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It's when Clark steps onto his street that he realizes someone is in his apartment. He pauses on the corner and someone in a Vespa whizzes past him, making him stumble a little. He clutches his grocery bags a little closer to his chest as he finds his footing. He narrows his eyes, peering through his glasses as he looks up at the fire escape that leads to his slightly open bedroom window. Hm.
“Hello, Clark!” someone calls out from behind him, and Clark turns around, shoulders tense. He relaxes, though, when he sees it’s just Fred behind the counter of his produce stand, and he shoots him an easy grin.
"Howdy, Mr. Fred, how’re ya’ doing today?” He looks both ways, throwing a one last quick glance at his apartment, before he crosses the street.
“I’m doing good, Clark, but I’d be better if we got a little more rain. The garden’s getting a little too dry.” Fred waves his hand. “But that’s no matter. The apple tree’s still growing apples, so I’ve got your bag right here.” He produces a bulging brown bag from seemingly nowhere, and Clark takes it over the counter, grunting from the heavy weight. “You got it?”
"I do, thanks. How much I owe ya’?”
Fred shakes his head. “Oh, it's no problem, Clark. Just bring me a slice of apple pie when you're done baking it, and we'll be good.”
“Of course, Mr. Fred. Thank you, again, and I'll see ya’ later.”
“See you, Clark!”
Clark’s smile drops when he turns back to his building. No one in Metropolis knows where he lives except for Lois, and that’s not her heartbeat, too slow and steady. But it itches at the back of his brain. You know that heartbeat.
He floats up the stairwell, toes tipping every concrete step. He falls flatfooted when Mrs. McHollister opens the door to the floor above him, her cat trotting along behind her. He gives her a smile and sidesteps the wary cat. Man, cats never trust him, and it kinda makes him sad.
“Nice to see you, Clark.”
“Good to see you, too, Mrs. McHollister.”
“Meow.”
“And Henri.”
Clark jogs the rest of the way to his floor, wiggling the twelfth floor’s door handle with his elbow, juggling the bags in his arms. He sets them on the floor outside of his door and pushes them out of the way with his foot, listening for movement behind the door. It’s eerily silent except for that steady heartbeat. Thump, thump, thump.
He switches to x-ray vision to look through the door, scanning his living room. He stops short when he sees a lump on his couch. He frowns and unlocks his door, swinging it open quietly.
“Bruce?”
The billionaire’s passed out under the quilt Clark’s Ma made him when he left for college, his raven hair fanned over the throw pillow Lois bought him when he finally upgraded apartments. He's a little pale, and if he wasn't so dressed up as Brucie—his rumpled black suit coat thrown over the dining room chair and his leather Oxfords kicked off under the coffee table—Clark would think the dark smudges under his eyes were his Batman eyeshadow. He looks exhausted even just trying to sleep, a frown pulling on his lips and his eyebrows furrowed harshly. Clark wants nothing more than to drop to his knees in front of the couch and smooth a thumb over the crease between Bruce’s eyebrows, but he keeps his hands to himself as he moves quietly through his apartment, hovering as he brings in his groceries.
He ends up ordering takeout from the Mexican place down the street even though he'd bought everything for some spaghetti and really wanted some, too afraid of waking up Bruce from his much needed sleep. He listens out for footsteps coming up the stairs while carefully putting jars of sauce and boxes of noodles in his cabinet, and he intercepts the delivery guy before he can knock on the door, tip already in his hand and ignoring the strange look on his face. He takes his food back to his bedroom after putting Bruce’s in the fridge for later.
He’s laying spreadeagle in his bed after scarfing down seven enchiladas, watching the news with the volume almost on zero, when Bruce starts shifting in the living room, sitting up on the couch. “Clark?” he calls out, a whisper, and Clark’s in front of the couch before Bruce can slow blink again.
“Hello, there,” he says lowly, smiling at Bruce’s sleep-rumpled appearance. He picks up and folds the quilt that fell on the floor to have something to do with his hands, to keep from smoothing Bruce’s fly aways down or thumbing the drool off the corner of his lip. “How was your beauty sleep?”
Bruce grunts, and his eyes flutter back closed. Clark does reach out, then, setting a hand on Bruce's shoulder. To his surprise the man doesn't startle or tense up or shake him off. He leans into the touch a little bit, albeit with the corners of his lips turned down. Still, Clark melts a little. Oh, he thinks. It's like that.
“I have you some food in the fridge, okay? Some type of taco salad, I think? And I saved you an enchilada, too. Do you want that now?”
Bruce shakes his head, falling back into the plush cushions of the couch. He looks almost half-asleep already, and Clark takes pity on him.
