Chapter Text
Bruce scanned the room, trying to identify a target. His conversation with Oracle from earlier in the day ran through his head again, her intel as concerning as it ever was. Nights like these, he wished he were someone else, someone who didn't have to worry himself with these things.
"Bad news, Batman," she'd told him.
"What is it?" he'd asked. He could tell from her tone nobody was injured, nor were they in danger. A break-out, maybe? "Arkham?"
"No, not Arkham," she said. "Reddit."
Bruce frowned. "What do you mean?"
"I keep an alert, just in case, for any instances of anyone's civilian names being used alongside our codenames, and yours just had a hit."
"So what, another person wondering what I think of myself?"
She was quiet for a moment. "Sorry, Batman. They've got a theory, and it's not far off."
He sighed to himself and downed the glass of champagne he'd been nursing—non-alcoholic, but enough to convince anyone who might give him a passing glance. He hated this, every time he had to do it. There was one surefire way to derail anyone who began wondering whether maybe Bruce Wayne was doing more than just donating funds to Batman.
The Gala was in full swing, and he'd arrived fashionably late enough to make an entrance. He knew what people must think of him. It had been cute when he was in his twenties, even his thirties, but a forty-something-year-old man with grown children swanning in without a care in the world had to make at least a few people cringe.
At the very least, he knew for a fact how much it embarrassed his kids.
It had to be done, though. The small price of his dignity was worth it to be able to keep doing his work from the shadows. All he had to do was rock up to an event like this, pretend to drink enough to start acting up, tip off a paparazzo or two, and find some poor unsuspecting blogger or socialite who would be more than happy to spin stories about him which would end up in the tabloids.
Nobody would ever suspect that kind of man could pull off being Batman. Vapid, empty-headed, concerned with nothing more than spending money and having fun.
There were a lot of potentials out there this evening, people who would be more than happy to follow him up to the penthouse suite he'd booked for the evening, who would be easy to charm and easy to shake off once the paparazzi photos were taken.
He danced with a few, flirting and laughing and drinking more non-alcoholic champagne courtesy of the generous tip he'd given the bartender at the start of the night. His tie hung loose around his neck, shirt unbuttoned to halfway down his chest, laughing too easily, pressing close to everyone he spoke to, whispering in ears, playing the part, until he turned and froze on the spot.
Clark Kent, in his signature ill-fitting suit, stood holding a notebook and pen, staring at him with barely-concealed glee.
Bruce cringed internally. He hated this. He especially hated when it had to be witnessed by someone he actually respected.
His humiliation battled with his curiosity at what Clark was doing here, and curiosity won out. He sauntered over, throwing an arm around Clark's shoulder, stealing a glance at his notes.
"Writing a hit piece on me, Mr. Kent?" he asked, leaning in close. Clark's notes were almost incomprehensible, but Bruce had read enough of his hastily scrawled mission reports over the years to make out a few words, mainly his own name and Lex Luthor's.
Clark closed the notebook, slipping it into his pocket. "Nothing to worry about," he said.
Bruce narrowed his eyes. Was he hiding something? Why couldn't he let Bruce see more?
A server walked by with a fresh glass, offering him the tray. "I was told to keep your glass full, sir," she said. Bruce accepted it with a wink and put his empty glass on the tray.
Clark sniffed the air, then bit back a smile. "Planning on drinking a lot tonight, are you?" he asked.
Bruce sighed. "As if any sane person could get through these dreary events sober."
The server offered Clark a drink before leaving. "Is there a reason for the act?" Clark asked in a low voice.
"Long story," Bruce said. If Clark wasn't about to be upfront about his reasons for being here, neither would Bruce. "Dull story. You seem far more interesting, Mr. Kent." Bruce looked over his shoulder, and sure enough everyone he'd flirted with already were pretending not to watch them. He couldn't let Clark's presence distract him from playing the part.
His arm had been draped around Clark's shoulders while they spoke, but he let it drift downwards, skimming over his spine to rest on his lower back. Clark shot him an alarmed look, and Bruce leaned in closer, putting his lips right next to Clark's ear. "Play along," he whispered.
Clark cleared his throat, and Bruce was delighted to see his cheeks turn pink. "Um. Mr. Wayne, I'm—"
Bruce slipped his hand under the thick fabric of that fucking ugly suit jacket, feeling the warmth of Clark's skin through his shirt. He downed his drink and reached out, putting it on the tray of a passing server without looking.
"You seem tense, Kent. Something weighing on you?" He used his newly freed hand to loosen Clark's tie under the guise of adjusting it, then let it linger on his chest.
"No, I'm—you—what are you…?"
