Quippiness of this line utterly spoiled with distraction, because what the fuck. The gentleness mingled with intimacy almost has Clark reversing that subtle withdraw, the desire to luxuriate in gentle touches and the slightly assumptive, soft way Bruce is going about all this is a powerful deterrent against going inside. It's ridiculous. What the fuck is wrong with him. All he does is kind of go still, then tip his head to bump temple to Bruce's in slightly doggish affection.
They go inside. Martha is doing a pretty good impression of having not seen anything, although the slightly evasive eye contact with Clark in specific while they do the last of the dishes is confirmation enough and he feels-- like he should probably want to die about it, but abstractly does not.
Probably 'cause she's still smiling like that at Bruce as she shows him to the guest room they've prepared, asking if he's got all he needs. Good enough.
They turn in early, relatively speaking. It's cold and deeply dark, anyway, and Clark lies in his old room and listens to Martha easing into her early-to-bed, early-to-rise routine slumber. He is busy staring fixedly at the ceiling. Thinks about calling Lois. Hey, you know that thing we talked about? I have some developments. But how're the folks? That's it, for people he could talk to, with his mom asleep, and Diana still qualifies as Bruce's friend, anyway.
So that's fine. He's just regressed into his sixteen-year-old self, lying where he's lying now, thinking about every stupid thing he'd managed to say to Lana Lang that day.
Bed springs shift, a half-motion towards getting out of bed. He redirects his focus to the guest room, mostly just to confirm if Bruce is also awake, or if he's turned into a pumpkin with promptness. Bare feet silent where they touch down, gravity whatever he makes of it, he goes to step out into the cold, dark hallway.
Bruce casts a glance at Clark when it's decided - surprised, a little, and somewhat apologetic like Oh that's right, of course Smallville runs on normal, sane person time. He will not be sleeping, and not only because of the electrical current under his skin that's lingered even after uncoupling from Clark and returning indoors.
And not only because he's a graveyard shift person in general. He stares at his phone-- at the reminders in text form (easy for Alfred to say, he's still allowed to speak to him), at the number still at the top of his speed dial, several years and new phones on, always programmed in, always carried over. The number whose last contact is an outgoing, unconnected call dated exactly twelve months ago. (It used to be a gap of nine months, between his birthday and the holiday season, but that fell by the wayside; a concession to I'd prefer it if you stopped calling.)
He should. Stop calling.
It rings, and hits voicemail. The recorded playback is a cheery, male voice, vowels flattened by the same dialect Bruce only rarely exhibits. The sound of it would not reach anyone else's ears, but, well. Circumstances are what they are. You've reached Richard Grayson! Who is using this name now to avoid having a voicemail box that sounds like you misdialed and got a phone sex line. Tell me all your secrets and I'll get back to you!
'It's me.' (He knows who it is. He hasn't blocked Bruce's number, though he could. Maybe that's a sign.) 'I'm sure you heard... well, maybe not. I don't know what you talk about. Alfred's in England, and I'm in Kansas. Not snowed in at Wichita airport or anything, either. It's...' (Silence.) 'You'd like it. There's a dog.' (More silence.) 'Happy Christmas.'
Click.
Happy, not merry, because he was raised by an Englishman. Whatever. Bruce lets out a breath and tosses his phone on his bag, desultory. Parent of the fucking year. He did not speak loudly, not wanting to disrupt Martha - and he did not take the call outside, knowing that if Clark wanted to eavesdrop, he could do so from a solar-system away. Does he care if the younger man listened in? ... He's not sure.
There's no tell-tale sound of shifting weight or ungainly footsteps to alert him to anyone's nearness, but Bruce turns his head to look at the closed door anyway, almost expectant. Ninja senses, perhaps.
For an extended few seconds, Clark stands near Bruce's door, shoulder to wall, listening with only a little regret that there's something to listen to, knowing himself too well to pretend to focus on something else. By now, he's graduated from "who's that?", not the kind of thing you want to say near anything resembling a red carpet, to having done enough homework to contextualise what he hears.
The homework itself does not fit what he knows, now, of either Batman or Bruce Wayne.
Silence, then. Go back to bed. Clark imagines doing that, lying awake, stiflingly conscious of Bruce also lying awake. A Christmas nightmare.
He gently brushes his knuckles against the door, a tap to announce his presence before his hand goes to the door handle, easing his way inside when he's not immediately told to go away. Shorts and T-shirt make up his pyjamas, all loose on him, all nondescript. He does, in fact, own some of his own merch in pyjama form, in jokey and adorable, and he's left it in Metropolis, thank god.
"I heard you not sleeping," is his explanation, that easy, midwestern blend of amused and apologetic at the same time.
Thanks for not saying you heard me being a shitty father, he thinks, but doesn't let out into the world. There's a bit of it in his gaze, though, dark eyes settled on Clark's bright ones. He's not shamed of his kids--
Kid.
He's not ashamed, Dick isn't a secret, he just isn't sure how to bring it up. Or why he would. It's probably not relevant. But he figures Clark knows on some level, anyway, being an investigator. It's just, you know, weird, that single parent is on the list of improbable shit about Bruce Wayne. Bruce Wayne who should look like someone's been cut out of a fashion magazine and pasted into a John Deere one in this small room. And yet he manages to blend in, wearing dark green plaid pajama pants and a long-sleeved black shirt, sitting on the edge of the guest bed, perfectly awake.
If Clark had not heard the call that came before, if he'd not wandered the retired halls of Wayne Manor, he might make fun, with that's a boring thing to say, Bruce: the cynicism, the aloofness. He finds himself swerving around a lot of jokes that seem to poke at the bruises he's uncovering, as time wears on. Glad that he's uncovering them.
He invites himself in further, despite that look, all the way to taking a seat for himself at the edge of the bed, mattress dipping beneath dense weight.
"Me too," he says, unbelievably, given black wrapping paper and table setting and the entire evening, and doesn't let the statement stand unqualified for long. The timbre of his voice is always a little deeper when he's being quiet. Warmer. "Used to, I mean, because I missed it. The times I couldn't come home, you know, 'cause of the money and the distance, or just." Or just.
That he couldn't. Shame and guilt. He has no earthly idea what lies between Bruce Wayne and Richard Grayson, but he knows there's tons of reasons a kid might not pick up the phone when his parent calls him, even on Christmas.
