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It was a quiet night in Metropolis. Buses were running out of passengers, restaurants were letting out their final customers, and in a small, well loved apartment, one man who very clearly did not live there was sat on a couch that was very clearly too small to fit even one of him, let alone him and the man it actually belonged to.
Bruce was sat on Clark’s raggedy couch while his boyfriend took a shower. He’d taken his tablet with him, filling the time with some idle spreadsheets work, sending JL members reminders about sending in their monitor duty availability, and keeping an eye on the clock to see when he’d have to leave for patrol. It’d been about a week since they’d last seen each other outside of work, a busy week for both of them, and all it took was helping with the dishes and a slice of Ma’s apple cheddar pie for Bruce to feel settled, at ease. At home.
Small moments like this were a big part of their relationship. Their daily lives consisted of a lot of big moments, Bruce with his city, Clark with the world. Not to mention how they shared so many of those moments together. In their first few months of dating, both of them realized how important it was to have quality time together, moments shared where neither of them did much of anything at all.
Especially the moments they’d share on this couch.
Back then, Bruce had gone in thinking he’d know what to expect in a relationship. He had a lot of experience under his belt, and while not all of his past flings may have been healthy, as time went on he’d figured out how dating and relationships worked as Bruce Wayne and Batman alike. One followed the standard road to romance more closely to society’s norm than the other, but both personas were apparently quite desirable to those he ended up falling for. Sometimes, he’d meet someone who saw the man behind both. That rarely ended well.
But his relationship with Clark had been different from the start. For one, Clark already knew so much of him before they’d even gotten together, and the same was true for Bruce. Then again, all of his flings and relationships had been different from each other, and all of them had, to some degree, been based on physical attraction and the thrill of seduction. It wasn’t an illogical conclusion to think this would be the same, especially not when considering how long Bruce and Clark circled around each other, slowly daring to draw closer and closer one step at a time: the classic game of love.
It’d been easy, to play the player. Flirtation was a pattern he could find adeptness in, seduction a script he could follow, pleasure a skill he could study. He’d suspected other people didn’t feel the same way about sex as he did, knew logistically that they genuinely desired it, but could never quite find himself actively or passively desiring it in the same way. It wasn’t as if he didn’t enjoy the physical intimacy of it – he still could kiss Clark for hours, if Clark felt up for it, and Bruce did get a kick out of being physically turned on together. But that’d be it, for him. The act of sex without the ulterior motive of building a connection, or creating a reputation for himself, or even personally pleasing someone he cared for – without that, there wasn’t much reason left for him to pursue it.
So when Bruce and Clark had been making out on Clark’s too-small couch for the very first time, and Bruce followed the script to slide a hand under his shirt and Clark had gently pulled back, the talk that followed had settled something in him.
They’d talked about it after, too – sometimes in bits and pieces, sometimes in long late night conversations. Clark had a more cut and clear way of saying it – he simply didn’t enjoy having sex, he’d said, had done it once or twice and reaffirmed it wasn’t for him. Bruce didn’t have that. He’d had a lot of sex, and even if it was easier to tell Clark that he was more than happy to have no sex with him at all, explaining why turned out to be a lot more difficult. The more they’d talked about their previous experiences, and the closer they got as to why Bruce had initiated if he didn’t quite desire it either, Bruce had slowly, inevitably realized how far down the reason went. He’d known for longer than he’d let himself accept it, hadn’t quite dared to say it yet.
One evening, on the couch, Clark had asked him point-blank. And, well. Being with Clark did always make him want to be brave.
Most people want it, so I assumed this meant you wanted it too. It’s something I’m good at, something I’ve studied, practiced. And I – I hoped you’d like it. I hoped you’d be satisfied. That it was something you wanted, that I could give you.
Clark had looked at him, so unbearably open and fond that Bruce had to turn away. He’d taken Bruce’s hand, gently stroked his thumb over the knuckles for a minute, let them both sit in the vulnerable silence. Then, he smiled, ducked his head, brought up Bruce’s hand and pressed a soft kiss to his knuckles.
If you wanted to give me what I want, all you’d have to do was stay, he’d murmured into Bruce’s skin.
And that was that.
It wasn’t always going to be easy. There was a lot more introspection and vulnerability ahead of him, if he wanted to actually communicate effectively with Clark, if he wanted to make this work. It would take time, work, and difficult decisions, and with their jobs, who knows how much time they’d even have to spend together? It was hard even to think about it properly, to not let himself spiral into thinking out every single possible aspect as if it were a League mission. It was hard to figure out exactly what he was feeling; harder still to express those feelings, to push back the biting shame at his vulnerability, to look at Clark’s patient face as he waited for Bruce to talk. And it was hard to actively unmask, to not fall into that convenient autopilot he built and learnt to blend in, to not let himself blindly follow his preprogrammed dialogue. He didn’t have a script for this.
And then Clark lumbered out, freshly washed and dried, in an old MetU sweatshirt and candy cane patterned joggers, smiled and said “Hey,” – and Bruce remembered that all of that was worth it if he got to have this.
“Hi,” he replied, and went back to his spreadsheets.
“C’mon, scoot over,” Clark said.
Bruce raised an eyebrow. “It’s almost eleven,” he said.
“Just resting my eyes,” Clark said, innocently.
Bruce narrowed his eyes. “You’re going to fall asleep.”
“No I won’t,” Clark lied and settled in sideways on the other end of the couch, legs thrown over Bruce’s lap. Bruce narrowed his eyes even harder. Clark yawned theatrically and pretended not to notice.
And that’s how they sat, as Bruce tapped away at his tablet and Clark’s breath slowly evened out. In a little less than half an hour, the clock would hit eleven, and Bruce would have to put away the tablet, wake Clark up and go.
He rested his hands on Clark’s legs, and looked at him – his threadbare sweatshirt, the Christmas pyjama pants. The mess of curls, the light fluttering of eyelashes against his cheek, his parted lips as he breathed out.
Bruce reached out and took one of Clark’s hands. He gently stroked over his knuckles with his thumb, and in his sleep, as if on instinct, Clark squeezed back. Bruce closed his eyes and ignored the crick in his back as he slowly, as not to wake him, bent down to kiss Clark’s knuckles, pressed his forehead to Clark’s hand.
I love you, he thought. I’d stay here as long as the world would allow it.