We are creeping gradually closer to Clark suiting up again! And feel free to sing it with me if you know the words: oh, Bruce. ;D Also, side note: while New 52!Diana can fly, I'm actually not sure whether movieverse!Diana can? So for the moment I'm hedging my bets and not coming down firmly one way or the other. /o\
So Clark likes sleeping with Bruce Wayne enough to do it more than once. It's not a problem. It makes sense: Bruce is the only person within about a thousand-mile radius who knows about Superman and is neither Lex Luthor nor Clark's mother. He's conveniently located, he never says no to a good time, and Clark can relax around him—can float, if he likes, can fly or use the speed or idly tell him the funny thing a woman fifteen floors below them just said over the phone.
And it's not as though Bruce has grounds to object. It's been very thoroughly established that Bruce Wayne finds Clark physically appealing; the relationship is firmly casual, as all Bruce Wayne's relationships are. And—
(if he can't admit it, he can't compensate for it)
—it saves Bruce the trouble of finding someone else, on the evenings when he doesn't want to sit in the Cave alone, eyes catching on Jason's uniform every time he turns around. Clark does keep a lid on his powers most of the time, Bruce has confirmed it indirectly in a dozen ways; but he also seems to keep an eye, or maybe an ear, on the penthouse. Three out of every four times Bruce ends up there, Clark's out on the balcony before long. And Bruce always lets him in.
The casual tone Bruce established the first time serves him well—enforcing it actually permits for a certain degree of spontaneity. If Clark had any expectation of being able to fuck Bruce naked, to take his time, it could never just happen; Bruce would need to prepare. He'd need to get out the precisely-shaded latex he uses when Bruce Wayne plans to let his shirt get unbuttoned, to glue it down and smooth over its edges, to apply concealer and powder to any bruises Bruce Wayne shouldn't have.
But handjobs, blowjobs, fingering, a little rough frottage, can all be done without posing significant risk. Bruce can even let Clark fuck him now and then, as long as Bruce's shirt stays on—as long as Clark doesn't try to shove Bruce's slacks down any further than mid-thigh, as long as Bruce hasn't recently injured his hips or lower back while on patrol.
And they're relatively well-matched. Of course Clark is capable of defying gravity—but the first time he doesn't and Bruce lifts him off the floor anyway, he makes a small startled noise and clutches at Bruce's shoulders.
(It was a mistake. Bruce hadn't thought; he'd just wanted—
But that's the kind of thing Bruce Wayne could conceivably be vain about. When Clark grips his arm and says unsteadily, "Bruce, you—you can—?" all Bruce has to do is smirk at him, is wink and hitch him up a little higher against the penthouse wall.
"We can't all be Superman, I admit it," he murmurs against Clark's throat. "But give me some credit: I still work out.")
It's not a problem. Bruce can handle it.
He doesn't even have to worry about how often to let it happen. He still has responsibilities—still has to go on patrol on a regular basis. It's not as though he's sitting in the penthouse waiting for Clark every night.
True, there are times when patrol yields next to nothing. The media hasn't caught more than a few glimpses of Diana yet, but Wonder Woman has already made an impact on the landscape of criminal pursuits in the wider Metropolis area. There are times when Bruce is left crouching on a rooftop in the quiet, with nothing to think about except whether Clark's listening for him right now in the penthouse and finding nothing—whether he's disappointed.
And then there are times when robotic prototypes come crashing out of closed-up LexCorp buildings.
Bruce is actually relatively impressed with this one: it's fast-moving and can climb well, which is a level of coordination he hadn't realized LexCorp had managed to achieve in robots of this size.
He catches up to it within moments, but the lead time means it's waiting for him—it tore a concrete piling out of this building somewhere on the way up, and it has good aim. He dodges, but only just, and he has to twist around and throw himself down against the roof of the building to do it; one of the thing's gripping arms closes around his chest even as he's bracing to push himself back up, and it lifts him and throws—
He's already got a hand at the utility belt for a grappling hook, but in the end he doesn't need it: before he can fall more than a dozen feet below the level of the roof, Diana catches him.
"Hello, stranger," she says into his ear, amused, and lands them both on the roof—she'd leapt from the shorter building next door, judging by the arc they take on the way.
"Good timing," Bruce tells her, and then hurls himself sideways in time to avoid the robot's next lunge.