Like maybe it's late and he's partying, Clark doesn't know, but knows enough to assume maybe not just that. A natural inclination to keep something unsaid has him just shrugging a little, letting his own recollection go implied.
"I'm glad you made it out. Three's not a crowd, here. I know mom's been wanting to do something nice." For you. For Christmas. Either or.
Alfred gives him plenty of shit about hating Christmas. Clark'll learn; there are no bruises, not really, unless Bruce is one giant bruise overall. Sometimes it's fine if he just takes the abuse, because otherwise he's truly intolerable instead of just facetiously intolerable.
Still. Personally, he appreciates the commiseration. The or just.
Bruce's hand finds his. He wouldn't do this if Clark seemed like he would tense up or pull away, if Clark had a sliver of reservation about this being his mother's house with her in it. Please push me away some part of him begs, like Superman can save him from this, too.
"When I was an angry kid," opposed to the angry adult he is now, yes, "I would resent people who got into fights with or had tension with their parents. Because they didn't know what they had." He turns Clark's hand, palm up, trails his fingertips over the creases in his skin. "Now when I imagine things, I wonder about the kind of fights we'd get into. And it's kind of beautiful to see it in other people, I think, especially when things work out in the end.
You gotta stop being so easy, Smallville, is what he thinks to himself, because he's been called that enough by literally everyone he has any affection for -- Bruce, Lois, Perry -- that it's entered into his internal monologue in moments of self-awareness. Maybe it's just something about the act of touching that's entrancing. From Bruce, or from anyone. Maybe they've been lonely people a lot.
His hand is pliable and he watches Bruce map out lines with rough fingertips, nerves tingling. Not desensitised, even if he maybe should be, for how often he gets thrown through walls. He starfishes his fingers out, folds them back over Bruce's knuckles. Exactly what Bruce didn't want, all according to plan.
Inside his chest, his heart wrings a little, and his gaze lifts up, unshy about proximity.
He feels a twinge; inevitable, given topics. He had frequent fights with dad in those weird later years, one he never got to finish, or work it out in the end. It's not the first time he's felt this twinge, and it doesn't stall him, not anymore, it just passes through like a cold wind until it's gone. He strokes his thumb down the edge of Bruce's.
"You'd be welcome to stay. It'll get kind of hectic," admittedly. He doesn't imagine it'll be Bruce's scene, especially if he hates more of Christmas than just the heart pangs it brings about. So he adds, crooked smile, "But now's just fine."
It's funny, the priorities people can have, about death. We never resolved that argument is not something Bruce would think of his late son; perhaps because their arguing was so frequent as to be completely normal. That young man, brilliant and sharp, would hate the way Bruce is so careful of Richard now. He'd hate this, too, knowing Bruce was sitting in the dark holding someone's hand instead of just 'pulling the trigger'. Too soft for him. The nights when the horror of memory became too much and he found himself curled up with his adopted father, seeking that intangible sense of safety, were moments to be ignored as soon as the sun rose.
What are you talking about, Bruce would say, to Clark. You're here. Your mother's here. You love each other. It's worked out.
"I'm just as appealing at parties when I'm not pretending as when I am," Bruce tells him, a little wry. He can't play the socialite asshole, here, just the kind of asshole he is naturally, and that leads to a problem which is self-evident in the wording. Bruce sees no reason to end up causing difficulties with their friends due to his lack of personable graces; at best, he'd be a silent, awkward addition. Maybe Clark thinks he wouldn't mind, that Bruce's company would be worth the strangeness, and that is-- dangerous. And overly optimistic. Clark will mind, in action.
Now's just fine.
Bruce wants to kiss him. It's obvious in the way his fingers are linked against Clark's, the way his pulse has evened out after that phone call only to subtly tick up again. But he hesitates, like maybe it wouldn't be welcome. Like there's any clearer sign than Clark sitting in bed with him in his underwear.
The irony being that what Clark thinks of resolving an argument just means taking it back. Telling Jonathan he didn't mean it, what he was saying, that he loves him, none of it mattered. It's an old hurt. Martha holding him close, saying, he knew that, honey, he knows, neither of them really understanding the emptiness of that reassurance. What Clark had wanted to make him understand.
That's reductive, Clark would say, to Bruce.
To be honest, practice of pulling his mind out of the past is a reflex, and he's currently smiling a little at the idea of Bruce Wayne, billionaire persona and all, suffering a Christmas morning with a dozen unimpressed midwesterners. What he actually expects to happen is that Bruce's company would be worth the actual strangeness that would happen instead, that there's nothing wrong with that.
Instead of pressing the point, he just listens to heart rates without breaking eye contact, smile dimming. Doesn't mind the hesitation, because it gives him an opportunity to reach out. He slides his hand from Bruce's, only to touch fingertips to jaw, feeling the rough texture of stubble that's been haunting him since the first kiss, and the last. He's going to develop some Pavlovian instincts out of this, he can tell.
Realises he's looking at Bruce's mouth, trains his eyes back upwards, and then leans in to kiss. It feels different, doing that here; slower and sleepier, like they've been doing it forever.
All these varied ways to hurt. They could spend weeks comparing internal scars and the jagged edges of pain both dull and sharp, scabbed over and bleeding. You know. Figuratively. (Isn't it a luxury, to have something to call reductive? Or is the luxury an ability to find the pain normal, without needing to call it one thing or the other?)
And then there's this. The opposite of pain. Bruce wonders if it counts for anything. How much can I make you not hurt?
The door is open a crack still and this is someone's childhood home, and they are too old to be doing this. But Bruce is doing it anyway-- meeting Clark's eyes, blurry-close, then meeting that kiss. He tastes like he did outside but warmer, more concentrated; bad romance lines would say he tastes like toothpaste, or something, but it's just somebody's mouth. Unique in how not unique it is, because it's so human. Different in how it's Clark.
He can't tell if it's long minutes in this position, torqued to each other side by side, or if he gets sick of it instantly - time does that funny thing sometimes, when it's really good - but he shifts around, facing him, one knee further up on the mattress (that he suspects is older than he is; it makes a faint creak of old metal coils disagreeing with the weight of two very grown, solid men).
