Work Text:
In was in their glances shared when dancing across the ballroom floor with someone else in their arms; in the smiles exchanged when they knew exactly what the other was thinking. In their arguments, when they'd get so close to one another that they could feel the heat of their breath, and see the colour of each other eyes. They'd stop fighting for only a moment, a moment where eyes moved to the other's lips, and then they'd be arguing again.
It was even in the silence that spread itself between them when they were together; words overrated when they knew more about one another.
Clark saw it, saw the impossibility of it, and saw how it was hopeless. But, he thought, if he found it in the first place, was it really hopeless? He seemed to be a bit more careful around Bruce, watched what he said, made conversation always about work. He wanted to see if it was just that, wanted to make it hopeless because he felt it was.
Clark knew it didn't take much to feel alive, come alive, but when he was with Bruce, he didn't need to try, it was just what he felt. He couldn't deny it either; the pounding of his heart like a hammer in his chest, his mind working at lightening speed, his bones that felt like jelly, the fine sweat he'd break out into. And he rarely sweat. He knew he should let the feeling go, but it was addictive, the feeling of being alive, so he always found himself at Batman's side.
Although, he had a gut feeling Bruce wouldn't understand. He wasn't sure he understood what exactly felt so hopeless in the first place.
And like today, Clark got the nerve to say what he wanted to say. He said to Bruce while patrolling in Gotham, “Does it ever feel hopeless?”
“All the time.” That was the only thing Bruce had said, and Clark wondered if he felt hopeless over the same thing Clark did. Which still, he wasn't sure about. Unless he truly knew and wanted nothing more to deny it. Then, another night in Gotham, Clark said, “I feel that way."
Bruce raised an eyebrow. “About?”
Clark shrugged and for a moment, he was silent. “I don't know.” He remained quiet for almost an hour. Bruce knew not to intrude. “It's just...there.” Whenever you're by my side. Like something's missing...
“I know how you're feeling, Clark.” He expected Bruce to continue, add something to explain why he's feeling what Clark is, but he didn't. And for that, Clark was relieved for a reason unknown.
“It feels like there's something I need to find,” he said.
“Then go out and find it.” Bruce's voice was soft, as gentle as the warm breeze, as light as the milky-glow from the full moon above.
“I don't want to dwell on something that might not even be there,” said Clark, his cape swaying with the wind. He felt cold and he didn't even know what being cold felt like, but he imaged it felt like your bones turned to stone and your fingertips tingled til the point they hurt. Bruce looked at him.
“I just can't keep denying that there's something there.” That was one thing Clark loved about Bruce; no matter what he talked about, Bruce never judged him. He was understanding, even when he didn't understand. He made people make him understand so he could help them.
“I'll always be here to help you, Kal. I know you know that.”
“I do” -he nodded- “but I think this is something I have to figure out alone.” After he said that, for the rest of the night, Gotham was quiet, just like its guardian and for more days after that, Clark found nothing.
What he did find, however, was his closed fist raising to knock on Bruce's door.
He had hovered for a while above his manor, watching Bruce eat in the kitchen by himself and watch as he finished and moved to the large library, to sit down to read a novel. The fire crackled and emitted a stunning gold glow to Bruce's usually pale face, shadows of his long eyelashes casted on his sharp cheekbones, his soft lips a shade of rose, slightly irritated from the heat of the tea... Clark could smell the sweet sugar and herbal from where he hovered and it was in that moment, watching Bruce be Bruce, that he felt heavy, like he couldn't hold himself up any longer.
His arms and legs were numb, thick. Something dark, something like butterflies dropping dead in his stomach, swam through him with the speed and force of a locomotive and he landed on the lawn of Wayne manor in defeat.
He knew (despite being so unsure of other emotions for what felt like an eternity), exactly what he'd been feeling; dread. Suffocating, heart-stopping, vision blotching dread. He felt a longing of familiarity, when it was anything but familiar. He had never thought of a night with Bruce, never thought how quiet, how calming they seemed to be, and how...empty. Like there was something missing from the puzzle, the piece that mattered most.
