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As he ran the warm towel across his face, Clark felt Bruce’s gaze on him. He turned his head, glancing through the open bathroom door to meet Bruce’s eyes.
Bruce sat comfortably in the armchair near the large, open window. His long legs were crossed, and his hands rested on his knee as his foot swayed.
The morning light fell across his face, turning his brown eyes a soft honey color. It accentuated the dark circles beneath them, yet also highlighted the gentle glow his skin had taken on over the past two days.
Clark let his gaze linger for a moment.
“Do you want anything?”
“I want to shave you,” Bruce said softly, his voice low, still raw from the night before.
Clark let out a sigh, goosebumps rising on his skin at the pleasant sound.
Without waiting for an answer, Bruce rose from the armchair and crossed the bedroom in long strides, his limp almost imperceptible.
Once in front of Clark, he picked up the straight razor from the sink, then fashioned an improvised basket, wrapping the shaving supplies in three towels. Bruce tilted his head toward the marble shower bench, his gaze never leaving Clark.
A smile spread across Clark’s lips, warmth blooming in his chest. He set the warm towel on the sink and stepped back. As soon as he settled on the bench, Bruce moved closer, positioning himself between Clark’s legs.
Clark tilted his head back against the wall. Slowly and deliberately, Bruce applied the shaving foam to his face, the tips of his calloused fingers brushing gently over his cheeks and neck.
Bruce didn’t need to go that far; a couple of days’ stubble hardly required such care. Yet Clark chose not to mention it as he watched Bruce from beneath his lashes.
Like everything he did, Bruce worked in silence, his lips pressed into a thin line, his eyes intent. But from that privileged, close-up view, Clark could see how serene he looked.
Suddenly, he wondered whether Bruce wore that same expression at the company or during his investigations. Until now, Clark had been content to observe from afar, but curiosity had taken hold, and he made a mental note to find a way to see for himself later.
Clark let out a small hum.
After a brief moment of thought, he reached out to touch Bruce’s hips, giving them a gentle squeeze. Even through the black bathrobe, he could feel the warmth of his skin and the subtle curves that led down to his thighs. His fingers toyed with the bathrobe's belt without actually pulling it, though the thought crossed his mind.
Bruce met his gaze, and Clark could see the questions forming in his eyes. As Clark waited patiently for him to speak, his fingers continued to move; one moment he was playing with his belt, the next he was deliberately tracing the curve of his hips.
In the end, however, Bruce kept whatever had crossed his mind to himself. He simply continued to massage the cream into Clark’s face, the caress lingering far longer than necessary.
As soon as the foam satisfactorily covered half of Clark’s face and neck, Bruce opened the razor. His hand was steady as he glided the blade across Clark’s skin, the soft scrape the only sound besides their breathing in the large bathroom. Between short strokes, Bruce wiped the razor on a towel, clearing away the excess foam and hair.
The silence between them drew Clark, as it often did, into the steady rhythm of Bruce’s heartbeat. Without realizing it, he smiled at the calm, soothing cadence and drew in a deep breath, letting the scent in the air relax his body even further.
Everything there carried Bruce’s fragrance. Not the intense, woody cologne he wore to work, nor the pungent, metallic oil-tinged scent he deliberately masked himself with when prowling the streets of Gotham at night.
As Clark had only recently discovered, it was something gentler.
From the shaving cream to the expensive hair and body products, from the bathrobes to the bed linens, everything bore that warm, soft sandalwood mingled with a faint, bitter herbal note.
What Clark had once thought slightly exaggerated, he now couldn’t help wanting to immerse himself in. It was no longer enough simply to breathe in the air; now he felt the need to draw it directly from Bruce’s skin and hair.
The thought lingered, and as Clark became more attuned to Bruce’s presence, the memory of just a few hours earlier surfaced, slow and insistent.
Clark drew in a deep breath and swallowed hard, recalling how he had run his nose through Bruce’s sweat-damp hair down to his neck while his hips moved in an urgent rhythm, pressing him against the bed with his body.
