Bruce can't help the way he wants to make everywhere feel like home, even when he's the strangest thing in any given place. Pulling Clark into it has been so easy - too easy, considering all the back-and-forth resistance he's subjected them to. Too, because he didn't (couldn't) see it, because there is still a kind of terror lurking behind a rib somewhere that Clark fits like a space was always carved for him, and Bruce tried so hard to annihilate him. Suicide mission in a number of ways.

And now. He can kiss Clark for hours. Slow and gentle, dedicated and quietly playful. The tender bruise on the back of his head is enough to chastise anyone out of anything extreme tonight, but it feels too good to get lost to do anything as stupid as just go to bed.

Besides, the next week will be long and exhausting, and leave little time for it. Because over the next week, Bruce figures it out, and on an ordinary Wednesday morning, every equation clicks into place, every generator hums at the right frequency, and every last monitor ticks over to green.

Bruce has tape on his hands in eight places - the last week has not only been filled with tinkering, sometimes Batman also has a dance card - and they hover over a keyboard while he watches Clark with a critical eye. But he already knows the answer, because the younger man hasn't pulled the odd face he normally pulls, and he himself hasn't started to feel light-headed.