Bruce shifts; Clark has to check himself instead of just push them both back into bed. Wrong bed, wrong moment, but he's not convinced it's the wrong person, and he's also not convinced that what he wants right now is much more complicated than to be near. He leans in again, a kiss that begins as a touch before suring up.
He's not uncomfortable, because discomfort is about strain and tension that his muscles have too much capacity to pay much mind to, but the soft groan of old springs reminds him that's not the case for everyone.
Which is somewhat unflattering.
"You wanna lie down?" is mumbled against mouth, the corner of. He doesn't want to leave, yet. Whatever reservations Clark might feel about this specific awakening happening in his family home seem less urgent than this undefinable thing happening here.
That's him, an old, creaky mattress. From the sixties. Romance is alive and well in rural Kansas.
Does he want to lie down.
Bruce looks at him. What a strange question. He wants to do a lot more than lie down. He wants-- he wants more than is appropriate to say, maybe even think, for all that they do not actually know each other, because it would be one thing to say I want to fuck you, but that's just the shallow end of it. Would Clark drown, in the depths of what he wants out of him? Out of anyone he feels--
A way for.
"Yeah."
He shifts back. He gets a hand on Clark's hip and keeps it as he sinks back, watching him, drawing him along with him. They have to lay side-by-side, of course, because Clark on top of him is going to take this in a direction the romance-is-dead mattress is not going to survive.
Lying down is what Clark wants, moving with and settling down beside Bruce. Just two adult men sharing a bed. Clark would like to think being an alien entitles him from having to care about convention, to ignore it like it doesn't apply, but no one under this roof would really think that's the case. Whatever is in him that finds comfort in dragging the second pillow nearer and settling down at Bruce's side can't be excused in that way.
He winds an arm over Bruce's ribcage, drawing in, taking the hand resting on his hip as invitation for intimacy, continued. Clark has to rely on memory to know where the latest in bumps and scrapes are located, the older scars, and there's no real attempt made to avoid it all.
(His impulse is closer to wanting to touch them, actually, which feels morbid, and like something he will do eventually.)
"I thought you were going to kiss me when we were fighting," he says, apropos of little more than firing synapses. Second guesses that word. "Sparring. Practicing."
Just some words, coming out of his face, don't pay it any mind.
Clark could kill him, like this. He could roll over in his sleep and that would be the end of him, after all that drama. It's an absurd thought, given that Clark could kill him perfectly fine while awake, too. Laying down in such a vulnerable posture, the Kryptonian's arm caging him in-- he should feel more threatened. He should feel afraid. Bruce isn't sure if it's trust that makes him at ease, or if it's just that he believes if Clark were to ever kill him, it would be deserved.
Speaking of all that drama.
When we were fighting triggers an interesting reaction. Hearts do not actually skip beats, but Bruce's gives it the good old college try, believing until clarification that Clark means he thought Bruce was going to kiss him when he was trying to kill him. The expression on his face shifts back to normal quickly but it-- sure is something.
He takes a slow breath. Oh he seems to say, as he exhales. Yes. Practicing. That does make more sense. Anyway.
"...I realized I could. I didn't know what to do with that knowledge. I thought-- you--"
Clark was raised with good manners. He does not comment on that reaction, except with how his eyebrows jerk upwards, telegraphing everything they need to. His thumb sweeps gently against Bruce's back, through cloth. Yes. Practicing.
In the dimness, a half smile, a semi laugh, everything in fractions. The idea of could do better as ridiculous as I already own all the department stores you might shop for me at. It doesn't make logical sense. If Clark wants specifically Bruce Wayne to put his mouth on his mouth, then what is the better option? What does it matter if Bruce needs nothing and has everything, when what he wants to give is the thought of being thought about?
But he gets it, he thinks. He didn't have to figure this out first. About deciding what would be welcome.
He feels unbalanced - Clark could believe him capable of any awful thing, and it would be warranted; it hadn't yet occurred to him that his violence towards Superman might now be seen through a lens of something even more sinister, and while he understands that's not what Clark meant, now that it's in his head it'll probably stay there for some time. Alfred already finds it worrying and, god, Clark's mother-- it's obvious she doesn't know what Bruce intended, at first, but if she ever finds out, what might she think? Why doesn't Clark think this is a terrible idea?
Probably because the particulars of his existence mean his desire for intensity goes far beyond the realm of normal humans and you fit that bill, and you've shared things impossible for others to understand, good or bad, and he's kind of funny, is a thought entirely too rational for Bruce to trust it. What the fuck, healthy reflections, this is off-brand.
(He loved Talia. She destroyed his life more than once, and he loved her. Please, don't let it be like that for Clark. Oh, god.)
Socks.
Whatever Bruce was going to say is derailed by socks.
"Oh my god," he mutters, exasperated, and kisses him.
Bruce kisses a smile, sharp edges and ease, one that is oblivious to the crises transpiring a few inches away and then no distance at all. At least, oblivious that it's happening in this moment, not oblivious in general for all that Clark Kent has so far avoided internal complication by not leaning on it very hard. Maybe later. Maybe soon. Maybe not.
"I'm sorry," is not sorry at all for the 'oh my god', maybe socks in general, mirth and muttered into kisses, but maybe a little sorry in that Bruce looked like he might have had more to say. But if it was more about whether Clark can do better--
Well, kissing is his opinion on that, anyway.
Slower, lazier, no urgency. Knees bump together, mattress groans about every subtle adjustment. This is soothing in a way that Clark might not know how to articulate (his resurrection was weird in so many ways, because he's a writer) but isn't anxious to try. He doesn't sense danger, but maybe that's because he is Superman.
"Mmhm." Disbelief, for that sorriness, but apparently not so much that he objects to connected mouths and bumping knees. Bruce has one hand on Clark's bicep, his other between them, the backs of his curled fingers resting against the other man's chest. Which he is doing a remarkable job of not thinking of, given their proximity and activities therein.
Bruce knows better than to put any stock in hormones, and yet there's an animal part of his brain that's saying this will work because this is working, because laying here making out with Clark feels good, and safe, and like he could do it forever. He's on a knife-edge and whatever way he falls - settling to sleep this way, pressed together but not too close - pushing Clark down and pressing the length of their forms together heedless of creaky springs and sleeping mothers - will be just as good as the other.
