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The worst part of being human, Bruce had previously thought, was that the threat of death needed to be taken into account in all his endeavours. Everything he did had to be methodical, planned out in advance because he couldn’t afford to act on instinct the way Clark and Diana and the others could. There were just some things that he alone could not achieve— couldn’t risk. The things that were really important for him, for humanity— those things he was willing to die for.
Looking back, perhaps some of those things were more justified than others.
Bruce has since grown accustomed to sitting by and letting the less easily damaged members of the League take over for him, without too much hurt done to his ego. Many of the League’s early team-building exercises right after it was formed involved precisely just that— Bruce giving himself ample opportunity to practice the art of teamwork and standing by when necessary.
When the fight’s over, however— that’s entirely different. These days, the worst part of being human is that he is highly susceptible to being fussed over, if and when he gets hurt.
Clark’s got an arm around his waist, just underneath his ribs, holding him upright and against his side. Bruce’s feet dangle underneath himself while Clark’s other arm is preoccupied with lifting some rubble off a car and to the side. Bruce makes a low sound in his throat. This is his life now; being lugged around like an infant while Clark completes whatever tasks are supposedly more urgent than getting Bruce back home. If he truly wants to be efficient, he could let Bruce down and do whatever he needs to do. Except Clark would never do that, presumably because he takes great pleasure in humiliating him.
“This would be more effective if you put me down.”
“And let you run around and injure yourself more?” Clark shakes his head, grinning. “Fat chance. And I’m done now, relax.” He shifts Bruce over to his other side like a mother carrying her child on her hip. Very humiliating indeed.
They’re not too far from the outskirts of Gotham. Clark lifts into the air a little slower than he usually does when transporting Bruce when he’s uninjured. Bruce pinches Clark’s side to let him know that a faster speed is needed.
Clark disregards the pinch and hooks his arm underneath Bruce’s knees. “Where are you in pain?”
His head, very soon. “Nowhere.” Bruce says through his teeth. The nose of his cowl is digging awkwardly into Clark’s shoulder. “This isn’t even necessary.”
Clark pulls him closer to his chest, legs and torso and all. “You got whacked in the head and nearly passed out. And what’s the point in this conversation being had, anyway? All I can ever do is forcibly subject you to medical attention.”
“You catch on quick,” Bruce says, mouth tugging into a grin. They’re at the lakehouse in under five minutes. He’d be lying if he said Clark as a method of transportation wasn’t efficient, but his hypervigilant focus on Bruce’s bodily function seems to cancel out the convenience.
Clark sets him down at the dock entrance to the bedroom, ridiculously gently. A quick scan of the house, even from the outside, shows that Alfred’s not here. Good. If Bruce manages to convince Clark to leave him here alone, he could get some work done in peace without being pestered by either of them. Except that’s proving to be an impossible task.
“Luckily I have tons of field experience,” Clark says, smiling fondly. His eyes are impossibly blue at this hour when the sun’s setting halfway down the sky like this.
Bruce looks back, until Clark’s gaze starts to become unbearable. He gestures awkwardly behind himself. “So I’ll just—“
“Need a hand?”
Bruce pauses. “What?”
“Alfred isn’t here,” Clark frowns. “You can’t get out of the suit alone while you’re like this.”
Bruce sighs inwardly. He can, actually. They spend a lot of time doing this dance every time this happens. It always goes the same way; Bruce lets him help just enough so that Clark has some peace of mind, and then hopefully he’s gone after ten or so minutes and Bruce can get back on schedule.
“Fine.” He turns back to unlock the balcony door. The bed is thankfully made up and the floor is clear of the clothes he’d left scattered when he’d gotten the alert this afternoon and suited up. Clark follows him inside and grabs onto the latches down the sides of the suit.
“Here, right?” Clark asks, as if he doesn’t know precisely where the suit opens. Bruce lets him unlatch the sides and divests himself of the toolbelt and some of the tactical gear he’d brought along with him. Once he’s stripped down to the undersuit, he steps back towards the bed and sits down, trying to look acquiescent and uninjured.
“Thanks,” Bruce says, trying to hurry things along. He toes the batsuit and cape over to the side of the bed and removes the cowl, setting it on the bedside table next to the miscellany of painkillers. “I’m good now.”