It might have been an hour, or even two, that he stood on the lawn, feet digging into the grass and watching Bruce; the crease in his forehead when he turned a page, or the quirk of his lip when he found something amusing or the small, addicting noises he'd make each sip of tea he took, eyes wide and alive, their vibrant sapphire...Clark made a noise of need in the back of his throat and felt his knees hit the dirt he'd churned up.
For a moment, he shut his eyes, breathing in the scent of Bruce, something sweet and something of spice; lilacs and pepper. Bruce smelled like the summer days the sky was as blue as his eyes and dotted with pearl clouds, the smell of flowers like a spray of the most refreshing perfumes; spices from a barbeque nearby, laughter trailing with the wind that rattled the leaves on the trees like a song.
Then, Clark was struck with the realization of what he was doing. He was comparing Bruce to his favourite type of days, the ones that were so quiet, but so full of life in the flowers and the sky and the people swimming and laughing and crying and the days that were so, so alive. He would've thought to image Bruce as a winter night, but he was warm, he was thriving and his heart was beating so fast and Clark could hear it beat even faster when he finally found the courage to knock on the door.
He watched Bruce carefully set his book down after folding the corner of the page he was on, page two-hundred and thirty, Clark saw, and made his way to the door. Clark could hear Bruce's heart racing and it took him a moment, the moment Bruce unlocked the door, to notice that it was his own heart, hammering in his ear. He didn't know why he was here. He didn't know what he was going to say. He didn't- Bruce opened the door and for a minute he was confused; there was no one there. He wondered if he'd been so engrossed in his novel, in the fake reality he created that he imagined the knock.
He stepped outside, the night cool and he found his arms wrapped around himself as he shivered, his gaze lingering on the sky full of stars. When he waited, waited for a certain someone and knew he wasn't going to show, he went back inside and locked the door. He leaned against the door, sighing tiredly, his heart pumping so fast he felt light-headed and had to steady himself on the wall. Then, composing himself, he made his way to his bedroom, shutting off lights as he went.
* * * *
Clark watched (he seemed to be doing it a lot lately), Bruce fight and wondered how a man so brutal could be as quiet and soft as the other night while he read a book. He'd been unable to keep his eyes away from Bruce for more then a couple minutes, in fear of him getting injured. He even ignored his own duties, which created a bump in his journalism career and an even bigger bump in his relationship with Lois, just to watch over Bruce as he patrolled.
When Bruce was on his way back to the Cave, with nothing but a pulled hamstring, Clark found himself slipping onto the terrace of Lois' apartment and unclasping his cape as he landed inside, oblivious as to why the glass doors were open in the first place.
“I was wondering when you'd come home,” her hard voice startled him and he glanced up, frozen where he stood as he removed his suit. “Clark,” she sighed, her tone soft now. He knew what she was going to say and for the first time, he didn't feel anything. Didn't feel remorse or guilt or sorrow when she told him for the first time that they needed a break, that things weren't working out. Now, he was the one that planned to speak those repeated words. “You look different,” she said, and Clark was confused. “You just seem so” -she paused, hands on his chest- “...lost.”
He couldn't look her in the eyes right now, because he knew she was right. “Look at me.” He didn't want to, but he did. “Where did the man I love go? Why are you so sad?”
He swallowed the lump in his throat. He didn't feel comfortable here. Her soft, small hands reaching for his, didn't feel right. It wasn't the piece for his puzzle he was searching for. “Lois...” he began, “I don't know. I just don't.” He didn't want to hurt her. “I think I need some time to myself. I need to figure out...” he trailed off, Lois' lips a thin line. He knew she wouldn't understand if he explained why he said what he said. Not the way Bruce seemed to understand.
She nodded her head, strands of her hair falling loose from her ponytail. He absentmindedly reached to tuck it behind her ear. “I love you,” he said, “but I just need to be alone.”
“I understand.”
“Lois...” He didn't know where to take his words, so he let her fill in the blanks, knowing well that she would.