Clark shouldn't fit so comfortably and feel so electric; Bruce would resent it, if he didn't like it so much. He wonders if the skin at the base of his throat is just as warm, he wonders if the curves over his chest and along his belly is sweat-salted, he
is going to stop thinking about that now, because the last thing anybody needs while sneaking around like high schoolers is a boner. (Romance, again.) He's going to end up with a line on his face from creases in the pillowcase, and bruised lips from kissing-- and that's fine. That's great, even, if the alternative is not having those things. His arm is probably going to fall asleep. Also fine. Bruce shifts the hand on his bicep higher, against his neck, thumb rubbing absently against his jaw. Another hour, two hours, another fucking week of this, would be all right.
Bruce falls asleep first, even in spite of his inhuman circadian rhythm. Clark can go a few days without before he regrets his choices, but generally likes a normal cycle enough that pushing those kinds of limits is an only when he has to thing. But then there's this, sharing a bed with a person, creepily lying awake while they fall away from him. Creepily, because Lois complained once, inasmuch a pillow to the head constitutes complaint.
Not every time, of course. On nights when he has stuff to think about, concerns about the fragility of the people he loves, and in this case, the impression that neither of them could say for certain if this will happen again when the night draws to a close.
He closes his eyes under the feeling of Bruce's hand on his neck. The idea of being touched like this, more, and everywhere, feels like muted nervous thrill. It's a decision of necessity that he doesn't dwell on that, and a decision, somewhere between they will be doing this again and being unable to want for more, that Clark finally follows Bruce into sleep.
About an hour later, Shelby shoulders her way inside, and hops up onto the bed. She settles in a circle. Clark lazily ruffles her ears without quite making it to consciousness.
The morning sees muted winter sunlight struggling through the curtains. In the night, Clark has not smothered Bruce in his sleep by accident, but plastered himself in close (or perhaps, in unconsciously seeking heat, Bruce has rolled right back into him, who can say, only Shelby can say) with a heavy arm flung over. It isn't an impossible escape, bone and muscle slack rather than clutching tightly, but probably impossible to go unnoticed.
Shelby has her head on Bruce's knee, a drool spot darkening pyjama pant.
He will blame falling asleep, as well as not waking when they were joined, on being unnaturally at ease. It's so rare-- honestly, he'd be hard-pressed to remember the last time he slept so soundly that he couldn't be woken by someone getting within a dozen yards of him, even silently. Wakefulness finds him slowly, and disagreeably - for all that he's a night owl and accustomed to very few hours per twenty-four of unconsciousness, Bruce is not a morning person.
I'm where? I'm what.
His resting heart rate does not change drastically between asleep and awake, and Bruce looks around, squinting, without shuffling much. Only Shelby notices at first, though her version of 'good morning' is to heave a dramatic dog sigh and resettle her head above his knee.
The door had been open a sliver, last night, and now it's wide, bumped so by their furry stowaway. Has Martha walked by? Is there now a ticking countdown on Clark having an uncomfortable conversation with his mother? ... Is it always this cold in the morning in Smallville?
Bruce is used to low temperatures; the east coast has vicious winters, of course, and all that time in the far-off mountains of the world. He prefers it to heat, but in recent years, there are parts of him that don't agree. His left knee aches whenever it's too cold, like now, and the metal parts of his spine feel stiff and sticking like frozen pipes in an old house. He could get up, roll onto the flat floor and work out cracks and pops, maybe take a hot shower. But the pain is minimal, and more appealing than any of that is to tuck himself further into Clark's embrace, to nuzzle beneath his chin, and stay there.
Bruce resettles; Clark breathes out a sigh. Doesn't move.
Does listen to the sounds of his mother putting the coffee on, and opens his eyes, suddenly aware of the hour, and for having -- in Smallville time -- slept in. He rolls a look down the end of his nose where he can see Shelby, and deduce that the door is ajar, and then feel the strange shape of a man in his bed. Not his bed. A bed. None of this inspires him to do more than just
lie still, dazed and content, maybe curl his arm up into a more comfortable position. Blunt fingertips touching bed-mussed hair, dark and grey with neat ends, drawing fingers through it with idle, he doesn't know, something. Not affection, even if he feels affection, but more curious than that.
He's pretty sure they're both awake, now, although Bruce does a good impression of unconsciousness.
"Merry Christmas," he says. The smell of coffee is a good rousing agent.
"Huhhnnmmm," says Bruce, a pained-sounding noise against Clark's clavicle. Perhaps it translates into Merry Christmas. Perhaps it translates into The Sunlight Will Burn Me. Hard to tell. He tilts forward, ducking his head further against warm skin, apparently unable to cope with the concept of The Morning.
Absurd for someone his age, but it's not his fault. It's Clark's fault.
Long minutes tick by during which Bruce refuses to move or otherwise respond to external stimulus, until, finally, he seems to come close enough to consciousness to realize his positioning. He detangles himself enough to squint blearily at the other man, blink a few times, and then sit up. Creak. (From the mattress. Not him.) Huhh. There's a dog on his leg.
Somewhat abruptly, Bruce is awake. Clear and coherent and over-sharp, though the look on his face is still deathly resentful of being awake.
Ugh.
He tips his head back, rolls his shoulders, and bends his back to send a long, surreal series of pops down his spine. As he curves forward again, Bruce looks over his shoulder at Clark.
His voice sleep-rough and quiet enough to not reach past this abused mattress: "Well, it'd be a Merry Christmas, but giving you a blowjob right now would probably be inappropriate."
Rather than sit up, Clark has rolled lazily onto his back, arm bent back beneath his head. The over-gelled sidepart that has inspired its own thinkpieces in our time is gone in choppy wilder curls, clothes rumpled and possibly too little of them to be considered decent. Which is apparently fine, because that was indecent, Bruce, Clark's eyebrows going up before his face splits into smile.
"Okay," is the disbelieving to Bruce's exasperated when he's the one that Just Says Things. Then, mock seriously; "I mean. Probably. It's a family holiday, Bruce."
Now he coils up to sit in a slow and lazy stretch, chest bumping into the back of Bruce's curled shoulder. His hand rests lightly at the small of his back, travels upwards, as if sensing those little points of pain, and not ready to stop doing this just yet. "How about a cup of coffee? I'm gonna assume you take yours black."
