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.
Meanwhile, Bruce has found a detour in the space-time continuity that's let him get dressed and make himself presentable (ninja jokes with guys his size don't work, right?), and if not for the brittle look around his eyes, his struggle with consciousness earlier might be believed to be imaginary.
It's too bad that Clark decided to put pants on, he reflects upon being met. Probably a wise move, though. He finds himself slightly anxious to cross paths with the lady of the house, even while scarred hands curl gratefully around the offered cup. Visions of her with Lois dance in his head, set to festive music, and so on.
"Thanks," he says, as coffee is en route to his face. If it's too hot he doesn't seem to give a fuck.
It doesn't feel over, even now that they are fully dressed -- save that Clark ought to change into something more substantial than is sleep rumpled shirt -- and drinking some coffee in a comfortably neutral proximity. He thinks he'd feel it, if whatever was last night was just last night (a Christmas miracle, maybe).
He should probably figure it out to some finer details before 'later' with his mom arrives.
"Before you go," he says, after his second sip of coffee, "was wondering if you wanted to see the actual Smallville, not just this corner. It'll be freezing, and. Empty, and most things will be closed, but it could be nice."
Comfortably neutral proximity that feels like it's on the verge of being something else, to Bruce. What, he isn't sure - or maybe it's just that it could go either way. Bruce could leave; Bruce could reach out and put his hand on his waist, pull him closer.
Bruce should leave. Smallville sounds awkward and full of nothingness, and beyond that, full of reminders of the close community and acceptance that he's been desperate for his entire goddamn life but been unable to hold on to. Full of reminders of how destroyed it was by the Kryptonian insurgents, and how the people here still rallied around Clark, protected him and his secret.
Incredible how that never gave Bruce a fucking clue.
Anyway.
For a long, excruciating moment, Bruce seems caught somewhere too inexplicable for an answer, draining his coffee like it's buying him a stay of execution. Say no. Go to the airstrip, go home.
Bruce is rewarded with a bright smile, and a friendly hand to the shoulder as Clark makes for his bedroom. "You can give me the Gotham grand tour sometime," he assures, impervious to the intricacies of how Bruce might rather be doing anything else right now.
Goodbyes take place, then, when it's determined that Clark will drop Bruce off once they do a little sight seeing. Martha tells him to be careful out on those roads, and then gives Bruce a big hug when it seems like it might be welcome, her hand clapped to his back and her smile having taken on a different sort of shine, but a shine nevertheless. The way she smooths out his nice coat after is the same fluttery affection as when he'd first arrived.
She watches, hands on hips, as they go.
The truck is old but not badly kept, Clark driving as careful as he promised he would. Heading into Smallville's central business district means a ride through snowy, early morning farmland, the heater on blast, the radio off. Clark points out landmarks here and there, the properties of neighbours, or what things look like in the heart of spring.
The main own itself is as empty and cold as promised. Driving through sees a few people on their way back from church. Shop windows with Christmas displays. The gas station is open. There are buildings that were never replaced, empty lots, scars, from years ago.
Smallville is everything Bruce imagines it to be - and he does imagine, too much for his own good. Not Smallville specifically, but of course, being an orphan, being someone possessed of an awareness of his own lot in life, he's entertained many a daydream over the years about having been born into different circumstances. Somewhere normal, somewhere mundane, safe, and beautiful.
He looks at Clark more than the landmarks. This is perhaps not surprising. That there is something inherently funny about Superman driving an old pickup goes unvoiced; it, him, this, is all so charming as to take his breath away.
The urge to ruin it somehow is an ever-present ache.
I could get that fixed, he thinks, of the destruction. It wouldn't be a problem, and wouldn't be any more or less suspicious than him buying out Kiowa First American National (what a name). He is cognizant of course of the fact that if Smallville is keeping Superman's secret, that Smallville is also now collectively keeping the secret of a surly Gothamite billionaire who just happens to haunt the town, all of a sudden. Do they need bribed? Not for Clark, obviously, but he's-- you know, not as nice as Clark. Maybe it's a memorial, offers up another perspective on the remains of a destroyed shop.
They're at a stop sign - or rather, a light that seems to have never once been connected to a power grid - and a woman passing by waves at Clark, but doesn't stop to chat. Too cold, probably. Or perhaps because he's got company.
