A memorable evening is much slower to fade than bruises and bitemarks on Kryptonian skin. Some of them would have taken longer to show up properly than they gave it. Others, blotchy and dark on his throat and his chest, show like dark wine stains and then lift away like a slow time lapse once they permit yellow sun to spill into the room, in slow and gradual increments.

Not before a long and hot shower, with some very light fooling around, and some irresponsible phone pictures, the sharp corner of Clark's smile just in frame. What are they going to do with those, look at them fondly? Well, maybe. Clark doesn't know. It's something he's always liked doing, a little, for the right people, the process in itself more interesting than the artefact. But then the sun, and the oddly peaceful transition of mortal atomic structures taking on a different nature.

He also had not bitten Bruce back for that one comment, just levelled him with a look that promised to remember it for next time.

And now here they are. It's next time.

Not the lamp, anyway, just ordinary cool light fixtures in Bruce's room. The bed is smooth and undisrupted from the last time it was made, until Bruce is deposited backwards onto it, a smiley Kryptonian already on him, chasing a kiss. There's no surprises tonight—at least not immediately, with the twin sets of handcuffs held by their connecting chain in one of Clark's hands. They're not really fuzzy, but formed of soft adjustable but unyielding leather.

The fuzzy ones, you can break out of, and that's probably the only reason Clark didn't get them as a joke. Also: he's not sure Bruce would humour him that much. Only this much. His other hand dips beneath Bruce's shirt, and his thumb finds that dip near his waist that Bruce's hand kept finding that one time. Long memories all round, today.