Little joke. But despite his wilful partaking in the major food groups under this particular rooftop, Bruce strikes him as a non-dairy, anti-sugar kind of guy.
Disbelieve all you want, Kent, if they were alone in this house, this morning would be going very differently, regardless of Bruce's disdain for the process of regaining consciousness. What, genuinely, could be better, than crawling over Clark's sleep-warm body and learning what kind of sounds he makes, what he tastes like, how fast Bruce can make him fall apart? Especially laying there like that, perfectly tailored to every stupid bisexual weakness in Bruce's body.
Coffee. Coffee could be better. Even as Clark slips in behind him, touches him, and makes Bruce want to lay right back down. His brain sympathetically twinges in pain, desperate for the caffeine and bitter heat. (Should have brought your meds, he thinks, but without any conviction. He'd rather be strung out than let anyone in this house see him taking them.)
He grunts an affirmative. It has nothing to do with being non-dairy or anti-sugar, it's just that he'd inject it directly into the vein if he could, and diluting it is a fool's errand.
Bruce reaches out, behind, hand coming up against the side of Clark's face. His fingers splay against his jaw and ear, thumb rubbing over his cheekbone and then ghosting over his lips. Clark is so beautiful it's almost obscene. For a moment he just sits there like that, looking at him, expression opaque. Neither of them have mentioned Lois, who Bruce assumed Clark would rather prefer to spend this or any holiday with; with anyone else he'd be worried, but he trusts Clark not to be fucking anybody over. They should discuss it at some point, though, probably. He's not so foolish as to think what's happening here is casual.
Without saying anything else, Bruce withdraws his hand and extracts himself from Clark with more grace than a man pushing 50 with a spinal chord made up of spare parts should have this early in the morning, and slips away into the bathroom.
The touch to his face has a strange sort of effect. 'Calming' is perhaps the closest thing to it, even if Clark was sleepily serene prior, but calm like thoughts quieting, a physical stillness save for how his mouth parts just a little when Bruce touches it. Closes it when he leaves, wonders only then what exactly it is that Bruce thinks he sees.
Remembers what he was doing when the bathroom door closes. Coffee. Right.
A quick detour to his room for proper pants before bounding downstairs, into the kitchen, kissing his mom on the cheek with a merry Christmas, ma, turning her around with momentum as he sets about arranging coffee. Clark is quiet, pointed. Mom is the same, back.
Handing him cream and cinnamon for his own coffee, and then not letting go when he goes to take it: don't you have something to tell me?
And a happy new year?
Clark Joseph--
Later, I promise. Please stop looking so worried.
But I didn't know that--
Me neither, trust me. C'mere.
A quick bear hug, and a tolerant sigh. Well, hell, he's a charmer.
Laughing: A common misconception.
But he is, maybe in ways Bruce does not consider charming, that most people might not, that Clark can't help but like. Half-whispered conversation in the kitchen over in moments, and he feels like he's dodged-- well, bullets as analogy don't work for him. He just feels like he's dodged too much of a close investigation into his love life from his mom before he's figured out what to say about it, which is what he imagines dodging bullets is like.
Clark charges two coffee cups -- good black coffee, and his own preferred concoction of cream and cinnamon -- and moves to meet Bruce with it.
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Quippiness of this line utterly spoiled with distraction, because what the fuck. The gentleness mingled with intimacy almost has Clark reversing that subtle withdraw, the desire to luxuriate in gentle touches and the slightly assumptive, soft way Bruce is going about all this is a powerful deterrent against going inside. It's ridiculous. What the fuck is wrong with him. All he does is kind of go still, then tip his head to bump temple to Bruce's in slightly doggish affection.
They go inside. Martha is doing a pretty good impression of having not seen anything, although the slightly evasive eye contact with Clark in specific while they do the last of the dishes is confirmation enough and he feels-- like he should probably want to die about it, but abstractly does not.
Probably 'cause she's still smiling like that at Bruce as she shows him to the guest room they've prepared, asking if he's got all he needs. Good enough.
They turn in early, relatively speaking. It's cold and deeply dark, anyway, and Clark lies in his old room and listens to Martha easing into her early-to-bed, early-to-rise routine slumber. He is busy staring fixedly at the ceiling. Thinks about calling Lois. Hey, you know that thing we talked about? I have some developments. But how're the folks? That's it, for people he could talk to, with his mom asleep, and Diana still qualifies as Bruce's friend, anyway.
So that's fine. He's just regressed into his sixteen-year-old self, lying where he's lying now, thinking about every stupid thing he'd managed to say to Lana Lang that day.
Bed springs shift, a half-motion towards getting out of bed. He redirects his focus to the guest room, mostly just to confirm if Bruce is also awake, or if he's turned into a pumpkin with promptness. Bare feet silent where they touch down, gravity whatever he makes of it, he goes to step out into the cold, dark hallway.
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Bruce casts a glance at Clark when it's decided - surprised, a little, and somewhat apologetic like Oh that's right, of course Smallville runs on normal, sane person time. He will not be sleeping, and not only because of the electrical current under his skin that's lingered even after uncoupling from Clark and returning indoors.
And not only because he's a graveyard shift person in general. He stares at his phone-- at the reminders in text form (easy for Alfred to say, he's still allowed to speak to him), at the number still at the top of his speed dial, several years and new phones on, always programmed in, always carried over. The number whose last contact is an outgoing, unconnected call dated exactly twelve months ago. (It used to be a gap of nine months, between his birthday and the holiday season, but that fell by the wayside; a concession to I'd prefer it if you stopped calling.)
He should. Stop calling.
It rings, and hits voicemail. The recorded playback is a cheery, male voice, vowels flattened by the same dialect Bruce only rarely exhibits. The sound of it would not reach anyone else's ears, but, well. Circumstances are what they are. You've reached Richard Grayson! Who is using this name now to avoid having a voicemail box that sounds like you misdialed and got a phone sex line. Tell me all your secrets and I'll get back to you!
'It's me.' (He knows who it is. He hasn't blocked Bruce's number, though he could. Maybe that's a sign.) 'I'm sure you heard... well, maybe not. I don't know what you talk about. Alfred's in England, and I'm in Kansas. Not snowed in at Wichita airport or anything, either. It's...' (Silence.) 'You'd like it. There's a dog.' (More silence.) 'Happy Christmas.'