Clark peers down at his feet. “The boots,” he points out, and kneels at Bruce’s feet to remove them. This is verging on the kind of territory that Bruce tries very pointedly to ignore— Clark’s need to be gentlemanly. He lets him do it anyway and moves further onto the bed, leaning back against the pillows with enough enthusiasm to fool Clark into leaving.
“That’s great, thanks.” The undersuit is clinging to his sweaty back, and Bruce longs to head down to the cave where everything is cool and air-conditioned and there’s a shower.
“Hold on,” Clark stops him with a raised palm, leaning forward. He lifts the hem of the thermal shirt and peers at the space to the right of Bruce’s belly button. “See? I told you I saw you get hit a second time.”
Bruce looks down. There’s a bruise spreading along his side, red and on its way to purple.
“I didn’t notice,” Bruce says, and he means it. He’d been mainly focused on compensating for the lack of Diana and Arthur in today’s fight. Things didn’t necessarily hurt like they were supposed to nowadays. Sometimes he’d go days without realizing his ribs were broken. He’d been a little better knowing his limits recently, but old habits die hard.
Clark brushes his fingers over the skin. “Sorry for not keeping an eye out for you today,” he says, eyebrows drawn together in concern. “Things got a little—“
“I know,” Bruce stops him, and resists the urge to arch into his hand, to chase that tiny bit of contact. It’s impossible to move away with the mattress at his back, so he can only sit there and let Clark paw at him and make sad cartoon animal faces. “You don’t have to be like this every time.”
Clark doesn’t remove his hand. Instead, he tilts Bruce’s chin up with his other hand and looks at him coyly. “How am I being?”
Being touched like this is different. Clark seldom touches Bruce outside of the batsuit, and if he does, it’s restricted to amicable pats on the shoulder or arm. In the suit, he’s practically insensate and all tactile sensation, good or bad, is dampened. He isn’t able to derive any pleasure from being lugged around or grabbed by the waist. But like this, unmasked and belly up with Clark looming over him like a mockery of the dreams he tends to have in this very bed— it’s too much to bear. Clark presses his thumb against a small bruise that was previously hidden beneath the cowl, and Bruce—unmistakably—feels himself stiffen in the undersuit. He lurches up, clumsily, to move Clark away by the wrist.
Clark frowns. “What’s wrong?”
“Nothing,” Bruce says steadily. He is assuredly not getting out of this with his dignity intact.
Clark narrows his eyes, sweeping his gaze over the length of Bruce’s body, head to toe. When he gets to Bruce’s groin, his expression shutters and he looks away. Goddamn it. Bruce holds back a wince.
“Oh,” Clark exhales, the tips of his ears turning red. Bruce sees his worry fall away in stages, only to be replaced by something else; a newly familiar intensity in Clark’s eyes that arises when the two of them are alone for longer than usual. He’d last seen this certain flavour of attention recently, when it’d been just the two of them after a long day and Clark had looked at him like this, seated beside him in the cave. Instead of doing anything, Bruce had said goodnight and sulked off to the shower afterwards, where he’d thought about Clark’s hand on his arm while he jerked off.
“Sorry,” Bruce says, and regrets it instantly as the words come out.
Clark looks perplexed. “What for?”
Good point. Bruce carefully meets his eyes and wills his pulse to slow. Things could go two ways from here; either Clark spares him his dignity and flies away, or either of them does something about it.
“Bruce,” Clark says, and his tone is so uncertain and soft that Bruce has to look up at him. Big mistake. His eyes are like saucers. He leans closer. “Can I?”
Bruce swallows, blood thundering in his ears. “Can you what,” he rasps, and tries vainly to appear as casual as one could be in this situation, if not for the traitorous twitch of his cock against Clark’s thigh. Bruce squeezes his fists and eyes in unison.
“Jesus,” Clark murmurs, low and soft. Bruce swallows and swallows and does nothing as Clark moves in to kiss him, lips warm and slick and perfect. Bruce curls his thumb against the side of Clark’s face, kisses back with a ferocity that draws a sharp breath from Clark, tastes the nearly imperceptible sweat on Clark’s upper lip and smells the earth and ozone that clings to him after a fight. Clark shifts between eager and tentative with his kisses, like he’s afraid of imposing on Bruce. Things would be better if he could catch onto the fact that Bruce was very open to being imposed on. Possibly all night if he didn’t pass out before that could happen.
