Chapter Text
“Clark?”
Lois’ voice was slurred with sleep as she shifted on their bed. Clark froze in place, one arm out of his suit. He still smelled like the fire he’d helped put out in Mexico City on his way back from the earthquake in Brazil. His suit was tattered slightly from where a large piece of rubble had fallen on him as he tried to help a child out of the wreckage in Rio. It was late, and he knew that Lois had an interview with some important politician the next morning, so he’d tried to sneak in as quietly as he was able.
Apparently, he hadn’t been quiet enough.
“Hey, Lo, go back to sleep,” he murmured, super-speeding out of his uniform and crossing the room to place a kiss on her forehead. She leaned up into the contact until her lips found his. It was sweet, chaste, and Clark pulled away before it could go any further. “Sorry I woke you.”
“You smell like smoke,” she said, and she sounded a bit more awake at the possibility of a story. “What happened?”
“Just an apartment fire in Mexico, nothing to worry about,” Clark said, brushing her hair back from her face and crossing their small bedroom to the ensuite bathroom. “I just need to shower, then I’ll come to bed.”
Lois rolled over, her breathing already slowing, slipping back into sleep. “Okay,” she mumbled into her pillow, and Clark smiled, but it was a pained thing.
He remembered how it used to be. How Lois would wait up for him, just to make sure he was all right, how she’d track his progress via Twitter as he patrolled the globe. He would come home, and she would break him into a thousand pieces under her capable hands, until he was aware of nothing but the taste of her lips and the way she shouted his name when she came. They would shower, and she would wash the grime away from his skin and he would watch the play of water over her body, how it dripped off her nose when she tilted her head up to kiss him.
Christ, he remembered.
Clark showered mechanically, unheeding of the scalding temperature of the water. He felt numb, more so than he could ever remember feeling. He loved Lois. His partner, his wife, his everything. She didn’t have to stay up and wait for him to finish saving the world. She had never been that type of girl, and he cursed himself for ever thinking otherwise. They had been married for two years, and of course things would cool down in the bedroom. He couldn’t expect her to put her sleep on hold the night before an interview just to wait for him to get done playing hero.
Clark would be there in the morning when she woke, maybe with breakfast in bed. He would make it up to her.
He dried off and pulled on a fresh pair of boxers before climbing into the bed beside her. She was asleep again, her profile illuminated by the weak light of the streetlamp that shone through their small bedroom window. He wanted to reach out and touch her, to show her how much he cared.
No, he thought, leaning back against his pillow and closing his eyes. Better to let her sleep. I’ll be here in the morning.
He wasn’t.
#
His League communicator went off in the dark hours of pre-dawn, and he bit back a curse as he rolled out of bed and walked into the next room to answer so that he wouldn’t wake Lois. It was Batman’s private line, and he was tempted to remind Bruce that just because he could afford to be nocturnal, not everyone had the same luxury.
“What do you want, B?” he said gruffly, voice scratchy with sleep. “I have work in the morning.”
“Robin’s missing,” Batman said, and before Clark was consciously aware of his actions, he’d super-sped his way into his uniform (which was still sporting a terrific tear down one shoulder) and was airborne for Gotham.
“I’m on my way,” he said, careening above the lights of Metropolis’ sister city at what was, frankly, a reckless speed even for him. “Cave?”
“Yes,” Batman said curtly, and Superman was through the entrance and in the main chambers of the Batcave in less than five seconds.
Batman was standing by the monitors, pacing restlessly, anxiety seeping from him in what seemed to Superman to be a tangible cloud.
“Explain,” Superman said, feeling the last vestiges of sleep draining from his body as he moved to look at the information Bruce had pulled up on the screen.
“Hugo Strange escaped from Arkham about four hours ago,” Batman said, pausing to look at the map of Gotham he’d pulled up. “Robin and I were on separate patrol routes. It was a… test. To see how well he’d do on his own.”
Superman glanced sideways to look at Batman. Even without peeking under the cowl, he could see the worry lines in the set of Batman’s mouth. “And he didn’t come home?” he ventured, when it seemed that Batman had lost his train of thought.
“No, I recalled him as soon as I knew Strange was out,” he said, crossing to the monitors and zooming in on the Narrows. “We were going to meet at Wayne Tower and determine a plan from there. I lost contact with him after only five minutes. The tracking chip in his suit has been disabled.” Batman turned to Superman, and now it was painfully easy to see the panic in his usually controlled features.
“It’s just Strange, B, I’m sure-”
“No,” Batman interrupted. “I should have told you when it happened a few months back - Strange knows who I am. I can’t - he can’t know Robin’s identity, too.” He paused and took a deep breath. “He’s my son, Clark. I can’t lose him.”
