OH MY GOD WE MADE IT. *fistpump* I dearly hope I have stuck the landing here, because you all have been so incredibly patient with this fill AND YOU DESERVE TO BE HAPPY. ♥ Thank you so, so much, both to the OP for the prompt and all the incredibly kind and enthusiastic comments, and to everyone else who's been reading along and (hopefully) enjoying this. I COULD NEVER HAVE FINISHED THIS WITHOUT YOU, AND I AM SO SO GRATEFUL.
"Hey," Clark says again, even gentler—why, why is he still being gentle?—and he leaves that one hand solid and warm against Bruce's chest but touches Bruce's face, his mouth, with the other.
Bruce obediently falls silent.
"You didn't, you didn't," Clark murmurs, "I'm fine. I'm fine, Bruce. I came back."
Bruce's eyes are still closed, but it doesn't matter. He can feel Clark moving closer, the heat of him as he leans in, the barest pressure behind that hand on Bruce's cheek—and it's the worst idea in the world, Bruce knows that.
But he's never been a particularly strong man. Not in the ways that matter.
He stays where he is and he lets Clark touch him; and when Clark says it again, "I came back," and leans in even further, kisses him, Bruce lets that happen too. It's careful, slow, closemouthed, but Bruce loses himself in it anyway.
He only comes out of it when Clark starts to ease back a little, and then it's—he's utterly without control, mindless, desperate, feeling his own hands come up to grab at Clark; like he has to, before Clark has a chance to get away—
He doesn't realize he's actually started to ruck up Clark's shirt until Clark catches his hands and pulls away, saying, "No, hey, you're still hurt. I don't want to make it worse."
That's what finally makes Bruce open his eyes: that's what's wrong with this picture, according to Clark?
Clark's looking back at him, still close enough that Bruce is breathing his air, and his gaze is nothing but soft, kind. "There's no rush," he says, "okay? There's no rush," and then he—
He kisses Bruce again, a brief gentle brush, and again.
"I mean, I'm still mad at you," he adds, face sober; but then the expression cracks apart into a smile. "Don't get the wrong idea, here. I'm so mad at you," and then he kisses just the corner of Bruce's mouth, his cheek, like he can't help it. Like he wants to. "But I think we can wait on trying out make-up sex until nobody has any broken bones. Just—talk to me. Please. Just talk to me."
Make-up sex with broken bones would be easier. But Bruce doesn't tell him that.
He takes a slow breath, instead, and braces himself. And then he says, "What do you want to know?"
For a long moment, Clark just looks at him. Bruce can't begin to guess what he's thinking. That he would touch Bruce at all, that he shows every sign of expecting to keep doing it, so far exceeds Bruce's expectations that they're completely off the edge of the map. What he wants to ask first—where to begin. Whether it's even worth the effort to try; whether he can believe any answer Bruce does give him—
But Clark doesn't get up and go, and he doesn't change his mind. He hitches himself further onto the bed, and says, "How about I tell you the best guess I have, and—" He hesitates, and then smiles again, and slides one hand up over Bruce's mouth: just the way Bruce had done to him, when he'd come to the penthouse wanting to talk about being Superman. "Nod or shake?"
Bruce nods.
Clark's mouth quirks; and then all humor drops off his face. He wets his lips, opens his mouth, closes it again. And then he says, tentative, "You were—different, that one night."
He doesn't have to specify further.
Bruce nods.
"Were you—" Clark hesitates and bites his lip. "You were thinking about it, weren't you?" he rephrases, slowly. "About telling me."
It takes Bruce longer than it should; but Clark's patient, watching him without frustration, hand gentle against Bruce's face, and in the end Bruce nods.
"And then," Clark adds, gaze sliding to the middle distance, clearly thinking it through; except all at once his eyes leap back to Bruce, wide, sudden comprehension blooming bright across his face. "Oh," he says, hardly more than a breath, and closes his eyes, shakes his head, before looking at Bruce again. "Oh," he says again, and then, very quietly, "I understand."
Bruce hadn't realized how much he'd tensed up, the ache in his side throbbing sharp, until it all drained out of him.
"And—Bruce Wayne has bad taste in cologne," Clark murmurs.
Bruce nods.
Clark's gaze turns intent. "But you don't."
Bruce doesn't move. He can't let himself go tense again, Clark will feel that; except his heart kicks up, out of his control, and no doubt Clark can hear it. It's—too much, too close—
"Never mind," Clark says, "never mind," soothing, like he's talking to something small and scared instead of the man who tried to kill him. "It's okay. I know the answer now."
He smiles, deliberate and careful, the barest curve of that generous mouth. When he speaks again, his tone's lighter—deliberately so, Bruce thinks, easing out of dangerous territory.
"Just one more thing, then."
Bruce raises his eyebrows.
"And you have to tell me the truth," Clark warns, before narrowing his eyes. "Do you even play polo?"
Bruce looks at him very seriously and nods.
Clark huffs a breath out through his nose, half a laugh, and grins. "Really?"