“Okay, you can save it for later.” He pulls his hand back and stretches his arms, yawning dramatically. He never really got the human action solidly down, but Bruce doesn't say anything about how awkward and forced it must look. “But I'm kind of beat. Ready for bed, then?”
Bruce opens his eyes, studying Clark through the narrowed slits. Clark knows there's absolutely no fooling him—Kryptonians don't even have to sleep—and he's nervous, for a second, that he's going to call him out. But Bruce doesn't say anything except, “I need to shower,” voice gruff from disuse and tinged with weariness.
“Of course. Want me to carry you?” Clark teases, kidding on the square. Bruce, as always, rolls his eyes and shoves at an unbudging Clark. He drags himself up off the couch and wanders in the direction of the bathroom.
Clark, for his part, follows him. Because even though Bruce apparently knows where he’s going, turns down the right hallway—though, it was a fifty-fifty percent chance he got it right; it’s a small apartment, okay?—he’s never actually been to Clark’s apartment before. He probably has blueprint layouts stored in a folder somewhere (and might honestly have the place bugged), but he’s never shown up, never mentioned even visiting Metropolis. That’s why Clark didn’t recognize his heartbeat. He never in a million years would’ve thought…
They’ve done this before but only in the Cave, only where Bruce is comfortable. He doesn’t call it a weakness, would never admit to having anything of the sort, but it’s something he rectifies with an almost clinical proficiency. It's a burden, part of the weight, the curse of human nature he has to carry around. It's over and done with, and they never speak of it until he needs it again. Until he needs the feel of Clark’s bare chest against his, the beats of their hearts synced to finally drift off to sleep. Until he's forced to lean in, let his head be cradled by Clark’s hands, to stop his trembling.
It's like stitches, Clark likes to think. A quick fix. You take ‘em out and throw ‘em away when you don't need them any longer. They've served their purpose.
Unfortunately, Bruce, no matter how much he tries to hide it, is quick to tear open.
Clark explains where everything is while Bruce undresses, comfortably dropping his clothes on the bathroom floor. Clark adverts his gaze, searching for a spare toothbrush in the cabinet. He knocks his head on the door when he leans back and sees Bruce standing there as naked as the day he was born, soft cock laying against his thigh and scars littering his broad chest. “Frick,” he hisses out on instinct, rubbing the side of his head even though any effect of the sharp corner was long gone seconds ago. “Rao, warn a guy, would ya’?”
“I am in the bathroom about to take a shower.” Bruce huffs, lips quirked up, and it's about the same thing as a cackle for a normal person, and Clark bleeds against the wall. “I was not aware Kryptonians took showers in their clothes. I will have to update my file.”
Clark rolls his eyes but can't help but grin back. “Ha, ha, very funny.” He tosses the spare toothbrush, a glittery purple thing, onto the counter, and it clatters into the sink. “Have a nice shower, old man. I'll be in my room. Just call me if you need me.”
Bruce's small smile falters, and his fingers clench at his sides. If Clark was listening, he's sure he could hear the other man's muscles tense in an effort to stop himself from reaching out.
Clark doesn't ask, knows better than to mention it aloud. He just starts unbuttoning his shirt, fingers working deftly. He lets it hit the floor to wrinkle up, and he's unfastening his belt when Bruce speaks, eyes slightly widened.
“Clark, you don't have-”
“It's okay.” Clark lets his pants slide to the ground, and he steps out of them, left in his blue boxers, Metros socks, and crooked glasses. He knows he looks ridiculous, feels freaking ridiculous, and Bruce staring at him like he's lost his mind isn't really helping. “I'm okay if you're okay?”
It's a humiliating couple of seconds for Clark, his body only betraying his nerves in the fast pitter of his heart he's eternally grateful Bruce can't hear. Still, he habitually wipes his hands on the sides of his boxers as if they were clammy and makes an effort to slow the heaving rise and fall of his chest.
Bruce's metrics don't give anything away, as always. His heartbeat is still steady, droning on, and his breathing hasn't faltered in the slightest. The only sign something’s wrong are his tensed shoulders and how he's hunched in on himself. Clark can hear exactly how his teeth grind into each other when he bites out a flat, “Whatever,” jaw tight.
Clark carefully steps out of the rest of his clothing while Bruce starts the water. One of his socks accidentally ends up floating in the toilet much to his chagrin, and his glasses clatter into the sink with the purple toothbrush. But he makes it under the scalding water of the shower with some of his dignity still intact.
“Hello,” he chirps when he opens his eyes to find Bruce blinking up at him. He smiles a little, nervous. He’s still afraid one wrong step could mess up whatever this is, could close Bruce down and make him pull away completely.