Clark took a step forward and clasped Bruce’s shoulder with a grip strong enough to bruise. “Whatever you need, B. Anything. Just tell me what to do.”
#
Two hours later, Hugo Strange was back in Arkham and Dick was in bed, shaken but mercifully unharmed. Clark knew they’d been lucky. Strange was unlikely to kill Robin, due to his weird, almost Joker-level obsession with Batman, but he could have hurt him severely. They’d arrived in time to prevent Strange from unmasking Robin, and Clark only had to take one canister of poison gas to the face while Bruce got Dick out safely. It hadn’t affected Clark’s nervous system, so all things considered, not his worst night. Clark waited in the cave while Bruce carried Dick upstairs; the boy had been too exhausted from the night’s events even to stay awake during the brief flight home in the Batplane.
Bruce reentered the cave, still wearing the suit. He’d taken the cowl off as soon as they got inside, and even though Clark could see through solid objects, it was always strange for him to see Bruce this way. Batman, Bruce, and Brucie all occupied distinct places in Clark’s life, and seeing the boundaries between them blur was never something he got used to.
“Thank you,” Bruce said as he began to take off his gauntlets. “I’m sorry to have pulled you away from your bed.”
Clark stared at him blankly as Bruce released the clasps that kept the top half of his suit in place. “Bruce, you know you never have to apologize for that.”
“Still,” Bruce said stubbornly as he continued to strip himself of Batman’s armor. “You have work in a few hours.”
“You know I don’t need as much sleep as other people,” Clark reminded him gently. “Besides, it’s not like they can fire me. You do own the Planet.”
“Who said I wouldn’t fire you?” Bruce said absently, bending down to work on the armor that encased his thighs. He hissed quietly, so low that anyone but Clark probably would not have heard it.
“What’s wrong?” Clark asked, in front of him in a fraction of a second, hands gently examining Bruce’s sides. When he found no external wounds, he x-rayed Bruce’s torso, and discovered two cracked ribs. “Why didn’t you say something?” he murmured, forcing Bruce’s hands away from where he’d been trying to pry Clark off him.
“I can take care of myself,” Bruce said, needled.
Clark rolled his eyes. “Obviously. But I’m here.” He got down on his knees in front of Bruce, carefully working the clasps on the suit so that he wouldn’t accidentally break something trying to get Bruce out of it. “You already asked me for help once tonight. I feel all right pushing my luck.”
Bruce sighed but leaned back against the monitor chair to let Clark help. He must be tired, Clark thought absently. Bruce was the most stubborn, self-reliant person Clark knew, and that included Lois. He bent closer to get the armor off from around Bruce’s shins, shoulder pressing against his left thigh as Clark wound his arm in between Bruce’s legs.
And then - so quietly that Clark certainly would have missed it, were they not so close together in a room devoid of all sound save for the rustling of bats - Bruce moaned.
It took Clark a half second to realize that the sound had been a subvocalization, and another half second to realize how close he was to Bruce, how intimate his position.
It took no time at all for Clark to realize how close his face was to Bruce’s crotch.
His fingers stilled as the right shin guard clattered to the floor. Mind racing, still trying to comprehend what he’d heard, contextualize it, he shifted so that he could work on the last bit of armor that encased Bruce’s left shin.
Distantly, Clark was aware of Bruce’s hand clenching, knuckles straining white in an apparent attempt to control some unwanted reaction. He shifted his weight almost imperceptibly, but Clark’s hands were on Bruce’s calf muscles and he felt it. Bruce was uncomfortable. He was -
The left shin guard fell to the ground, but Clark didn’t stand up. He moved back onto his heels and looked up at Bruce -
what the hell am I doing
- from underneath his eyelashes, face directly in front of what was, not five minutes before, covered by the suit’s codpiece.
For his part, Bruce looked stricken, eyes wide and dark with only a sliver of blue around the edges of his pupils. Clark knew without having to listen that Bruce’s heart was racing.
“What are you doing,” Bruce said, the question falling so flat it sounded like a statement.
Clark watched his own hands move, as if he couldn’t control them, to Bruce’s hips. His thumbs unconsciously traced Bruce’s insanely defined inguinal crease, running from his sides down, down -
“Clark!” Bruce almost shouted, taking a startled step back. “What are you doing?”
“I don’t-” Clark said, pausing to stand up. “I don’t know.” He looked up at Bruce, who had backed up another two steps, placing enough distance between them that Clark could no longer feel the heat radiating from his body, could no longer smell the scent of sweat and leather that always clung to Bruce after a night of patrol. “I don’t know,” he said again, more quietly, staring down at his hands like they’d betrayed him. His wedding ring glinted back at him, and he wanted to take it off and throw it against the wall. He wanted to solder it to his skin with heat vision so he could never take it off.
He wanted.