Click.
Happy, not merry, because he was raised by an Englishman. Whatever. Bruce lets out a breath and tosses his phone on his bag, desultory. Parent of the fucking year. He did not speak loudly, not wanting to disrupt Martha - and he did not take the call outside, knowing that if Clark wanted to eavesdrop, he could do so from a solar-system away. Does he care if the younger man listened in? ... He's not sure.
There's no tell-tale sound of shifting weight or ungainly footsteps to alert him to anyone's nearness, but Bruce turns his head to look at the closed door anyway, almost expectant. Ninja senses, perhaps.
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The homework itself does not fit what he knows, now, of either Batman or Bruce Wayne.
Silence, then. Go back to bed. Clark imagines doing that, lying awake, stiflingly conscious of Bruce also lying awake. A Christmas nightmare.
He gently brushes his knuckles against the door, a tap to announce his presence before his hand goes to the door handle, easing his way inside when he's not immediately told to go away. Shorts and T-shirt make up his pyjamas, all loose on him, all nondescript. He does, in fact, own some of his own merch in pyjama form, in jokey and adorable, and he's left it in Metropolis, thank god.
"I heard you not sleeping," is his explanation, that easy, midwestern blend of amused and apologetic at the same time.
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Kid.
He's not ashamed, Dick isn't a secret, he just isn't sure how to bring it up. Or why he would. It's probably not relevant. But he figures Clark knows on some level, anyway, being an investigator. It's just, you know, weird, that single parent is on the list of improbable shit about Bruce Wayne. Bruce Wayne who should look like someone's been cut out of a fashion magazine and pasted into a John Deere one in this small room. And yet he manages to blend in, wearing dark green plaid pajama pants and a long-sleeved black shirt, sitting on the edge of the guest bed, perfectly awake.
"I hate Christmas," is what he says, reasonably.
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He invites himself in further, despite that look, all the way to taking a seat for himself at the edge of the bed, mattress dipping beneath dense weight.
"Me too," he says, unbelievably, given black wrapping paper and table setting and the entire evening, and doesn't let the statement stand unqualified for long. The timbre of his voice is always a little deeper when he's being quiet. Warmer. "Used to, I mean, because I missed it. The times I couldn't come home, you know, 'cause of the money and the distance, or just." Or just.
That he couldn't. Shame and guilt. He has no earthly idea what lies between Bruce Wayne and Richard Grayson, but he knows there's tons of reasons a kid might not pick up the phone when his parent calls him, even on Christmas.
Like maybe it's late and he's partying, Clark doesn't know, but knows enough to assume maybe not just that. A natural inclination to keep something unsaid has him just shrugging a little, letting his own recollection go implied.
"I'm glad you made it out. Three's not a crowd, here. I know mom's been wanting to do something nice." For you. For Christmas. Either or.
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Still. Personally, he appreciates the commiseration. The or just.
Bruce's hand finds his. He wouldn't do this if Clark seemed like he would tense up or pull away, if Clark had a sliver of reservation about this being his mother's house with her in it. Please push me away some part of him begs, like Superman can save him from this, too.
"When I was an angry kid," opposed to the angry adult he is now, yes, "I would resent people who got into fights with or had tension with their parents. Because they didn't know what they had." He turns Clark's hand, palm up, trails his fingertips over the creases in his skin. "Now when I imagine things, I wonder about the kind of fights we'd get into. And it's kind of beautiful to see it in other people, I think, especially when things work out in the end.
"I'm glad I came."
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His hand is pliable and he watches Bruce map out lines with rough fingertips, nerves tingling. Not desensitised, even if he maybe should be, for how often he gets thrown through walls. He starfishes his fingers out, folds them back over Bruce's knuckles. Exactly what Bruce didn't want, all according to plan.
Inside his chest, his heart wrings a little, and his gaze lifts up, unshy about proximity.
He feels a twinge; inevitable, given topics. He had frequent fights with dad in those weird later years, one he never got to finish, or work it out in the end. It's not the first time he's felt this twinge, and it doesn't stall him, not anymore, it just passes through like a cold wind until it's gone. He strokes his thumb down the edge of Bruce's.
"You'd be welcome to stay. It'll get kind of hectic," admittedly. He doesn't imagine it'll be Bruce's scene, especially if he hates more of Christmas than just the heart pangs it brings about. So he adds, crooked smile, "But now's just fine."
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What are you talking about, Bruce would say, to Clark. You're here. Your mother's here. You love each other. It's worked out.
"I'm just as appealing at parties when I'm not pretending as when I am," Bruce tells him, a little wry. He can't play the socialite asshole, here, just the kind of asshole he is naturally, and that leads to a problem which is self-evident in the wording. Bruce sees no reason to end up causing difficulties with their friends due to his lack of personable graces; at best, he'd be a silent, awkward addition. Maybe Clark thinks he wouldn't mind, that Bruce's company would be worth the strangeness, and that is-- dangerous. And overly optimistic. Clark will mind, in action.
Now's just fine.
Bruce wants to kiss him. It's obvious in the way his fingers are linked against Clark's, the way his pulse has evened out after that phone call only to subtly tick up again. But he hesitates, like maybe it wouldn't be welcome. Like there's any clearer sign than Clark sitting in bed with him in his underwear.
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That's reductive, Clark would say, to Bruce.
To be honest, practice of pulling his mind out of the past is a reflex, and he's currently smiling a little at the idea of Bruce Wayne, billionaire persona and all, suffering a Christmas morning with a dozen unimpressed midwesterners. What he actually expects to happen is that Bruce's company would be worth the actual strangeness that would happen instead, that there's nothing wrong with that.
Instead of pressing the point, he just listens to heart rates without breaking eye contact, smile dimming. Doesn't mind the hesitation, because it gives him an opportunity to reach out. He slides his hand from Bruce's, only to touch fingertips to jaw, feeling the rough texture of stubble that's been haunting him since the first kiss, and the last. He's going to develop some Pavlovian instincts out of this, he can tell.
Realises he's looking at Bruce's mouth, trains his eyes back upwards, and then leans in to kiss. It feels different, doing that here; slower and sleepier, like they've been doing it forever.