“I understand,” she repeated. She was silent for a while, hands falling to her side. The apartment was cold, and dark shadows casted across her taunt face. He looked away again. “I'll still be here, waiting for you, Clark,” said Lois, “just like I always am.”
* * * *
Clark was on Bruce's lawn again, watching. The same gut-wrenching dread filled his stomach, but this time it wasn't for an unknown reason. Something was off; this time, the fire barely cracked with life, and Bruce's face was hard, stress lines sketched onto his forehead, his pupils dilated, the sapphire a faded indigo. His heart seemed particularly slow tonight and when he turned the pages of his novel, his fingers shook so bad he ripped one of the pages.
Clark figured it was because he was in pain, and this time, he wanted nothing more then to take it all away, let it whisk away in the harsh winds that made the trees around the manor chant and move like monsters reaching to grab Clark. His insides felt cold- no, frozen- like he'd taken a sip of something cold and could feel it slip down his throat and then, on the lawn of Wayne Manor, he knew exactly what it was. Fear.
There was only one way he could rid of that fear and there he was again, at Bruce's doorstep. This time when he raised his fist to knock, he saw Bruce standing at the wide windows in the library that overlooked the lawn and it'd taken him a second to see, judging by the look on Bruce's face and the leap of his heart, that he'd seen Clark. Before he could knock, Bruce was already on his way down the hall, limping, and making his journey past antique clocks and unused vases and crimson wallpaper covered with a delicate pattern of swirls and halls lit with dim candles, to the front door. Clark could see the twitching of his lip and his shaking fingers, although now, he was doing it purposely and Clark, speaking from experiences, only did that same thing with his fingers when he was excited.
Bruce, taking a deep breath, opened the door. He was favouring his left leg. He offered Clark a timid smile and Clark, wondering why Bruce seemed nervous, returned it. “Is there something you needed or did you have the sudden urge to ruin my grass?”
This time, Clark smiled for real, chuckling breathlessly. As fast as he felt that fear, it vanished, like the colour of Bruce's eyes could chase it away. He scratched the back of his neck, examining his damage from the doorsteps. “Ah, sorry about that...” His eyes met with Bruce's and he felt that lonely feeling of longing again. “I just really need to talk.” He decided he didn't enjoy the feeling, but it still couldn't be the reason he felt hopeless. Could it?
Bruce's heart thumped wildly at the urgency in Clark's tone. His heartbeat was loud, like it was singing, crying out to Clark and only Clark. “So talk,” he said.
“Can I come in?”
“If you remove the suit,” Bruce bargained. Without questioning Bruce's demand, Clark spun out of his red and blue suit and replaced it with his clothes -a loose white shirt and jeans- and sent Bruce a grin. He stepped aside and motioned for Clark to come inside, Clark's heart dropping into his stomach when he could smell the sugar and the herbal and Bruce's spicy scent; dread washing over him once again, the force like a tidal wave this time, nearly knocking him off his feet. There was something else that smelled delicious, steamed vegetables and chicken with a lemon seasoning.
“Alfred was just making supper; join me?”
“Oh, I'm not hungry,” he declined politely with a wave of his hand.
“Well, I am. So...”
Clark flushed. “Of course.” Following Bruce to the kitchen, he added sheepishly, “I need to talk to you. Alone.”
Bruce acted like he couldn't feel the jump of his own heart in his chest. “Yes, we'll be alone.” He didn't seem to comment on Clark's sudden insecurity that weaved its way with his words, which hit Clark as strange. Usually, with Clark, Bruce would say exactly what was on his mind. There always seemed to be so much on the man's mind, so maybe Clark never truly knew exactly what Bruce thought. Even as much as he wished he did.
“Would you feel more comfortable in the dining room or the study?” Bruce asked as they walked into the kitchen, Alfred turned to the stove, dishing Bruce's supper. He wanted to be in the same room as Bruce when he seemed to glow the colour of the fire, and burn as bright as it, so he made his decision.
“The study.”
