Hope you enjoy the conclusion, OP! (If you don't ... uh, just pretend I failed to return after Part 3.) Thank you so much for the encouragement along the way - I can't tell you how much I appreciated it. ♥
Clark is the one who makes the second mistake.
It's not that he's decided to try to do anything differently. "Try" implies that he intended to, that there was some kind of forethought and effort involved. And that's not what happens.
Because it doesn't count as forethought that he spends so much time thinking about how it went last time. And it doesn't count as effort that he twists things around in his head, so far that it starts to look to him like maybe Bruce was—was careful with him.
Which should be ridiculous. Clark had still been a little kryptonite-sick, granted, but at the end of the day he'd also still been Superman: still invulnerable, still unbreakable. He'd been all right, all right and steadily getting better. Unless there'd been another chunk of kryptonite hidden under the bed or something, Bruce hadn't needed to worry about making things easier for him. Bruce hadn't needed to—take care of him like that. And Bruce doesn't do unnecessary things.
Clark can't make sense of it, and it nags at him. He lingers on it. And the next time—
The truth is, it's the easiest thing in the world; the truth is, Clark doesn't think at all. Bruce is pounding into him steadily, exactly the way he likes, and it feels so, so good—it's like Bruce is taking care of him again, almost, putting time and effort into making him feel like this. It would have been harder to stop himself than it is to hook an arm around Bruce's neck, to tug him down until Clark can press a temple against his jaw and groan.
(They don't touch each other longer than they have to. And they don't make noise.)
And it should be a disaster; but Clark doesn't even have time to regret it.
The tail end of the groan is still shuddering through Clark's chest when Bruce—systematic, methodical, efficient Bruce—falters, stutters his hips; is only half-out before he shoves back in, sudden and off-balance and too fast. His heart sounds the same way it always does when they do this, low and quick with exertion, but his breath—Clark hears it catch, can't not, and he's never heard that sound before.
(It sounds like surprise. Bruce is never surprised by anything.)
The abbreviated thrust makes Clark curl up into Bruce that much harder, makes his arm tighten where it presses against the side of Bruce's throat. Bruce swallows, Clark can feel it, and then—
Then he slides one long strong hand under Clark, and settles it flat across the span of Clark's back. Not to hold Clark up, not to steady him, or if it is it's unnecessary—and Bruce doesn't do unnecessary things—so maybe it's just because—just because—
Clark comes in a wash of red light behind his eyelids, squeezing them shut tight so he can't accidentally fry a hole in the ceiling; and he clutches at Bruce with both hands, thighs tight around Bruce's waist; and Bruce fucks into him sharply one more time and makes a low rough sound—a sound—into Clark's ear.
And that's when Clark knows it wasn't a mistake at all.
Bruce makes himself let go, pulls out and rolls away. His heart is pounding, but that doesn't mean anything; that always happens when they do this. Listening to that won't tell Clark anything he shouldn't know.
He needs to get up. Stand up, walk away, clean himself off, wash the sweat and the come and Clark away until it might as well never have happened. He needs to get up; but somehow all momentum is lost before he reaches the edge of the bed. He should keep going—has kept going every other time, and there's nothing stopping him.
But for one unthinkable, inexplicable moment, he doesn't, and that's all it takes.
That pause can't be undone. Not even if he gets up now; not even if he makes Clark leave, if he walks right out of the Watchtower and never lays eyes on Clark again. He could have left the bed and didn't—chose not to—and that feels like as loud an action as shouting in Clark's face.
He stays where he is. Every second he keeps doing it is another mistake, and he lies there, eyes shut, and counts them as they pile up.
Clark isn't sick this time. Clark will go. He won't be cruel about it: Clark is kind to animals, strangers, people he doesn't like, all the time. (It's irrational to think of Superman's constant, relentless generosity as a step down from the anger Clark's sometimes shown Bruce. And Bruce doesn't indulge in irrationality.) He'll go; and whether he decides to come back again, whether he'll open his door the next time Bruce knocks, can't matter. Bruce can't allow it to.
The mattress shifts. The motion of it fills Bruce with a grim kind of satisfaction, the resigned feeling of being proved right about truths that are ugly.
But it isn't followed by the shush of Clark dressing, or the sound of the door. Even with his eyes closed, Bruce can follow the soft pat of Clark's steps across bare wood—and then the change in surface to tile, water running, the wet thwack of a used washcloth being tossed back down onto the rim of the tub. And then—
Then Clark comes back and lies down again, close enough to touch; and Bruce breathes in and opens his eyes, and lets himself think that maybe some mistakes are worth making.