"Your mom saw us," he says. It's not an announcement, because if Bruce picked up on that, then Clark definitely did, and if anyone knows Clark's mother it's Clark. It's also not really a question. It's just-- a topic, shuffled up onto the table of discussion. Faintly curious. Something else, too, drawn in too deep and subtle to be identified as wryness. If it were Bruce's kid, he'd probably be pissed.
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no subject
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."
no subject
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."
no subject
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.
no subject
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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It's too bad that Clark decided to put pants on, he reflects upon being met. Probably a wise move, though. He finds himself slightly anxious to cross paths with the lady of the house, even while scarred hands curl gratefully around the offered cup. Visions of her with Lois dance in his head, set to festive music, and so on.
"Thanks," he says, as coffee is en route to his face. If it's too hot he doesn't seem to give a fuck.
Oh. Uh.
"Merry Christmas."
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It doesn't feel over, even now that they are fully dressed -- save that Clark ought to change into something more substantial than is sleep rumpled shirt -- and drinking some coffee in a comfortably neutral proximity. He thinks he'd feel it, if whatever was last night was just last night (a Christmas miracle, maybe).
He should probably figure it out to some finer details before 'later' with his mom arrives.
"Before you go," he says, after his second sip of coffee, "was wondering if you wanted to see the actual Smallville, not just this corner. It'll be freezing, and. Empty, and most things will be closed, but it could be nice."
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Bruce should leave. Smallville sounds awkward and full of nothingness, and beyond that, full of reminders of the close community and acceptance that he's been desperate for his entire goddamn life but been unable to hold on to. Full of reminders of how destroyed it was by the Kryptonian insurgents, and how the people here still rallied around Clark, protected him and his secret.
Incredible how that never gave Bruce a fucking clue.
Anyway.
For a long, excruciating moment, Bruce seems caught somewhere too inexplicable for an answer, draining his coffee like it's buying him a stay of execution. Say no. Go to the airstrip, go home.
"All right."
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Goodbyes take place, then, when it's determined that Clark will drop Bruce off once they do a little sight seeing. Martha tells him to be careful out on those roads, and then gives Bruce a big hug when it seems like it might be welcome, her hand clapped to his back and her smile having taken on a different sort of shine, but a shine nevertheless. The way she smooths out his nice coat after is the same fluttery affection as when he'd first arrived.
She watches, hands on hips, as they go.
The truck is old but not badly kept, Clark driving as careful as he promised he would. Heading into Smallville's central business district means a ride through snowy, early morning farmland, the heater on blast, the radio off. Clark points out landmarks here and there, the properties of neighbours, or what things look like in the heart of spring.
The main own itself is as empty and cold as promised. Driving through sees a few people on their way back from church. Shop windows with Christmas displays. The gas station is open. There are buildings that were never replaced, empty lots, scars, from years ago.
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He looks at Clark more than the landmarks. This is perhaps not surprising. That there is something inherently funny about Superman driving an old pickup goes unvoiced; it, him, this, is all so charming as to take his breath away.
The urge to ruin it somehow is an ever-present ache.
I could get that fixed, he thinks, of the destruction. It wouldn't be a problem, and wouldn't be any more or less suspicious than him buying out Kiowa First American National (what a name). He is cognizant of course of the fact that if Smallville is keeping Superman's secret, that Smallville is also now collectively keeping the secret of a surly Gothamite billionaire who just happens to haunt the town, all of a sudden. Do they need bribed? Not for Clark, obviously, but he's-- you know, not as nice as Clark. Maybe it's a memorial, offers up another perspective on the remains of a destroyed shop.
They're at a stop sign - or rather, a light that seems to have never once been connected to a power grid - and a woman passing by waves at Clark, but doesn't stop to chat. Too cold, probably. Or perhaps because he's got company.
"Your mom saw us," he says. It's not an announcement, because if Bruce picked up on that, then Clark definitely did, and if anyone knows Clark's mother it's Clark. It's also not really a question. It's just-- a topic, shuffled up onto the table of discussion. Faintly curious. Something else, too, drawn in too deep and subtle to be identified as wryness. If it were Bruce's kid, he'd probably be pissed.
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