And that requires a better answer: Bruce reaches up and eases Clark's hand off his mouth, just far enough to let him say, "Of course. It's good for your balance, your reflexes, your aim. Essential part of Batman's training regimen—" and that's as far as he gets before Clark drowns him out, laughing.
The sun wakes Bruce.
It's crept around the edges of the drapes, and the narrowest sliver is falling right on Bruce's face. And he blinks into it, braced—but it doesn't hurt his head at all.
Nothing hurts, in fact. He's been sleeping on his back, mostly, but he's on his side right now; the uninjured side, of course, and he can force that good old ache to rise up in the other one if he shifts. But lying still—he feels almost normal.
And once he blinks the white-gold blaze away, he sees Clark.
They had talked for a little longer while Bruce had worked his way through the tray Clark had brought up; not about anything of genuine consequence, but it hadn't felt like wasted time. And then Bruce had started to fall asleep—it was far too easy to do, on a bed with Clark—and Clark had told him that it was all right, that it was late anyway. Bruce had assumed he'd leave.
But he hadn't.
He's still there. He's lying on his side, too, facing Bruce, over the covers instead of under. His face is utterly relaxed, the angle precisely right for that slice of sunlight to limn the upper curve of his cheekbone, a single tousled curl just over his ear; and he's sprawled out easily, legs and arms akimbo, warm steady weight nudging up against Bruce here and there. One of his hands is flung out sideways across the pillow, wrist upturned, fingers bent—like maybe he'd touched Bruce's face, Bruce's hair, one last time just before he fell asleep.
He's—still there.
Bruce killed him and fucked him and lied to him, and he's come back every time, he's come back and he's stayed. And if all that isn't enough to keep him away—
Bruce just looks at him, for a long time; looks at him and feels the want build up, that deep slow tide Bruce keeps finding himself so helpless against. And then he lets himself reach out—lets himself slide his hand into Clark's where it lies on the pillow.
If everything Bruce has already done to him isn't enough to convince Clark this is a bad idea, then maybe all that's left is to make sure he doesn't regret it. Wearing nothing but Bruce Wayne's face had been a failure; and wearing only Batman's hadn't worked either. Maybe all that's left is to try something new.
Clark wakes slowly. A twitch of the eyelids, a change in his breathing, a shift in his weight—and surely he doesn't need to sleep the way humans do, Bruce thinks, but he seems to enjoy it just as much as anyone.
But at last his eyes blink open, and after a moment they focus on Bruce's face; and then, without hesitation, Clark smiles. "Hey, Bruce," he murmurs, gravelly with morning.
"Hey," Bruce says quietly, squeezing Clark's hand. And then he draws in a slow breath, laces his fingers through Clark's, and is himself.
FILL: as to which may be the true; Bruce/Clark, identity porn (24/24)
"Hey," Clark says again, even gentler—why, why is he still being gentle?—and he leaves that one hand solid and warm against Bruce's chest but touches Bruce's face, his mouth, with the other.
Bruce obediently falls silent.
"You didn't, you didn't," Clark murmurs, "I'm fine. I'm fine, Bruce. I came back."
Bruce's eyes are still closed, but it doesn't matter. He can feel Clark moving closer, the heat of him as he leans in, the barest pressure behind that hand on Bruce's cheek—and it's the worst idea in the world, Bruce knows that.
But he's never been a particularly strong man. Not in the ways that matter.
He stays where he is and he lets Clark touch him; and when Clark says it again, "I came back," and leans in even further, kisses him, Bruce lets that happen too. It's careful, slow, closemouthed, but Bruce loses himself in it anyway.
He only comes out of it when Clark starts to ease back a little, and then it's—he's utterly without control, mindless, desperate, feeling his own hands come up to grab at Clark; like he has to, before Clark has a chance to get away—
He doesn't realize he's actually started to ruck up Clark's shirt until Clark catches his hands and pulls away, saying, "No, hey, you're still hurt. I don't want to make it worse."
That's what finally makes Bruce open his eyes: that's what's wrong with this picture, according to Clark?
Clark's looking back at him, still close enough that Bruce is breathing his air, and his gaze is nothing but soft, kind. "There's no rush," he says, "okay? There's no rush," and then he—
He kisses Bruce again, a brief gentle brush, and again.
"I mean, I'm still mad at you," he adds, face sober; but then the expression cracks apart into a smile. "Don't get the wrong idea, here. I'm so mad at you," and then he kisses just the corner of Bruce's mouth, his cheek, like he can't help it. Like he wants to. "But I think we can wait on trying out make-up sex until nobody has any broken bones. Just—talk to me. Please. Just talk to me."
Make-up sex with broken bones would be easier. But Bruce doesn't tell him that.
He takes a slow breath, instead, and braces himself. And then he says, "What do you want to know?"