“Good evening, Master Clark,” Alfred greeted, seeming unsurprised by the unexpected visit. “Care for a cup of coffee?” He handed the dish of chicken and vegetables to Bruce, who muttered a thanks and turned to Clark.
“Yes, Alfred, that'd be great,” he said. Caffeine didn't do much in the way of keeping him alert, but the taste of it was what he needed, a familiarity in a place he wanted to feel the sense of.
“I'll bring it to you once it's finished brewing.”
He nodded, throwing Alfred a smile. “Thank you.”
“Shall we?” Bruce left the kitchen and Clark followed, right on Bruce's heels, until they separated in the library, Bruce taking his usual chair and Clark sitting on the leather couch across from it. He watched Bruce get comfortable and take a bite of chicken, making that addicting noise of approval he made when he'd drink tea. Eyeing Clark, he raised his eyebrows. “Well?” he urged.
Clark was silent. He didn't know why he was even here.
“Remember the night I told you I felt hopeless?” He began, surprised at the words that decided to leave his trembling lips. Bruce nodded, eyes intense as he studied Clark. “I...I couldn't even try to figure it out, because I couldn't make sense of why I even felt that way in the first place. I thought it would pass, like everything else usually does, but it didn't. I guess...I guess...”
He sighed in exasperation, running his shaking fingers through his knotted hair. He meant to get a cut but had never gotten around to it; he'd been so distracted lately.
“I feel like I'm playing Russian Roulette. I'm gambling with my life over something I want but I can't figure out what it is that I want. I've got all these empty chambers and one, just one of them, has something in it that could end my life and feeling this hopeless sure as hell makes it feel like the one chamber I get is the one with the bullet and you...” he trailed off, eyes scanning the room like he was searching for the correct words. “And you, Bruce,” he continued, “you are the only thing that would be able to stop that bullet, stop me from wanting that bullet and I just don't know why...”
Bruce waited patiently as he spoke, heart spiking, the plate of food warming his lap long forgotten. The warmth made him feel a little tired, the kind of warmth he felt only when he was with Clark, the kind that made you woozy. And now, Clark's words were enough to have him feeling hot. “Why did you come here tonight, Kal?”
Surprised at Bruce's strained tone, he glanced up and stopped fiddling with his fingers. He felt childish and could feel his cheeks burn in embarrassment for bothering Bruce with something stupid.
“You know what; I'm sorry. This was stupid. I'm sorry I wasted your time.” He got to his feet, wiping his sweaty palms on his knees and before he could leave the room, Bruce was putting his supper plate on the glass table between them and gripping Clark's wrist. He sometimes forgot how fast Bruce could be and looked down at Bruce's hand on his wrist in surprise, like his touch was a live wire. It shot through his arm and send shivers down his spine and yes, he felt very much alive.
“No, Kal,” he protested, his voice barely above a whisper, “It isn't stupid. Just sit down, and tell me everything; what you understand and what you don't and we'll figure it out together” -he paused, tongue darting out to lick his dry lips- “I'll find a way to stop that bullet.”
Clark's eyes lowered to Bruce's lips as he spoke, watching those pink lips form the words he didn't know he so desperately craved. The word together made his heart lurch in his ribcage. “I said I wanted to solve it by myself and I came here realizing I couldn't,” he said, “that I didn't want to because I've got you by my side.”
“Well, good.” Bruce swallowed and Clark watched the bob of his Adam’s apple. “I've got all night.” With that being said, Bruce's mind seemed to clear of Clark's words; the soft, comforting words that fogged his mind in the first place; and he looked down, his hand still holding Clark's wrist. When he looked up to gaze at Clark again, Clark was already staring at him. And when Clark carefully pulled his wrist free and slowly, as if the two had all the time in the world, slid his fingers into Bruce's, lacing them together, Bruce knew there was no going back when he felt like his heart stopped.
“I don't...”