She's wearing her cloak, the hood—they're still finding their feet, trying to work out exactly what they want the Justice League to be and do and stand for, and Diana had decided it was best to keep as low a profile as she could for a while. But it doesn't slow her down at all: Bruce shoots the line he would have used to save himself so that the hook goes into one of the robot's outstretched arms, and Diana takes the opportunity to dart in and rip a second arm off entirely.
"Do you know what happened?" Diana says to him loudly, over the creak of metal and hiss of sparks, as she punches the robot in what could be called its chest a couple of times.
"Power surge," Bruce says. "Building's one of the ones that shut down after Luthor went to jail. Apparently LexCorp didn't quite finish clearing out the basement."
"Careless," Diana assesses with a smile, and then crouches, leaps—plunges a hand straight through the paneling on the robot's side, and pulls a fistful of circuitboard and wire back out.
It's not quite enough to deactivate the robot completely, but she must have gotten something essential to its motive functions. It no longer seems able to compensate for the missing weight of its torn-off arm, or for the fact that another is immobilized, and it promptly keels over.
Diana lets the handful drop, and then—here it comes—looks over at Bruce, face lit in flashes as the robot keeps throwing off sprays of sparks, and says, "You still haven't told him yet."
It's Diana: Bruce allows himself to close his eyes. She's been bringing it up at regular intervals since the gala at the museum; and he's starting to think judgment would be easier to bear than her patience, her quiet understanding.
"He doesn't need to know," Bruce says. Somehow it comes out sounding thin, when he says it to Diana.
(She didn't use it tonight, but the lasso's still hanging at her waist.)
(It's not a lie.)
(It's not.)
"You have to know you won't be able to keep it from him forever," Diana says. And Bruce would know how to respond if she sounded angry, frustrated, but she doesn't.
And he won't be able to keep it from Clark forever. No matter how many possibilities he anticipates, how many exigencies he includes in his considerations, the universe has proven to him again and again that there is always something he will fail to account for. There is always something he won't realize until it's already too late.
"I know," Bruce agrees.
Diana looks at him a moment longer and then simply clasps his shoulder, just enough strength behind it that he can feel it clearly through the body armor. "Let's see if there are any more where this came from," she says, over the sound of the news helicopter that's already catching up with them; and Bruce nods and steps off the roof.
(He could tell Clark. Maybe.
Clark hasn't seen Batman since he came back—hasn't even asked about him again, not since that first day, or at least he hasn't asked Bruce. It's impossible to guess what he thinks, how he feels. If there were any reason to believe it wouldn't be a disaster, to think Clark might still accept his help as Bruce Wayne and work alongside him as Batman—
If it's going to go badly, then there's no point. Coming clean will only determine when the disaster strikes, not its magnitude; if Clark is moved to anger, the offense responsible is equal whether Bruce confesses to it or is discovered, and it cannot be undone, erased, or made up for. The lies may even overshadow the attempted murder, at this point, and what amends could Bruce ever make that would be to scale with either?
Bruce can't earn Clark's forgiveness, and it's appalling to think of asking for it—of prevailing on Clark to grant it where it's undeserved.
But if somehow it doesn't matter as much to Clark as that; if he's disconcerted and uncomfortable, but not, in the end, cut deeply enough for it to truly hurt him—
Maybe. Bruce would consider it.)
The next night is a Clark night. Bruce hears him land on the balcony and wonders whether Clark can hear the helpless thump of his heart in reply; and then he stands and opens the balcony door and sees Clark's face.
"What's wrong?" he says, and Clark looks up.
"Oh—nothing like that," Clark says instantly, a little wide-eyed, and damn, damn. Bruce immediately moderates his expression. "I just," and then Clark bites his lip and looks away, out over the city below them. "I've just been thinking. About—being Superman again."
As if Bruce Wayne would have useful input—but then again, there's only two other people in the world Clark thinks he can talk to about this. (It would be three, if he knew Diana knew—but he doesn't. Not yet.) So perhaps it's not so surprising after all.
Bruce raises his eyebrows, makes a considering face, and then shrugs. "What's to think about?"
"I want to," Clark says, without preamble, and then he ducks his head and scrubs a hand through his hair with something that's not quite a laugh. "I almost wish I didn't. I feel like it would be easier to decide if I could be sure I wasn't deciding for the wrong reasons."
Bruce affects surprise. (It isn't difficult.) "Clark Kent, boy scout? The wrong reasons?"