FILL: in my head the unsaid words; Bruce/Clark, first time they're tender (4/4)
Clark is the one who makes the second mistake.
It's not that he's decided to try to do anything differently. "Try" implies that he intended to, that there was some kind of forethought and effort involved. And that's not what happens.
Because it doesn't count as forethought that he spends so much time thinking about how it went last time. And it doesn't count as effort that he twists things around in his head, so far that it starts to look to him like maybe Bruce was—was careful with him.
Which should be ridiculous. Clark had still been a little kryptonite-sick, granted, but at the end of the day he'd also still been Superman: still invulnerable, still unbreakable. He'd been all right, all right and steadily getting better. Unless there'd been another chunk of kryptonite hidden under the bed or something, Bruce hadn't needed to worry about making things easier for him. Bruce hadn't needed to—take care of him like that. And Bruce doesn't do unnecessary things.
Clark can't make sense of it, and it nags at him. He lingers on it. And the next time—
The truth is, it's the easiest thing in the world; the truth is, Clark doesn't think at all. Bruce is pounding into him steadily, exactly the way he likes, and it feels so, so good—it's like Bruce is taking care of him again, almost, putting time and effort into making him feel like this. It would have been harder to stop himself than it is to hook an arm around Bruce's neck, to tug him down until Clark can press a temple against his jaw and groan.
(They don't touch each other longer than they have to. And they don't make noise.)
And it should be a disaster; but Clark doesn't even have time to regret it.
The tail end of the groan is still shuddering through Clark's chest when Bruce—systematic, methodical, efficient Bruce—falters, stutters his hips; is only half-out before he shoves back in, sudden and off-balance and too fast. His heart sounds the same way it always does when they do this, low and quick with exertion, but his breath—Clark hears it catch, can't not, and he's never heard that sound before.
(It sounds like surprise. Bruce is never surprised by anything.)
The abbreviated thrust makes Clark curl up into Bruce that much harder, makes his arm tighten where it presses against the side of Bruce's throat. Bruce swallows, Clark can feel it, and then—
Then he slides one long strong hand under Clark, and settles it flat across the span of Clark's back. Not to hold Clark up, not to steady him, or if it is it's unnecessary—and Bruce doesn't do unnecessary things—so maybe it's just because—just because—
Clark comes in a wash of red light behind his eyelids, squeezing them shut tight so he can't accidentally fry a hole in the ceiling; and he clutches at Bruce with both hands, thighs tight around Bruce's waist; and Bruce fucks into him sharply one more time and makes a low rough sound—a sound—into Clark's ear.
And that's when Clark knows it wasn't a mistake at all.
Bruce makes himself let go, pulls out and rolls away. His heart is pounding, but that doesn't mean anything; that always happens when they do this. Listening to that won't tell Clark anything he shouldn't know.
He needs to get up. Stand up, walk away, clean himself off, wash the sweat and the come and Clark away until it might as well never have happened. He needs to get up; but somehow all momentum is lost before he reaches the edge of the bed. He should keep going—has kept going every other time, and there's nothing stopping him.
But for one unthinkable, inexplicable moment, he doesn't, and that's all it takes.
That pause can't be undone. Not even if he gets up now; not even if he makes Clark leave, if he walks right out of the Watchtower and never lays eyes on Clark again. He could have left the bed and didn't—chose not to—and that feels like as loud an action as shouting in Clark's face.
He stays where he is. Every second he keeps doing it is another mistake, and he lies there, eyes shut, and counts them as they pile up.
Clark isn't sick this time. Clark will go. He won't be cruel about it: Clark is kind to animals, strangers, people he doesn't like, all the time. (It's irrational to think of Superman's constant, relentless generosity as a step down from the anger Clark's sometimes shown Bruce. And Bruce doesn't indulge in irrationality.) He'll go; and whether he decides to come back again, whether he'll open his door the next time Bruce knocks, can't matter. Bruce can't allow it to.
The mattress shifts. The motion of it fills Bruce with a grim kind of satisfaction, the resigned feeling of being proved right about truths that are ugly.
But it isn't followed by the shush of Clark dressing, or the sound of the door. Even with his eyes closed, Bruce can follow the soft pat of Clark's steps across bare wood—and then the change in surface to tile, water running, the wet thwack of a used washcloth being tossed back down onto the rim of the tub. And then—
Then Clark comes back and lies down again, close enough to touch; and Bruce breathes in and opens his eyes, and lets himself think that maybe some mistakes are worth making.