Amid his heated thoughts, he realized that perhaps it was then that he had become addicted to Bruce’s scent.
Still lost in the memory, Clark’s eyes drifted beyond Bruce’s face.
His gaze traced the marks along Bruce’s neck, following the hickeys that disappeared beneath the neckline of his bathrobe. Still, his eyes roamed, as if, even with the fabric in the way, he could see the bites and finger marks he had left on Bruce’s waist, hips, inner thighs, and ankles.
A tingling heat coursed through him as the image surfaced: Bruce arching his back, leaning his tired, love-marked body against Clark’s chest as Clark came inside him for the third time.
Without realizing it, his body tried to move closer, hands trembling slightly at the memory of touching every curve, every firm muscle and soft flesh, every—
“Be still,” Bruce’s deep voice cut through his thoughts, pulling him back. Clark felt the razor’s keen edge press lightly against his throat. “Do you want me to kill you?”
Clark’s eyes widened, but his surprised expression quickly softened. He chuckled softly, a little breathless, thinking for a fleeting moment that Bruce knew exactly where his thoughts had been drifting.
He glanced up, and when their eyes met, he let out a trembling sigh.
Those intense honey eyes and the messy brown hair streaked with gray at the temples stirred a deep, unfamiliar feeling inside him.
He blinked slowly, lost in that strange longing.
“Clark?” Bruce asked.
The blade pressed against his throat again, this time firmer and undeniably deliberate, as Bruce’s brows furrowed and his expression darkened slightly.
Clark laughed.
“Sorry,” he whispered.
Slowly, he wrapped an arm around Bruce’s waist, pulling him closer. His hand hovered near the top of Bruce’s thigh, a shadow of a touch. The movement pressed his neck more firmly against the blade.
“You know very well, Bruce…” Clark murmured under his breath, a smile curving his lips. “It would have to be bright green, just to start…”
Bruce hummed, narrowing his eyes.
“Don’t challenge me. I can find a way if you annoy me enough.”
But the slight lift at the corners of his mouth was unmistakable, his eyes gleaming with amusement before he returned his attention to shaving Clark’s face.
Bruce finished and set the razor aside on the bench. Without letting go of Clark’s half-embrace, he leaned over to pick up the hand shower mounted on the wall. Bruce moistened his hands and then caressed Clark’s face, the tender massage of his fingers dissolving the foam on his cheeks, jaw, and neck. When only a thin layer remained, he picked up the hand shower and the soft stream of cold water flowed over Clark’s face. A few drops trickled down, but Bruce caught them with the towel before they could reach his collarbones.
Clark laughed.
“I could just get up and wash,” he offered, making no move to release Bruce.
“Nobody is stopping you,” Bruce said, a faint smile returning for a moment before fading.
When no trace of foam remained on Clark’s face, a third towel was placed over his face, gently drying his damp skin.
As soon as the towel was placed on the shower bench and the hand shower returned to the wall, Bruce opened the aftershave bottle and applied it to Clark’s face. A soft freshness radiated from his skin, and a comforting warmth spread across his chest and face, though Clark suspected it came more from the delicate touch of Bruce’s hands and his gentle gaze than from the expensive product itself.
“There,” Bruce said.
He studied Clark’s face from top to bottom before giving a small, satisfied nod.
Clark hesitated for a moment, then slowly loosened his embrace around Bruce. He brought a hand to his own face, humming at the unusual softness of his skin.
“Thank you,” he said, smiling gently. “You’re really good at this.”
His smile widened as he saw Bruce’s expression soften before he turned away.
Bruce’s movements were unhurried as he crossed the bathroom. He dropped the towels into the laundry hamper slowly, then returned the products to their proper shelves. The soft clink of the packaging against the metal filled the silence.
Clark blinked gently, following each movement. Gradually, he realized that unfamiliar longing stirred simply by staring at him.
The lingering scent in the air, the ghostly memory of their bodies pressed together just moments before, and the casual sight of Bruce affected him more than the teasing at that Friday’s dinner ever had.