"It was hard sometimes," Clark says, "but I do like helping people. And if I can do something and I choose not to—" He breaks off, shaking his head, eyes down. "I don't think I'm comfortable with that. I don't think I can be. But I—you were right."
"I'm right a lot of the time, Clark," Bruce tells him with a smirk. "You're going to need to be more specific."
Clark rolls his eyes, smacks Bruce's elbow with the back of one hand; and then his face goes sober again, close enough to the almost graven expression Superman uses that it makes Bruce want to look away. "Epicenter of global destruction," he says quietly. "That's what you said, and you were right. And—" He shakes his head again, jaw suddenly tight. "The only reason Zod ever came to this planet at all was because of me. The only reason Luthor brought him back was to take me out—that's why Batman—"
"You're asking me to believe Batman was making better calls than you were?" Bruce says, with the incredulous sneer the words deserve. "Do you have a bridge to sell me, too?"
"I pose a danger just by—" Clark starts, stubborn, but he doesn't get any further before Bruce claps a hand over his mouth.
"Clark," Bruce says. "Trying to measure negative space is a fool's errand. If you'd never come to Earth, maybe Zod would have left us alone—so what? Luthor was never going to be a happy well-adjusted grocery clerk. A dozen worse things might have happened without you. Or a dozen better—though I'll tell you right now that I doubt it."
Over the edge of Bruce's hand, Clark's eyes go strange, soft.
"You can't know," Bruce tells him, "nobody can. Don't play that game with yourself. You'll always lose."
Clark clears his throat, and wraps his fingers around Bruce's wrist, pushing just a little.
"Nope," Bruce says, and keeps his hand where it is. "Nod or shake. You want to help people?"
Clark nods.
"You think you can do that best by being Superman?"
Clark is still for a moment, gaze flickering, but then—more slowly—he nods again.
"Then be Superman," Bruce says. "And if you have to stop being Superman, stop." He takes a chance and moves his hand, curls it around the line of Clark's jaw instead, and Clark stays quiet. "You died saving us. You don't owe anybody anything you don't want to give."
It's hardly a thing Clark should be surprised to hear; but something strange and hard to read passes across his face, and then out of nowhere he crowds Bruce backward into the balcony door, and kisses him so hard Bruce spares half a thought to hope the glass will hold.
FILL: as to which may be the true; Bruce/Clark, identity porn (11/?)
So Clark likes sleeping with Bruce Wayne enough to do it more than once. It's not a problem. It makes sense: Bruce is the only person within about a thousand-mile radius who knows about Superman and is neither Lex Luthor nor Clark's mother. He's conveniently located, he never says no to a good time, and Clark can relax around him—can float, if he likes, can fly or use the speed or idly tell him the funny thing a woman fifteen floors below them just said over the phone.
And it's not as though Bruce has grounds to object. It's been very thoroughly established that Bruce Wayne finds Clark physically appealing; the relationship is firmly casual, as all Bruce Wayne's relationships are. And—
(if he can't admit it, he can't compensate for it)
—it saves Bruce the trouble of finding someone else, on the evenings when he doesn't want to sit in the Cave alone, eyes catching on Jason's uniform every time he turns around. Clark does keep a lid on his powers most of the time, Bruce has confirmed it indirectly in a dozen ways; but he also seems to keep an eye, or maybe an ear, on the penthouse. Three out of every four times Bruce ends up there, Clark's out on the balcony before long. And Bruce always lets him in.
The casual tone Bruce established the first time serves him well—enforcing it actually permits for a certain degree of spontaneity. If Clark had any expectation of being able to fuck Bruce naked, to take his time, it could never just happen; Bruce would need to prepare. He'd need to get out the precisely-shaded latex he uses when Bruce Wayne plans to let his shirt get unbuttoned, to glue it down and smooth over its edges, to apply concealer and powder to any bruises Bruce Wayne shouldn't have.
But handjobs, blowjobs, fingering, a little rough frottage, can all be done without posing significant risk. Bruce can even let Clark fuck him now and then, as long as Bruce's shirt stays on—as long as Clark doesn't try to shove Bruce's slacks down any further than mid-thigh, as long as Bruce hasn't recently injured his hips or lower back while on patrol.
And they're relatively well-matched. Of course Clark is capable of defying gravity—but the first time he doesn't and Bruce lifts him off the floor anyway, he makes a small startled noise and clutches at Bruce's shoulders.