“Shh,” Bruce said, unaware that he was moving closer, closer to the lips that moved but couldn't form words. “Shh...” And he closed his eyes, and leaned in, fingers holding Clark's tighter- then Clark's hand was gone and there was a slight breeze and when Bruce opened his eyes, Clark was no longer there. He made a noise, a desperate noise of longing, and felt his chest collapse with the air that left his lungs. He tightly shut his eyes, arms falling to his side. God, did it ever hurt. It felt like he'd been the one getting shot, and he couldn't stop the bullet like he promised Clark he would find a way to do. But he didn't want to stop the bullet and for the first time for a while, he felt the same hopelessness crawl back up his spine, like a poisonous snake.
“Master Clark, my apologies for...Where's Master Clark?”
Bruce opened his eyes, Alfred standing at the doorway, mug of steaming coffee in his frail hands. “He uh” -Bruce's voice cracked like thin ice- “he had to leave. I'll take it.” Alfred, with eyebrows arched in questioning, handed Bruce the coffee. When he turned to leave, paused like there was something he wanted to say and left, Bruce welcomed the burn of the coffee, scorching his palm, like a comfort. Alfred announced his departure and when he was sure his butler was gone, Bruce went to the kitchen to dump the coffee down the drain, watching as it coloured the sink a dark brown, then gradually disappeared, revealing the steel once again. After coming to terms with what happened in the library, Bruce went to bed, shut off the lights and decided he'd never go in there again. His mind went back to their few words exchanged that windy night in Gotham.
Does it ever feel hopeless?
All the time.
The first few things Clark noticed that haunted his thoughts and eventually his nightmares, was the look on Bruce's face when he vanished. He don't know why he did if he was just going to find himself back, noticing another terrifying thing; the library remained dark. No fire, no Bruce. And it stayed that way each time Clark found himself on the same spot on the lawn of the manor each night. He eventually went around the side to watch Bruce from his bedroom, movements slow, delayed, as he tidied and changed.
Every night Bruce went to sleep with the utmost distant gaze of despair and Clark hated himself for it, hated himself for being the cause of the other man's pain. He still wondered, mind drifting back to that night with Bruce, if he only leaned forward to kiss Clark to make him feel better or perhaps it was genuine and that scared Clark, brought back the same fear he felt that dark night. And as before, he knew what -who- could rid of that fear.
He wasn't sure what he wanted and he wasn't sure what Bruce wanted. Which was why he left. It was too overwhelming, the sensation of sense and why he felt the way he did. It was as if Bruce made everything make sense; why Clark was feeling hopeless, why he felt a longing to a home he didn't live in, why he felt comfortable around Bruce and why Bruce made him feel alive; why he was searching, knowing there was something to be found. And there was and he finally, finally knew what it was.
He was in Bruce's room, but he was in the bathroom running a bath. He decided to attempt and wait for Bruce on the edge of his bed, hands in his lap. Only, when Bruce eventually sank down into the scorching water, Clark knew he was going to be in there for a while. So, heart in his throat, he made his way to the bathroom door. He raised his fist to knock, but couldn't bring himself to do it. He debated leaving again and never looking back, but no matter how many times he flew away, he always flew right back to where he started. It was like a loop, a loop he knew wasn't going to end until he found the courage to cut it.
He didn't knock. Instead, as slowly and quietly as he could, he opened the door. Bruce had already gotten drowsy, and his eyes shut against his will, body slumping in the bubbled water. Clark just stood, watching, until he knelt beside the bath and with shaking hands, cupped Bruce's face.
“Bruce,” he whispered. He stirred, but didn't wake. “Bruce?” Slowly, his heart picking up a fast pace, he opened his eyes. He automatically leaned into Clark's touch. There was no need to be scared or surprised, he knew Clark meant well and he found his bubbled hand coming to rest on Clark's, still cupping his cheek. “You're so beautiful...when I look at you, really look at you, it all makes so much sense...”
“Clark?”
“I'm so sorry, Bruce. When you went to kiss me, everything became clear. And it was so overwhelming because one thought -rather a question- came to mind.” He paused as his thumb traced a pattern on Bruce's cheekbone. “Am I in love with you?”
Bruce breathed in, a sharp breath, and held it. His heart was so, so fast. He leaned forward, eyes on Clark's, refusing to look anywhere else. Anywhere else was unimportant, anyway. Clark was what mattered. Clark was all that mattered.