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And then there's this. The opposite of pain. Bruce wonders if it counts for anything. How much can I make you not hurt?
The door is open a crack still and this is someone's childhood home, and they are too old to be doing this. But Bruce is doing it anyway-- meeting Clark's eyes, blurry-close, then meeting that kiss. He tastes like he did outside but warmer, more concentrated; bad romance lines would say he tastes like toothpaste, or something, but it's just somebody's mouth. Unique in how not unique it is, because it's so human. Different in how it's Clark.
He can't tell if it's long minutes in this position, torqued to each other side by side, or if he gets sick of it instantly - time does that funny thing sometimes, when it's really good - but he shifts around, facing him, one knee further up on the mattress (that he suspects is older than he is; it makes a faint creak of old metal coils disagreeing with the weight of two very grown, solid men).
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He's not uncomfortable, because discomfort is about strain and tension that his muscles have too much capacity to pay much mind to, but the soft groan of old springs reminds him that's not the case for everyone.
Which is somewhat unflattering.
"You wanna lie down?" is mumbled against mouth, the corner of. He doesn't want to leave, yet. Whatever reservations Clark might feel about this specific awakening happening in his family home seem less urgent than this undefinable thing happening here.
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Does he want to lie down.
Bruce looks at him. What a strange question. He wants to do a lot more than lie down. He wants-- he wants more than is appropriate to say, maybe even think, for all that they do not actually know each other, because it would be one thing to say I want to fuck you, but that's just the shallow end of it. Would Clark drown, in the depths of what he wants out of him? Out of anyone he feels--
A way for.
"Yeah."
He shifts back. He gets a hand on Clark's hip and keeps it as he sinks back, watching him, drawing him along with him. They have to lay side-by-side, of course, because Clark on top of him is going to take this in a direction the romance-is-dead mattress is not going to survive.
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He winds an arm over Bruce's ribcage, drawing in, taking the hand resting on his hip as invitation for intimacy, continued. Clark has to rely on memory to know where the latest in bumps and scrapes are located, the older scars, and there's no real attempt made to avoid it all.
(His impulse is closer to wanting to touch them, actually, which feels morbid, and like something he will do eventually.)
"I thought you were going to kiss me when we were fighting," he says, apropos of little more than firing synapses. Second guesses that word. "Sparring. Practicing."
Just some words, coming out of his face, don't pay it any mind.
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Speaking of all that drama.
When we were fighting triggers an interesting reaction. Hearts do not actually skip beats, but Bruce's gives it the good old college try, believing until clarification that Clark means he thought Bruce was going to kiss him when he was trying to kill him. The expression on his face shifts back to normal quickly but it-- sure is something.
He takes a slow breath. Oh he seems to say, as he exhales. Yes. Practicing. That does make more sense. Anyway.
"...I realized I could. I didn't know what to do with that knowledge. I thought-- you--"
Ohh god why.
Lamely, "You could do better, is all."
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In the dimness, a half smile, a semi laugh, everything in fractions. The idea of could do better as ridiculous as I already own all the department stores you might shop for me at. It doesn't make logical sense. If Clark wants specifically Bruce Wayne to put his mouth on his mouth, then what is the better option? What does it matter if Bruce needs nothing and has everything, when what he wants to give is the thought of being thought about?
But he gets it, he thinks. He didn't have to figure this out first. About deciding what would be welcome.
"Socks lowered the bar, didn't they."
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Probably because the particulars of his existence mean his desire for intensity goes far beyond the realm of normal humans and you fit that bill, and you've shared things impossible for others to understand, good or bad, and he's kind of funny, is a thought entirely too rational for Bruce to trust it. What the fuck, healthy reflections, this is off-brand.
(He loved Talia. She destroyed his life more than once, and he loved her. Please, don't let it be like that for Clark. Oh, god.)
Socks.
Whatever Bruce was going to say is derailed by socks.
"Oh my god," he mutters, exasperated, and kisses him.
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"I'm sorry," is not sorry at all for the 'oh my god', maybe socks in general, mirth and muttered into kisses, but maybe a little sorry in that Bruce looked like he might have had more to say. But if it was more about whether Clark can do better--
Well, kissing is his opinion on that, anyway.
Slower, lazier, no urgency. Knees bump together, mattress groans about every subtle adjustment. This is soothing in a way that Clark might not know how to articulate (his resurrection was weird in so many ways, because he's a writer) but isn't anxious to try. He doesn't sense danger, but maybe that's because he is Superman.
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Bruce knows better than to put any stock in hormones, and yet there's an animal part of his brain that's saying this will work because this is working, because laying here making out with Clark feels good, and safe, and like he could do it forever. He's on a knife-edge and whatever way he falls - settling to sleep this way, pressed together but not too close - pushing Clark down and pressing the length of their forms together heedless of creaky springs and sleeping mothers - will be just as good as the other.
Clark shouldn't fit so comfortably and feel so electric; Bruce would resent it, if he didn't like it so much. He wonders if the skin at the base of his throat is just as warm, he wonders if the curves over his chest and along his belly is sweat-salted, he
is going to stop thinking about that now, because the last thing anybody needs while sneaking around like high schoolers is a boner. (Romance, again.) He's going to end up with a line on his face from creases in the pillowcase, and bruised lips from kissing-- and that's fine. That's great, even, if the alternative is not having those things. His arm is probably going to fall asleep. Also fine. Bruce shifts the hand on his bicep higher, against his neck, thumb rubbing absently against his jaw. Another hour, two hours, another fucking week of this, would be all right.
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Not every time, of course. On nights when he has stuff to think about, concerns about the fragility of the people he loves, and in this case, the impression that neither of them could say for certain if this will happen again when the night draws to a close.
He closes his eyes under the feeling of Bruce's hand on his neck. The idea of being touched like this, more, and everywhere, feels like muted nervous thrill. It's a decision of necessity that he doesn't dwell on that, and a decision, somewhere between they will be doing this again and being unable to want for more, that Clark finally follows Bruce into sleep.
About an hour later, Shelby shoulders her way inside, and hops up onto the bed. She settles in a circle. Clark lazily ruffles her ears without quite making it to consciousness.