Bruce draws him flush against his chest with his knee, and Clark gasps in his ear. “But your head—”
“I’m fine. Do something now.” Bruce growls.
“Roger that,” Clark says against his mouth, and slides his hand up Bruce’s side, beneath the thermal shirt and over the bruise.
Bruce arches against his leg to indicate the severity of his erection. Clark pulls away— and just as Bruce is about to start seriously complaining— unfastens his cape and slides into bed behind him. He pulls Bruce back against his chest, encourages him to lean against him, and inches his thumb beneath the waistband of the undersuit.
“Good idea,” Bruce sighs, and leans back to rest his head against him. Clark smiles against Bruce’s cheek and slips his hand underneath, takes him into his hand and gives him a couple long squeezes.
Like this, Bruce can feel Clark’s chest rise and fall against his back, feel his breath against his face and his arms boxing him in. He’s trapped like this; glued to Clark with nowhere to go. It only makes him harder. Clark pulls the undersuit down under his balls and takes a real grip, lets Bruce’s cock slide wetly along his palm. Bruce turns his face into Clark’s neck and lets him work him slowly and firmly, root to tip and back down again and again until it’s unbearable.
Clark’s other hand moves up Bruce’s stomach to his chest, cups one of his pecs and sweeps over to the other. He holds Bruce by the jaw and turns his head to kiss him again, a little too leisurely for Bruce’s taste.
“Clark,” Bruce pants into his mouth. “Some immediacy would be appreciated right now.”
“God, you’re hot,” Clark laughs. He cups Bruce’s balls with the other hand and kisses him again, licks along the seam of his mouth while the hand on his cock speeds up in increments. Bruce pushes himself into Clark’s fist, arches into him and feels him hot and hard at the bottom of Bruce’s spine. Bruce can hear the sounds he makes echoing in the room, the little bitten-off grunts and unintentional gasps like he’s having his air constricted. At the same moment Clark bites at the corner of his jaw, Bruce spills into Clark’s fist, over his fingers and onto his stomach. Clark strokes him through it, brushes his soft lips against Bruce’s face and pulls him closer, if it’s even possible.
Once Bruce is capable of speech, he turns his head to the side and eyes Clark carefully. “Is this how you give a hand to other people too?”
Clark beams. “Just you.”
Bruce conceals his delight. “Good. Superman offering these kinds of services would reflect poorly on the League.”
“Geez,” Clark snorts. He wipes his hand on Bruce’s undershirt and slips out from underneath to roll on top and kiss him with teeth and tongue like he’s trying to swallow him whole.
Bruce gets an arm in between them and breaks the kiss by an inch. “You know, there’s a chance you may be injured too,” he says, very solemn.
“You think so?” Clark’s mouth wavers like he’s holding in a laugh. “That can’t be good.”
“It isn’t,” Bruce nods in agreement. “I urgently need to attend to your wounds.” He curls his hand around the bulge in Clark’s suit and looks up at him, giving him his best, most carefully crafted leer—the one that always makes Clark turn awkward and stiff whenever they cross paths in civvies.
“Gonna need some CPR first,” Clark says, like butter wouldn’t melt in his mouth. Bruce rolls on top and swallows up the rest of his words, nips at his lips and chin until Clark’s increasingly less capable of speech. He’s still got the suit on, and Bruce tries not to imagine the dirt he’s tracking into his bed.
Bruce lifts a hand to Clark’s chest and feels around for the catch, perhaps a little more thoroughly than needed.
“That’s not how it works,” Clark says into his mouth, then pulls away to grin at him. “Wanna see?”
Bruce carefully does not look too excited. “Whatever gets you naked faster.”
“Figures,” he says. The suit peels away in ribbons around his palm. He’s wearing underwear, which is astonishing because Bruce has never seen the outline of it through the skin-tight fabric of the suit, and he’s stared at Clark’s ass a lot.
Clark lies back and rests his head on his folded arms. “What now?” he asks, looking smug.
Bruce considers his physical state for a moment— tired, yes, but no way near too tired for what he wants to do right now. He climbs off the bed, pulling his pants up as he goes, and walks over to his dresser to select a tie from the top drawer, silk and cobalt like Clark’s suit.