For a long moment, Clark just looks at him. Bruce can't begin to guess what he's thinking. That he would touch Bruce at all, that he shows every sign of expecting to keep doing it, so far exceeds Bruce's expectations that they're completely off the edge of the map. What he wants to ask first—where to begin. Whether it's even worth the effort to try; whether he can believe any answer Bruce does give him—
But Clark doesn't get up and go, and he doesn't change his mind. He hitches himself further onto the bed, and says, "How about I tell you the best guess I have, and—" He hesitates, and then smiles again, and slides one hand up over Bruce's mouth: just the way Bruce had done to him, when he'd come to the penthouse wanting to talk about being Superman. "Nod or shake?"
Bruce nods.
Clark's mouth quirks; and then all humor drops off his face. He wets his lips, opens his mouth, closes it again. And then he says, tentative, "You were—different, that one night."
He doesn't have to specify further.
Bruce nods.
"Were you—" Clark hesitates and bites his lip. "You were thinking about it, weren't you?" he rephrases, slowly. "About telling me."
It takes Bruce longer than it should; but Clark's patient, watching him without frustration, hand gentle against Bruce's face, and in the end Bruce nods.
"And then," Clark adds, gaze sliding to the middle distance, clearly thinking it through; except all at once his eyes leap back to Bruce, wide, sudden comprehension blooming bright across his face. "Oh," he says, hardly more than a breath, and closes his eyes, shakes his head, before looking at Bruce again. "Oh," he says again, and then, very quietly, "I understand."
Bruce hadn't realized how much he'd tensed up, the ache in his side throbbing sharp, until it all drained out of him.
"And—Bruce Wayne has bad taste in cologne," Clark murmurs.
Bruce nods.
Clark's gaze turns intent. "But you don't."
Bruce doesn't move. He can't let himself go tense again, Clark will feel that; except his heart kicks up, out of his control, and no doubt Clark can hear it. It's—too much, too close—
"Never mind," Clark says, "never mind," soothing, like he's talking to something small and scared instead of the man who tried to kill him. "It's okay. I know the answer now."
He smiles, deliberate and careful, the barest curve of that generous mouth. When he speaks again, his tone's lighter—deliberately so, Bruce thinks, easing out of dangerous territory.
"Just one more thing, then."
Bruce raises his eyebrows.
"And you have to tell me the truth," Clark warns, before narrowing his eyes. "Do you even play polo?"
Bruce looks at him very seriously and nods.
Clark huffs a breath out through his nose, half a laugh, and grins. "Really?"
And that requires a better answer: Bruce reaches up and eases Clark's hand off his mouth, just far enough to let him say, "Of course. It's good for your balance, your reflexes, your aim. Essential part of Batman's training regimen—" and that's as far as he gets before Clark drowns him out, laughing.
The sun wakes Bruce.
It's crept around the edges of the drapes, and the narrowest sliver is falling right on Bruce's face. And he blinks into it, braced—but it doesn't hurt his head at all.
Nothing hurts, in fact. He's been sleeping on his back, mostly, but he's on his side right now; the uninjured side, of course, and he can force that good old ache to rise up in the other one if he shifts. But lying still—he feels almost normal.
And once he blinks the white-gold blaze away, he sees Clark.
They had talked for a little longer while Bruce had worked his way through the tray Clark had brought up; not about anything of genuine consequence, but it hadn't felt like wasted time. And then Bruce had started to fall asleep—it was far too easy to do, on a bed with Clark—and Clark had told him that it was all right, that it was late anyway. Bruce had assumed he'd leave.
But he hadn't.
He's still there. He's lying on his side, too, facing Bruce, over the covers instead of under. His face is utterly relaxed, the angle precisely right for that slice of sunlight to limn the upper curve of his cheekbone, a single tousled curl just over his ear; and he's sprawled out easily, legs and arms akimbo, warm steady weight nudging up against Bruce here and there. One of his hands is flung out sideways across the pillow, wrist upturned, fingers bent—like maybe he'd touched Bruce's face, Bruce's hair, one last time just before he fell asleep.
He's—still there.
Bruce killed him and fucked him and lied to him, and he's come back every time, he's come back and he's stayed. And if all that isn't enough to keep him away—
Bruce just looks at him, for a long time; looks at him and feels the want build up, that deep slow tide Bruce keeps finding himself so helpless against. And then he lets himself reach out—lets himself slide his hand into Clark's where it lies on the pillow.
If everything Bruce has already done to him isn't enough to convince Clark this is a bad idea, then maybe all that's left is to make sure he doesn't regret it. Wearing nothing but Bruce Wayne's face had been a failure; and wearing only Batman's hadn't worked either. Maybe all that's left is to try something new.
Clark wakes slowly. A twitch of the eyelids, a change in his breathing, a shift in his weight—and surely he doesn't need to sleep the way humans do, Bruce thinks, but he seems to enjoy it just as much as anyone.
But at last his eyes blink open, and after a moment they focus on Bruce's face; and then, without hesitation, Clark smiles. "Hey, Bruce," he murmurs, gravelly with morning.
"Hey," Bruce says quietly, squeezing Clark's hand. And then he draws in a slow breath, laces his fingers through Clark's, and is himself.