“I've had to be, because when I said yes, all my hopelessness disappeared and I found what I've been searching for. It was never lost; I was never missing anything. It was right there, in front of me in the most magnificent form. You.”
For one hopeful moment, neither moved, taking the moment to touch foreheads, accept that they finally found something worth keeping, something they've had all along. Then, Bruce was leaping and wrapping his arms around Clark and kissing him- pulling him down into the tub with him. Water splashed over the edges of the bathtub and flooded the floor but that was the last thing on Bruce's mind; the only thing on his mind was Clark, and how he was now gloriously naked and on top of him, kissing the life out of him all the while covered in bubbles. The water made Bruce feel hot, but Clark made him feel even hotter.
Sometime later, they were making love, gasps and whimpers and cries of pleasure exchanged, no longer just smiles and glances shared as friends; now, with beating hearts, they sung to one another using lyrics made of velvet and sand and rose petals and rain and every breath they breathed, as lovers. They moved together slowly, savouring the pleasure and savouring their time, the water continuing to spill on the tiled flooring in small waves with every rock forward, and back.
Then even later, they found themselves on Bruce's bed, still soaked and covered in bubbles, getting familiar with every inch of one another, and getting tangled until the sun made its slow ascend, beginning with a small strip of gold on the horizon, lighting Bruce's face -Clark noticed- in the most astonishing way, just like the fire did in the library.
When they finished, and Bruce's room was lit with the saturated tone of the sun, the sky a sea of clouds, Bruce was tucked in Clark's side, littering his chest with butterfly kisses. Clark sighed with each one. Sometimes, like a majority of the night they shared, Clark forgot to breathe. He found his new strength and weakness; Bruce and for the first time, since the begging of the night, he had wished it was an endless one.
“How long?” He murmured, kissing the top of Bruce's messy head of hair.
Bruce, stretching to lock lips with Clark, said, “As long as I can remember.”
He shifted. “Bruce...”
“Clark, don't. This is everything I've ever wanted and now I have it. Just be quiet and kiss me.” With a hand on the back of Bruce's head and one on the side of his face, he did just that, pulling him on top of his chest.
“I'm sorry I never figured things out sooner,” he said, voice raspy, when they were done kissing, for what seemed like hours.
“Don't you dare apologize. You know,” said Bruce, positioning himself so he was sitting up and straddling Clark's lap, “it took me almost just as long to accept the hopelessness as it did for you to figure out why you were feeling it. So, when you began to tell me you were feeling just that and were finding the reason why, my heart beat so fast that night I was sure it'd explode. I thought that maybe things weren't going to be so hopeless anymore.”
He took Clark's face in his hands, noses almost touching. “Then you- such an incredible, gorgeous, irreplaceable man- solved it and God, I've never felt so damn happy. The weight of feeling hopeless just lifted off my shoulders last night.” He paused, eyes locked on Clark's cobalt ones, that reminded Bruce of diamonds in the morning light; one colour, but when the light struck it just right, it was the most brightest, eye-catching assortment of fresh colours anyone could see. “I've been carrying it for so, so long.”
Clark gently rubbed Bruce's bare thigh, right over a love bite. He felt Bruce shiver and he knew that was something he'd never get tired of; Bruce letting himself be vulnerable in his arms, because he trusted him that much. “I wish I could've taken it off your shoulders sooner,” he whispered. “I couldn't even handle the weight for a couple weeks, let alone years.”
Bruce laughed and kissed him, palms flat on Clark's warm chest. “Try decades.”
“Bruce-!” When Bruce only smiled, a crooked one that was genuine, alive, Clark reached up to wrap his arms around Bruce and hold him, chin resting on his head, Bruce's head on his chest.
“I don't think I'll ever get tired of hearing your heart beat so strong, and so loud,” Bruce said, voice so quiet Clark barely caught it. He smiled, tightening his grip around Bruce.