The morning sees muted winter sunlight struggling through the curtains. In the night, Clark has not smothered Bruce in his sleep by accident, but plastered himself in close (or perhaps, in unconsciously seeking heat, Bruce has rolled right back into him, who can say, only Shelby can say) with a heavy arm flung over. It isn't an impossible escape, bone and muscle slack rather than clutching tightly, but probably impossible to go unnoticed.
Shelby has her head on Bruce's knee, a drool spot darkening pyjama pant.
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I'm where? I'm what.
His resting heart rate does not change drastically between asleep and awake, and Bruce looks around, squinting, without shuffling much. Only Shelby notices at first, though her version of 'good morning' is to heave a dramatic dog sigh and resettle her head above his knee.
The door had been open a sliver, last night, and now it's wide, bumped so by their furry stowaway. Has Martha walked by? Is there now a ticking countdown on Clark having an uncomfortable conversation with his mother? ... Is it always this cold in the morning in Smallville?
Bruce is used to low temperatures; the east coast has vicious winters, of course, and all that time in the far-off mountains of the world. He prefers it to heat, but in recent years, there are parts of him that don't agree. His left knee aches whenever it's too cold, like now, and the metal parts of his spine feel stiff and sticking like frozen pipes in an old house. He could get up, roll onto the flat floor and work out cracks and pops, maybe take a hot shower. But the pain is minimal, and more appealing than any of that is to tuck himself further into Clark's embrace, to nuzzle beneath his chin, and stay there.
Fivemoreminutes.
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Does listen to the sounds of his mother putting the coffee on, and opens his eyes, suddenly aware of the hour, and for having -- in Smallville time -- slept in. He rolls a look down the end of his nose where he can see Shelby, and deduce that the door is ajar, and then feel the strange shape of a man in his bed. Not his bed. A bed. None of this inspires him to do more than just
lie still, dazed and content, maybe curl his arm up into a more comfortable position. Blunt fingertips touching bed-mussed hair, dark and grey with neat ends, drawing fingers through it with idle, he doesn't know, something. Not affection, even if he feels affection, but more curious than that.
He's pretty sure they're both awake, now, although Bruce does a good impression of unconsciousness.
"Merry Christmas," he says. The smell of coffee is a good rousing agent.
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"Huhhnnmmm," says Bruce, a pained-sounding noise against Clark's clavicle. Perhaps it translates into Merry Christmas. Perhaps it translates into The Sunlight Will Burn Me. Hard to tell. He tilts forward, ducking his head further against warm skin, apparently unable to cope with the concept of The Morning.
Absurd for someone his age, but it's not his fault. It's Clark's fault.
Long minutes tick by during which Bruce refuses to move or otherwise respond to external stimulus, until, finally, he seems to come close enough to consciousness to realize his positioning. He detangles himself enough to squint blearily at the other man, blink a few times, and then sit up. Creak. (From the mattress. Not him.) Huhh. There's a dog on his leg.
Somewhat abruptly, Bruce is awake. Clear and coherent and over-sharp, though the look on his face is still deathly resentful of being awake.
Ugh.
He tips his head back, rolls his shoulders, and bends his back to send a long, surreal series of pops down his spine. As he curves forward again, Bruce looks over his shoulder at Clark.
His voice sleep-rough and quiet enough to not reach past this abused mattress: "Well, it'd be a Merry Christmas, but giving you a blowjob right now would probably be inappropriate."
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"Okay," is the disbelieving to Bruce's exasperated when he's the one that Just Says Things. Then, mock seriously; "I mean. Probably. It's a family holiday, Bruce."
Now he coils up to sit in a slow and lazy stretch, chest bumping into the back of Bruce's curled shoulder. His hand rests lightly at the small of his back, travels upwards, as if sensing those little points of pain, and not ready to stop doing this just yet. "How about a cup of coffee? I'm gonna assume you take yours black."
Little joke. But despite his wilful partaking in the major food groups under this particular rooftop, Bruce strikes him as a non-dairy, anti-sugar kind of guy.
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Coffee. Coffee could be better. Even as Clark slips in behind him, touches him, and makes Bruce want to lay right back down. His brain sympathetically twinges in pain, desperate for the caffeine and bitter heat. (Should have brought your meds, he thinks, but without any conviction. He'd rather be strung out than let anyone in this house see him taking them.)
He grunts an affirmative. It has nothing to do with being non-dairy or anti-sugar, it's just that he'd inject it directly into the vein if he could, and diluting it is a fool's errand.
Bruce reaches out, behind, hand coming up against the side of Clark's face. His fingers splay against his jaw and ear, thumb rubbing over his cheekbone and then ghosting over his lips. Clark is so beautiful it's almost obscene. For a moment he just sits there like that, looking at him, expression opaque. Neither of them have mentioned Lois, who Bruce assumed Clark would rather prefer to spend this or any holiday with; with anyone else he'd be worried, but he trusts Clark not to be fucking anybody over. They should discuss it at some point, though, probably. He's not so foolish as to think what's happening here is casual.
Without saying anything else, Bruce withdraws his hand and extracts himself from Clark with more grace than a man pushing 50 with a spinal chord made up of spare parts should have this early in the morning, and slips away into the bathroom.
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Remembers what he was doing when the bathroom door closes. Coffee. Right.
A quick detour to his room for proper pants before bounding downstairs, into the kitchen, kissing his mom on the cheek with a merry Christmas, ma, turning her around with momentum as he sets about arranging coffee. Clark is quiet, pointed. Mom is the same, back.
Handing him cream and cinnamon for his own coffee, and then not letting go when he goes to take it: don't you have something to tell me?
And a happy new year?
Clark Joseph--
Later, I promise. Please stop looking so worried.
But I didn't know that--
Me neither, trust me. C'mere.
A quick bear hug, and a tolerant sigh. Well, hell, he's a charmer.
Laughing: A common misconception.
But he is, maybe in ways Bruce does not consider charming, that most people might not, that Clark can't help but like. Half-whispered conversation in the kitchen over in moments, and he feels like he's dodged-- well, bullets as analogy don't work for him. He just feels like he's dodged too much of a close investigation into his love life from his mom before he's figured out what to say about it, which is what he imagines dodging bullets is like.
Clark charges two coffee cups -- good black coffee, and his own preferred concoction of cream and cinnamon -- and moves to meet Bruce with it.
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