(It was a mistake. Bruce hadn't thought; he'd just wanted—
But that's the kind of thing Bruce Wayne could conceivably be vain about. When Clark grips his arm and says unsteadily, "Bruce, you—you can—?" all Bruce has to do is smirk at him, is wink and hitch him up a little higher against the penthouse wall.
"We can't all be Superman, I admit it," he murmurs against Clark's throat. "But give me some credit: I still work out.")
It's not a problem. Bruce can handle it.
He doesn't even have to worry about how often to let it happen. He still has responsibilities—still has to go on patrol on a regular basis. It's not as though he's sitting in the penthouse waiting for Clark every night.
True, there are times when patrol yields next to nothing. The media hasn't caught more than a few glimpses of Diana yet, but Wonder Woman has already made an impact on the landscape of criminal pursuits in the wider Metropolis area. There are times when Bruce is left crouching on a rooftop in the quiet, with nothing to think about except whether Clark's listening for him right now in the penthouse and finding nothing—whether he's disappointed.
And then there are times when robotic prototypes come crashing out of closed-up LexCorp buildings.
Bruce is actually relatively impressed with this one: it's fast-moving and can climb well, which is a level of coordination he hadn't realized LexCorp had managed to achieve in robots of this size.
He catches up to it within moments, but the lead time means it's waiting for him—it tore a concrete piling out of this building somewhere on the way up, and it has good aim. He dodges, but only just, and he has to twist around and throw himself down against the roof of the building to do it; one of the thing's gripping arms closes around his chest even as he's bracing to push himself back up, and it lifts him and throws—
He's already got a hand at the utility belt for a grappling hook, but in the end he doesn't need it: before he can fall more than a dozen feet below the level of the roof, Diana catches him.
"Hello, stranger," she says into his ear, amused, and lands them both on the roof—she'd leapt from the shorter building next door, judging by the arc they take on the way.
"Good timing," Bruce tells her, and then hurls himself sideways in time to avoid the robot's next lunge.
She's wearing her cloak, the hood—they're still finding their feet, trying to work out exactly what they want the Justice League to be and do and stand for, and Diana had decided it was best to keep as low a profile as she could for a while. But it doesn't slow her down at all: Bruce shoots the line he would have used to save himself so that the hook goes into one of the robot's outstretched arms, and Diana takes the opportunity to dart in and rip a second arm off entirely.
"Do you know what happened?" Diana says to him loudly, over the creak of metal and hiss of sparks, as she punches the robot in what could be called its chest a couple of times.
"Power surge," Bruce says. "Building's one of the ones that shut down after Luthor went to jail. Apparently LexCorp didn't quite finish clearing out the basement."
"Careless," Diana assesses with a smile, and then crouches, leaps—plunges a hand straight through the paneling on the robot's side, and pulls a fistful of circuitboard and wire back out.
It's not quite enough to deactivate the robot completely, but she must have gotten something essential to its motive functions. It no longer seems able to compensate for the missing weight of its torn-off arm, or for the fact that another is immobilized, and it promptly keels over.
Diana lets the handful drop, and then—here it comes—looks over at Bruce, face lit in flashes as the robot keeps throwing off sprays of sparks, and says, "You still haven't told him yet."
It's Diana: Bruce allows himself to close his eyes. She's been bringing it up at regular intervals since the gala at the museum; and he's starting to think judgment would be easier to bear than her patience, her quiet understanding.
"He doesn't need to know," Bruce says. Somehow it comes out sounding thin, when he says it to Diana.
(She didn't use it tonight, but the lasso's still hanging at her waist.)
(It's not a lie.)
(It's not.)
"You have to know you won't be able to keep it from him forever," Diana says. And Bruce would know how to respond if she sounded angry, frustrated, but she doesn't.
And he won't be able to keep it from Clark forever. No matter how many possibilities he anticipates, how many exigencies he includes in his considerations, the universe has proven to him again and again that there is always something he will fail to account for. There is always something he won't realize until it's already too late.
"I know," Bruce agrees.
Diana looks at him a moment longer and then simply clasps his shoulder, just enough strength behind it that he can feel it clearly through the body armor. "Let's see if there are any more where this came from," she says, over the sound of the news helicopter that's already catching up with them; and Bruce nods and steps off the roof.
(He could tell Clark. Maybe.