Bruce's lips pull into a thin line. “You're blocking the shower spray.”
“Oh, gosh, sorry.” Clark shuffles around until it’s Bruce’s back the water is beating, hitting the top of his head and streaming down his face from the shower's angle.
“Dammit, Clark,” Bruce snaps, swiping at his eyes, and Clark can’t help but laugh at the sight of him.
“You look like a drowned cat, and the water pressure isn’t even that good.” That gets Clark a glare, but mixed with his soaked hair plastered to his forehead, it only makes him look moreso. A pissed, drowned cat. Cute.
Bruce shoves at Clark’s shoulder, and Clark reaches out, flexes a hand around Bruce’s bicep to stay steady. It’s hard under his large palm, and he can feel the ridges of a large scar there, probably a stab wound. He's pretty sure he was there for that one.
Bruce scoffs. “Just fucking shut up and hand me your six-in-one so I can go to sleep.”
Clark lets his chuckles peter off and does as he’s asked, but he doesn’t hand Bruce the bottle. Instead, he presses on Bruce’s arm, urging him to turn around.
“What are you doing?” he asks, but he lets Clark twist him around despite the water hitting him in the face.
Clark squeezes some of the soap into his hand and immediately drops the bottle on his foot. “Washing your hair. Turn the water off until you rinse, so you don’t actually get waterboarded. Alfred would have my head."
Clark lathers the soap and combs it through Bruce’s silky hair. Bruce hums, and Clark thinks all it would take to feel them pressed together would be a tug on the hair threaded through his fingers. Just one tug, and Bruce would melt into him, he’s sure. But he’s not going to. He’s already pushed far enough, and he’s scared to know exactly how much Bruce needs, how far he could take it.
Bruce doesn’t say anything as Clark slides his soapy hands lower, grazing over the long column of his neck and down onto his broad shoulders. He’s closing his eyes and bending down to pick up the bottle he dropped, then he’s moving onto Bruce’s back, soothing the reddened skin with a press of his thumbs. He gently guides him around and does the same with his chest.
The number of scars are increased on his front—bullet wounds, stab wounds, lashings, even burns—and Clark takes the time to smooth over and map every single one, ignoring the stark blue of Bruce's eyes watching him do it.
It's amazing to Clark how much Bruce puts his body through just to serve justice and keep his beloved city safe. He took it upon himself, no obligation and no powers. He's so strong, so willed, such the perfect example of self-discipline. He's everything a city could want, but he's also human, and everyone tends to forget that, especially the man himself. So, if Clark has to do a little extra, if he's allowed to, he absolutely will. He'll hold Bruce’s trembling shoulders after a bad patrol and act like it never happened in the daylight. He'll endure the glares, lectures, and grumpiness. He'll flay himself open and let Bruce look at whatever he wants just so Clark can take the opportunity to build him back up. It's never a hardship, not even once.
“Can you dry yourself off?” Clark asks after Bruce washes the rest of himself and rinses, and- yeah, he should've probably expected that scowl for that one. “Okay, then, do so, and you can get into bed. I laid out some sweats and a shirt for you, so.” Clark squirts some more soap in his hand. “I'll be out in a second.”
Bruce stands there and stares at him for a second, inscrutable expression on his face. Clark pauses, waiting for him to say something, but he shakes his head and disappears.
Clark frowns and showers quickly, taking half the time and care washing himself than he did Bruce. He’s still towel drying his hair when he steps into his bedroom, but he freezes when he sees Bruce tucked in his bed, blankets bunched up just under his bare shoulders. He glances up from his phone when he notices Clark and frowns.
“Towel drying your curls will damage them, y'know.”
Clark shrugs and drops the towel on the floor to rummage through his drawers for a pair of boxers. “I don't think so? My hair is also kind of indestructible, and I have to keep it trimmed every couple of days cause it grows back really fast.” He slides them on and then moves to get his own pajama set, but he’s stopped by a disapproving grunt.
His sheets are still cold when he slides in them, and Bruce must be too because he's immediately glued to Clark's side, tangling their bare legs together and pressing his face into the alcove of his neck.
This is nice, Clark thinks, already dozing off, eyelids fluttering closed. Bruce is cool against his side, and his weight forces Clark to relax, body drooping into the mattress.
“Kal,” Bruce whispers after a slow minute or a short hour, and Clark hums, the sound thick and sleepy in his throat, more because of Bruce's breath tickling his throat than a response to being called. “I'm returning the favor next time.”
Clark burrows his nose deeper into Bruce's hair and hums again, fainter. He can't exactly place what he means, and any idea dissolves before he can latch onto it. Next time, he remembers, though.
Next time.