Bruce holds it behind him on the way back to the bed. “Stay still,” he chides.
Clark obeys, and watches Bruce as he climbs over and swings a leg over Clark’s thighs to reach the headboard. Bruce pulls out the tie and watches it dawn on him— sees Clark’s face go from playful to wanting.
“Oh, I see,” Clark murmurs. “I should do this to you to force you to sleep.”
“You could,” Bruce purrs. He ties Clark’s wrists to the frame of the headboard, neatly and tight enough that a normal person wouldn’t be able to get free. “Or we could do this.”
Clark tests the knot, tugs at it slightly but not nearly hard enough as he could. “I could get out of this before you could blink.”
“That’s the point. Are you going to be good?”
Clark swallows heavily. “You’re supposed to be injured.”
Bruce crosses his arms over his chest. “Yes or no, Clark.”
The precise moment Clark stops giving a fuck shows on his face. “Yes.”
“Alright,” Bruce grins, and pulls his boxers down. His cock springs out, looking painfully hard and red. It’s just as Bruce had imagined, from careful and downright inappropriate analysis of Clark’s bulge through the suit. Bruce leans down to suck the tip into his mouth and Clark whines, digging his heels into the bed. The tie strains against his wrists, but doesn't unravel.
Bruce pulls off with a wet sound. “Careful.”
Clark laughs, a little pained. His eyes are scrunched closed. “This is totally payback for not letting you help with cleanup earlier,” he says, and it devolves into a moan when Bruce sucks him down again.
This time he does it longer, moves his mouth down almost to the base and watches Clark’s hands ball into fists. He’s hot and unyielding in Bruce’s mouth, fills his throat perfectly and looks so good above him that Bruce can’t stand it. He wants more, wants Clark to tear the restraints and take control and fuck him. Maybe later.
Bruce swallows around him, and can see Clark tremble, fight against the urge to pull his hands free and buck against Bruce’s mouth. Bruce pulls off again and leans up to kiss him. Clark responds eagerly, plastering himself to Bruce’s mouth like he’s desperate for contact.
“Tapping out yet?” Bruce asks.
“No,” Clark says, voice tight. “Although I’m starting to regret letting someone this evil suck me off.”
“Mmm,” Bruce kisses him again and runs his thumb up Clark’s dick, if only to watch him shiver. “This is definitely not the worst thing I've done to you.”
Clark snorts. “It’s probably number two.” Bruce ignores him and takes him into his mouth again. He can feel Clark get close, in the way his thighs quiver under Bruce’s chest and the way he pulses and twitches in his mouth. Bruce wraps a hand around the base of his dick, sucks harder, and Clark tenses hard enough for the headboard to lurch forward by an inch and comes down Bruce’s throat with a loud cry. Bruce swallows in kind, licks him clean and when it's all over— softly kisses his trembling abs.
Except that was a mistake, because Bruce hears the telltale sound of fabric ripping. He lifts his head slowly. The tie is in tatters, hanging off the headboard and around Clark’s wrists.
Clark smiles at Bruce sheepishly, cheeks pink. “Whoops.”
“Unbelievable. That was my fourth favourite tie.”
Clark’s smile is blinding. Now that he’s unrestrained he doesn’t seem too concerned with being good anymore, and so he drags Bruce up by the shoulders to kiss him again, to taste himself on his lips. Here in the space between orgasm and sleep, Clark’s kisses are sweeter, almost wistful. Bruce, despite his best efforts, shudders against him.
“This is not how I imagined today going,” Clark remarks, breaking the kiss.
“What were you expecting?”
Bruce feels him shrug. “I don’t know— I drop you off, pretend I don’t see you go down to the cave to work, and then think about how I could’ve kissed you on the flight home. Usual stuff.”
The earnest sincerity of that statement cuts through its joking tone. Bruce lifts his head and looks at Clark. His face is clear and open and a touch too uncertain for Bruce’s taste.
“You don’t need to think about doing it anymore,” Bruce tells him, honestly. “You can just do it.” He can’t muster the courage to tell Clark that he would’ve had the exact same thought after he left. If anything, what they just did would probably precipitate an endless swarm of Clark-related yearning.
Clark looks at him for a long moment, eyes softening. “You first,” he grins, and Bruce will be damned if he doesn’t kiss him for that.