Clark hasn't seen Batman since he came back—hasn't even asked about him again, not since that first day, or at least he hasn't asked Bruce. It's impossible to guess what he thinks, how he feels. If there were any reason to believe it wouldn't be a disaster, to think Clark might still accept his help as Bruce Wayne and work alongside him as Batman—
If it's going to go badly, then there's no point. Coming clean will only determine when the disaster strikes, not its magnitude; if Clark is moved to anger, the offense responsible is equal whether Bruce confesses to it or is discovered, and it cannot be undone, erased, or made up for. The lies may even overshadow the attempted murder, at this point, and what amends could Bruce ever make that would be to scale with either?
Bruce can't earn Clark's forgiveness, and it's appalling to think of asking for it—of prevailing on Clark to grant it where it's undeserved.
But if somehow it doesn't matter as much to Clark as that; if he's disconcerted and uncomfortable, but not, in the end, cut deeply enough for it to truly hurt him—
Maybe. Bruce would consider it.)
The next night is a Clark night. Bruce hears him land on the balcony and wonders whether Clark can hear the helpless thump of his heart in reply; and then he stands and opens the balcony door and sees Clark's face.
"What's wrong?" he says, and Clark looks up.
"Oh—nothing like that," Clark says instantly, a little wide-eyed, and damn, damn. Bruce immediately moderates his expression. "I just," and then Clark bites his lip and looks away, out over the city below them. "I've just been thinking. About—being Superman again."
As if Bruce Wayne would have useful input—but then again, there's only two other people in the world Clark thinks he can talk to about this. (It would be three, if he knew Diana knew—but he doesn't. Not yet.) So perhaps it's not so surprising after all.
Bruce raises his eyebrows, makes a considering face, and then shrugs. "What's to think about?"
"I want to," Clark says, without preamble, and then he ducks his head and scrubs a hand through his hair with something that's not quite a laugh. "I almost wish I didn't. I feel like it would be easier to decide if I could be sure I wasn't deciding for the wrong reasons."
Bruce affects surprise. (It isn't difficult.) "Clark Kent, boy scout? The wrong reasons?"
"It was hard sometimes," Clark says, "but I do like helping people. And if I can do something and I choose not to—" He breaks off, shaking his head, eyes down. "I don't think I'm comfortable with that. I don't think I can be. But I—you were right."
"I'm right a lot of the time, Clark," Bruce tells him with a smirk. "You're going to need to be more specific."
Clark rolls his eyes, smacks Bruce's elbow with the back of one hand; and then his face goes sober again, close enough to the almost graven expression Superman uses that it makes Bruce want to look away. "Epicenter of global destruction," he says quietly. "That's what you said, and you were right. And—" He shakes his head again, jaw suddenly tight. "The only reason Zod ever came to this planet at all was because of me. The only reason Luthor brought him back was to take me out—that's why Batman—"
"You're asking me to believe Batman was making better calls than you were?" Bruce says, with the incredulous sneer the words deserve. "Do you have a bridge to sell me, too?"
"I pose a danger just by—" Clark starts, stubborn, but he doesn't get any further before Bruce claps a hand over his mouth.
"Clark," Bruce says. "Trying to measure negative space is a fool's errand. If you'd never come to Earth, maybe Zod would have left us alone—so what? Luthor was never going to be a happy well-adjusted grocery clerk. A dozen worse things might have happened without you. Or a dozen better—though I'll tell you right now that I doubt it."
Over the edge of Bruce's hand, Clark's eyes go strange, soft.
"You can't know," Bruce tells him, "nobody can. Don't play that game with yourself. You'll always lose."
Clark clears his throat, and wraps his fingers around Bruce's wrist, pushing just a little.
"Nope," Bruce says, and keeps his hand where it is. "Nod or shake. You want to help people?"
Clark nods.
"You think you can do that best by being Superman?"
Clark is still for a moment, gaze flickering, but then—more slowly—he nods again.
"Then be Superman," Bruce says. "And if you have to stop being Superman, stop." He takes a chance and moves his hand, curls it around the line of Clark's jaw instead, and Clark stays quiet. "You died saving us. You don't owe anybody anything you don't want to give."
It's hardly a thing Clark should be surprised to hear; but something strange and hard to read passes across his face, and then out of nowhere he crowds Bruce backward into the balcony door, and kisses him so hard Bruce spares half a thought to hope the glass will hold.