He drew in a deep breath, frowning as he noticed his hands trembling and his heart racing uncomfortably fast.
He closed his eyes, running his hands over his thighs, brushing the black terrycloth of his bathrobe. His breath deepened as he tried to steady his racing heartbeat.
The sound of the tap water turning on seemed almost distant as he searched for something to hold onto. A slight smile appeared on his lips as he found himself seeking Bruce’s heartbeat again. After a few dozen beats, he managed to match Bruce’s soft, steady rhythm.
“I think you’d look good with a full beard someday,” Bruce’s raw voice suddenly broke the silence.
Clark opened his eyes slowly and met his gaze in the mirror.
“Really?” he asked softly. After a moment, he smiled and added, “Would you take care of my beard like this, too?”
Bruce blinked a few times, then let out a chuckle. It wasn’t anything flashy, but it lit up his face entirely. Clark let out a trembling sigh; his heart was once again losing control.
“Don’t be fooled by this weekend, Clark,” Bruce said softly, a vulnerable expression flickering in his honey-colored eyes before giving way to a serene look. “I’m by no means someone with the energy for any kind of relationship anymore. Don’t get your hopes up too high. You just caught me with some free time.”
He looked away, gently rubbing the razor blade under the water, even though the steel was already gleaming.
“Ask Alfred, and he’ll tell you how I am. Without any ceremony, and in plenty of detail,” he continued, his voice dripping with amusement. After a moment, he added, “I’m sure you’re not just a handsome face, so you’ve probably realized that some of the bad headlines are actually on the right track.”
Clark blinked slowly, letting the soft silence linger between them. Finally, he sighed, a slight smile appearing on his lips.
“I don’t think I need to bother Alfred… or use any of my job skills. I’m really satisfied with what I see. That’s enough,” he said quietly, sincerity weighing every word. “Actually… I can’t wait for when you have some free time again.”
Bruce’s expression softened at Clark’s words, and a faint curve of his lips lingered. Perhaps, if Clark wasn’t mistaken, a slight blush warmed his face.
“You talked about your job skills…” Bruce continued softly, still looking down while rinsing the razor. “I’m always impressed by how close you come to giving yourself away… you don’t even try and yet nobody notices who you are.”
Clark hummed, clearly noticing the shift in subject, but a small smile remained on his lips.
“Do you think so?” he asked.
He had never thought Bruce was one for small talk.
He liked it a lot.
Their eyes met once more in the mirror, and there was a hint of amusement in Bruce’s expression.
“Are your glasses and clothes really so powerful that they can fool even capable journalists?” he asked, his tone almost a grumble.
Clark chuckled softly.
“You should try it. Maybe it’ll work for you too, Bruce. Not that you need it... but it would save you a lot of money.”
He crossed his arms, noticing with amusement that Bruce’s gaze drifted from his face to his forearms and biceps before meeting his eyes again.
After a moment, Clark teased,
“I can lend you mine if you want to try them.”
Bruce hummed.
“Perhaps… but I don’t know if it would suit my style,” he said.
His eyes shone with something Clark couldn’t quite place, but it was fascinating to watch.
“And if I were you, I would be suspicious of your colleagues, Mr. Kent,” Bruce continued. “I suppose the ‘investigative’ part should be just as relevant as the ‘journalist’… no matter how enviable your disguise is.”
“They’re great, it’s just that…” Clark began softly. His voice dipped slightly as he added, “…not everyone has eyes as beautifully keen as Batman’s.”
Their gazes lingered in the mirror until Bruce looked away with a soft snort and an eye roll. Clark watched, delighted, as a blush spread across Bruce’s face as well as a faint smile.
Bruce finally placed the razor back in the drawer and, in deliberately slow steps, walked out of the bathroom. Clark followed with his eyes, lingering on every curve the black bathrobe failed to conceal, until Bruce disappeared from view.
“Are you going to stay there, Clark?” Bruce’s voice called from a distance a few moments later.
Clark smiled and stood, adjusting his own bathrobe.
“No, I’m going now,” he said, grinning as he followed after him.