clear-headed.” Clark marches forward resolutely, getting all up in Bruce’s space, the air between their shared breath charged. Bruce doesn’t budge; but his set expression wavers. It wavers, and there’s something raw underneath, something filling the angles of his face touched by the light. “I’m one hundred percent me, and I’m telling you, Bruce. I’m in love with you. I have been for— a while now. Dick even corroborated it yesterday, Jesus, and you still— ugh.”

Bruce’s lips press together into a shaky line, his throat working visibly. His eyes, those beautiful intense slate blue eyes, bear down on Clark with the weight of a thousand suns before flickering away, to stare at a point in the distance past Clark’s shoulder.

“Clark—“ he says.

“Bruce,” Clark whispers, a last-ditch attempt, the fight draining from him. “Please. Believe me, Bruce. Gosh darn it. You know me. You know me. Look at me. Am I lying?”

In the middle of the doorway, they stand there: Clark rumpled and disheveled, hair messy with bedhead, Bruce halfway out the door in his pristine suit. And then— Bruce shuts his eyes, swallowing hard, and opens them again, his gaze intent. All measured, focus intensity.

Assessing. Analysing. Evaluating.

And then he says: “I haven’t given you your present.”

Clark is momentarily thrown by the non-sequitur. “I— come again?”

“Here,” Bruce says forcefully, and tosses Clark a set of keys that jangle as they fly towards him. Clark snatches them midair, glances down as cool metal meets his palm. They’re— the keys to the Manor. Not just the entrance. Multiple rooms in the Manor, Clark recognises. And— and even the keys to override the Batcave’s high-tech security system, to access the entrance, is present.

A lump forms in Clark’s throat. Sure, Clark doesn’t really need the keys. He’s Superman. But with Bruce, it’s always about the things he doesn’t say. It’s the symbolism behind every action or non-action — because this man doesn’t do anything without a reason.

And— and for Bruce, to give him this — the display of trust, the implicit invitation in it, is just—

“You spend a lot of time here anyway,” Bruce says, inscrutably, still, lips pursed as he carefully observes Clark’s reaction. “I thought I might as well give you full access. Don’t lose even a single one of the keys.”

Clark looks back at him, and it takes a moment for him to remember how to speak.

“Are you asking me to move in with you?” Clark asks; and he says it jokingly, lightly, good-naturedly, but there’s an interlaced seriousness to it he knows Bruce can parse out. “Are you saying—“ he tries to push, and then breaks off. “You know I’d always stay,” Clark says, instead, finally reaching out to touch Bruce as he wants, to brush his knuckle against the line of Bruce’s warm cheek. Bruce doesn’t turn away. He doesn’t frown in disgust, or give Clark an insipid but cruel Bruce Wayne pleasantry, doesn’t put on a facade before leaving. Bruce deliberately doesn’t school his expression into a lie; he just continues to watch Clark, searching, thinking, and coming to a conclusion.

“I’d stay,” Clark says, again, more softly, more of a question. “Would you?”

“Clark,” Bruce starts, and stops. His mouth thins. Clark’s still touching him. “Jesus,” Bruce murmurs, voice dropping. “You ruin me.”

“It’s okay,” Clark tells him, and then he grins, unable to bite it back. Because the fact is that Bruce still hasn’t left. Because the fact is that Bruce is visibly struggling. Bruce has never had any trouble pushing people away. It’s vulnerability that he has an issue with. Meaning that— meaning it’s okay, because Clark knows him better than anyone else, just as Bruce knows him — and Bruce isn’t leaving: Bruce is staying; Bruce would stay. “It’s okay, B,” Clark repeats. “I get it, now.”

Bruce turns, just fractionally, into his touch. “I’m no good,” he says, low. “And— we shouldn’t risk it.”

“That’s a load of nonsense.”

“Christ, Clark, you only think that because you’re you. That is to say— mmrphf—“

And Clark is peppering his face with small kisses, beaming like the sun, so Bruce now has his nose scrunched up adorably in irritation, because “Clark Kent, stop it, I’m trying to talk to you, listen to me, goddamn it—“

“I’ll listen when you stop talking nonsense,” Clark sniffs, pulling away, and Bruce shuts his eyes once more, letting his forehead tip forward to lean on Clark’s shoulder.

“Hrn,” he grunts into Clark’s shirt, his breath coming out a little ragged; a little uneven. “Oh, Clark. Never change.”

“Not even my taste in glasses?” Clark suggests, playfully.

He’s rewarded with a small, amused huff from Bruce.

“Shut up,” Bruce says. “You know what I mean.”

“I always do.”

“Happy belated birthday, Clark.”

Then Bruce tips his head back up to press his lips to Clark’s, making Clark’s head spin, the world around him rearranging itself in fragments of stardust and sky. And with the taste of Bruce, with the promise of a future, with the promise of a home — it feels like Clark is giddy and drunk all damn over again.