“Now that everything makes sense,” said Clark, “I have loved you so much, Bruce, and I didn't even click in. I could always hear your heart, no matter how far away I was. It was always just there and it took me a while to discover it was because I was searching for it. Searching for your existence, knowing that as long as your heart breathed, I breathed with it. Whenever I was sad, I'd listen to your heartbeat. Whenever I was happy, I'd focus on your heart and now I realize, now I know, it was the reason I was happy. You were the reason I was happy and you've always been.”
Speaking of hearts, Clark's had picked up a fast pace and Bruce hummed, clutching Clark harder, listening more carefully and counting the beats before he spoke. “You don't know the many times I wished to be able to hear as good as you just to hear your heart.”
“Why didn't you just ask to listen to it? I wouldn't have minded.”
Bruce threw his head back and laughed, loud, beautiful and deep, like it ran through Clark's bones. This time, he was the one shivering. “That isn't something you ask your closest friend on a daily basis,” he said, tone amused. “And of course you wouldn't.”
“I totally wouldn't,” Clark said defensively, “Maybe I would've figured things out sooner, with you in my arms, pressed to my chest.”
“I will admit, I have imagined it. My hands on your waist, my head on your chest. I always imagined your hands slowly reaching to hold me, too. And well,” Bruce said sheepishly, “things escalate from there.”
Clark laughed, breathless. “You know something, Bruce?” He said.
“I know lots of things,” he said in response, “but I've never, ever been able to know what you're thinking and nothing has frustrated me more.”
“Penny for my thoughts?” He teased.
Bruce's head lifted off Clark's chest, eyebrows raised. “A penny? Please, Clark. You're thoughts -if they weren't already priceless- would have a helluva lot more worth then a penny.”
“A million for my thoughts?” He tried.
Bruce laughed. “In your dreams, Reporter's Salary.”
“Damn,” he said, snapping his fingers. He shrugged. “Oh well, I guess only some dreams come true.”
Bruce propped himself up on his elbows. “Like?”
Clark rolled them over, so Bruce was underneath him, sinking into the plush comforter. “You'll find out sooner or later.” He kissed Bruce.
“Mm-hmm,” Bruce hummed around Clark's pink lips. “Will I now?”
“Not if I have anything to do with it.” Bruce and Clark turned to look at the door, startled. Alfred came in, smirking like he knew something the two on the bed didn't. Clark, blushing, got off Bruce. Alfred set a tray of food on the bedside table, seeming unfazed, as usual.
“Alfred, it isn't what it lo-”
“Save it,” he said politely, holding a hand up to Clark. “I've got breakfast on a tray and tea for the both of you. I made it the way you like it, Master Clark.”
“How did you-”
“Don't question it, Clark,” Bruce said, cutting in. “It's just Alfred; that's everything you need to know.”
“It took Master Bruce nearly twenty years, but he's finally learned,” he said, pleased, voice polished. Clark laughed, falling against the pillows. He addressed Clark. “And must I say, it's about time you knocked on that bloody door. Master Bruce has been moping over you since the day you two met. I've grown tired of it.”
“Alfred!” Bruce exclaimed, tempted to chuck a pillow in his general direction. “You have a tendency to ruin special moments, don't you?”
“It was in my resume,” he said dryly. Clark couldn't tell if he was serious, which obviously meant, with Alfred, that he was not.
“Well, I wouldn’t have been alive then,” Bruce joked, “but I'll make sure to check it out.”
Alfred made his way to the door, the corner of his lip twitching in which Clark saw as a smile. “You do that, sir.” When he was gone, Bruce climbed back on Clark, nuzzling his face in the crook of Clark's neck. He breathed in his scent, everything bright and breath-taking.
Soon, Bruce was asleep and Clark wasn't far behind, falling into darkness smelling herbal tea and sugar, and Bruce's sweet spiciness. Here, he thought, with Bruce in his arms and in the home he knew for sure he belonged in, he could spend the rest of his life listening to Bruce's heart. Because when Bruce's heart beat, it gave Clark hope, and didn't make him afraid anymore. With Bruce, he found love.