Bruce’s pupils were still blown, and he ran a hand through his hair. “It’s fine. You weren’t doing anything. You’re married. That was an overreaction.” He didn’t even seem to believe himself.
“An overreaction,” Clark repeated slowly.
Bruce’s lips thinned and he turned away. “Yes. I’m sorry. You should leave.”
And Clark could see it in the set of his shoulders, the accumulated guilt of a man who carried the world on his back, who took responsibility for everything when it came to the people he cared about. Clark knew that posture, knew that tone, because he adopted it every day. And at the end of the day, who did Bruce have to turn to? Dick was still a child. And there were some problems even Alfred could not solve.
“Bruce,” Clark said, reaching out to grab his shoulder in a cruel mimicry of their conversation not three hours before.
“So what, then?” Bruce said, whirling to face him. “How would this work? You come upstairs, leave in time to make it to the Planet at eight?”
“Maybe,” Clark said, fingers trailing down Bruce’s arm until they found his wrist, which had been grazed by a bullet earlier in the night. The blood was already dried, and Bruce flinched, like he wanted to yank his hand away. “We couldn’t do my place.”
Bruce’s lips twisted into a cruel smirk. “Lois would complicate that arrangement.”
“How do they do it in the movies?” Clark asked, attention entirely focused on Bruce now, fingers tracing the veins that ran down his arm into his palm. Bruce shuddered.
“They get a room,” he whispered.
Clark frowned as he traced the abrasions on Bruce’s knuckles. “Somewhere sleazy, a cheap motel? Something Matches might book.”
Bruce’s breathing had quickened, shallowed. Clark had never seen him so discomposed. “Or maybe it’s not a cheap room at all. Maybe it’s a suite at the Ritz Metropolis.”
Unthinkingly, Clark pulled Bruce’s hand to his mouth and began to kiss his knuckles, as if he could make the sting of the fight disappear. “With windows that look out over the whole city,” he murmured against Bruce’s hand. “So high up it’s like you’re flying.”
“Yes,” said Bruce, his voice strangled and cracked. “But it would never happen.”
Clark dropped Bruce’s hand. “Wouldn’t it?” he asked, searching the face of the man across from him, half-expecting Bruce to pull out Kryptonite just in case Clark was being mind-controlled again.
Bruce simply looked at him and said, “No.”
“Why not?”
“Because,” Bruce said, turning his back on Clark. “I’m me. And you’re you.” Clark watched him walk away, wanting nothing more than to go after him, but something kept him rooted to the spot. “Good night, Clark.”
“Good night, Bruce,” Clark whispered, and the sound echoed off the walls of the cave, coming back to haunt him long after Bruce had disappeared up the stairs.
#
Lois noticed, of course. Lois always noticed.
“Hey Smallville,” she said when he got home. There had been a half-eaten bowl of cereal on the counter, so it seemed Clark hadn’t made it back in time to make her breakfast.
He’d spent the better part of two hours flying around the globe, rescuing kittens out of trees in London and stopping a terrorist attack in Ukraine. He’d gotten home a bit after seven, having lost track of time as he tried to take his mind off whatever had happened in the Batcave.
“Hey, Lo,” he said, starting the shower while she applied mascara. “Sorry again about waking you up last night.”
“That’s all right,” Lois said easily, smiling in Clark’s direction even though he was in the shower; she knew he could see her. “Where did you disappear to, though? I thought you said you were done for the night.”
“I was,” Clark said. “But Batman called at, like, 2:30. Robin was kidnapped.”
“Again?” Lois said, sounding very much like she wanted to point out that it happened so frequently Batman needn’t have called in Superman.
Clark stepped out of the shower and wrapped a towel around his waist. “It was Hugo Strange.”
“Oh,” said Lois in a very small voice. “Isn’t he in Arkham?”
“He escaped. I dropped him back off this morning.”
She nodded. “So Robin’s safe?”
“Yes,” Clark said, running a hand through his hair before giving up on the whole endeavor and shoving his glasses on his face.
“You spend a lot of time with Batman, Clark,” Lois said casually, but Clark immediately got defensive.
“He’s my friend.”
Lois held up her hands in a surrendering motion. “Hey, I didn’t say it was a problem. Just - will I ever get to meet him?”
“You’ve met Batman before,” Clark pointed out. It was true. She’d met most members of the League.
“You know what I meant.”
Clark sighed. This was a repeat discussion between them - who the different members of the Justice League really were, underneath the masks.
“You know it doesn’t work that way,” he said. “If he wants you to know, you’ll know. But he is incredibly protective of his identity. You know that, honey.”
“Yeah, I do,” Lois said, sounding resigned. “Still, a girl can hope.”
“Well, don’t get your hopes up too high,” Clark said. “You ready?”
Lois smiled at him and leaned in for a kiss. “Yep. Let’s go.”