Bruce smiled at him, the sharp-toothed grin that always seems to land him on a front page somewhere or other. He started talking, idle gossip about the people in the room, the ones who were openly gawking and the ones pretending not to notice. He stepped closer, pulling on Clark's top shirt button—not opening it, but teasing it before moving on to the next, and the next.
It was like a game of chicken, seeing how much he could tease before Clark wriggled out of his grip, blushing and stammering as he let Bruce down gently, both of them knowing the game they were playing. But Clark let him keep going, let him reach the bottom button, let him graze the buckle of his belt, and just for a moment Bruce wondered what would happen if he didn't stop, if they let this keep going, right there in the middle of the ballroom.
His fingers twitched, and he saw Clark's eyes flicker for just a moment, saw his throat bob in a swallow.
"I—"
Bruce stepped closer, reaching up to brush back a strand of Clark's hair. It hung loose tonight, curls barely constrained on the top of his head. Clark put his own hand on Bruce's arm, hesitant, wary until Bruce scratched his fingers over Clark's scalp. The light touch to his arm turned firm, tighter than any human could grip him. If Bruce were anyone else, he would have gasped in pain as Clark pulled him out of the ballroom, into the corridor. People still milled around out there, latecomers and early leavers and people just seeking some relative quiet from the main event.
Clark made a sound, deep in the back of his throat, and Bruce recognized the frustration as he relaxed his grip on Bruce's arm. Their sudden appearance had more eyes on them than ever, and Bruce kicked up the flirtation a notch.
He pressed himself against Clark's back. "Looking for somewhere more private?" he asked in Clark's ear. He pointed over Clark's shoulder to a discreet doorway with a sign reading staff only. His arms snaked around Clark, grazing over his chest, his stomach, resting on his hips as Clark led their way through the door. The corridor they found themselves in was deserted, just like Bruce had known it would be.
Immediately, he stepped back, cracking a more natural smile. "Thanks for the assist, Clark." he clapped a hand on Clark's shoulder, doing an excellent impression of someone who was completely unaffected by what had just happened.
"Bruce, what the—what was that?"
"Cover," Bruce explained. "And that was great, they'll definitely think we're screwing in here."
Clark made that choking sound again, crossing his arms, turning away from Bruce a little.
Bruce's face fell. "I'm sorry, I… are you okay?"
"Fine!" Clark insisted, angling himself further away. "Glad to… glad to help. I should—"
Bruce stopped him with a hand on his shoulder, turning him so his back was to the wall, so Bruce could look at him, could read his expression. There was something wrong, and he was going to get to the bottom of it.
What he saw was… not what he expected. Clark's pupils were blown wide, his cheeks still bright pink. As Bruce looked in his eyes, the door to their little corridor opened, and instinct took over. He pushed closer to Clark, pressing him against the wall, flush from chest to hips as he buried his face against Clark's neck. This had to look convincing if—Oh.
Clark let out a high pitched sort of whine as Bruce heard who ever had just walked in stutter out an apology. They didn't leave, though, the door still wide open. Bruce looked over at them, channeling all of his playboy bitchiness. "Do you mind?" he asked.
The staff member standing in the doorway turned on their heel and closed the door behind them, but Bruce stayed frozen to the spot, all his focus on the sharp jut of Clark's hard cock pressing into his hip. He almost couldn't believe it, but there was no other explanation.
"Clark, are you—" he couldn't even ask the question, the possibility too much to even think about. It had been years since he'd thought about Clark like this, since he'd felt his heart race every time that smile landed on him, since he'd let his mind drift in the shower, the image of exactly this enough to make him come. He hadn't thought of Clark that way in so long, but here in this corridor, it all came rushing back in the fraction of a second before Clark gently but firmly pushed him away, stepping out of his reach.
"Oh my gosh, Bruce, I am so sorry," Clark said, angling himself away.
Bruce kept his mouth closed, torn between amused and turned on.
"This isn't… I mean… It's not you, specifically, I'm just…" Clark was making himself smaller, visibly uncomfortable, and the sight of it, along with the distress in his voice snapped Bruce out of it. It was hard to feel anything but concern for Clark, based on how he was reacting.
"Talk to me, Clark."
Clark sighed, keeping his back to Bruce. "I just… Promise you won't laugh?"
"Okay," Bruce agreed, without hesitation.
Clark took a breath, still hunched over. Was he still…? Bruce shook his head, sending that particular line of thought away.
"I just… I haven't really… Since Lois, I mean, I haven't… you know…"
Bruce blinked in surprise. "Wait, like… not at all?"
Clark shrugged. "I mean, I've… By myself, I'm not like…" He huffed. "But in terms of being touched by another person, in any sort of intimate way… no."
"Well, shit," Bruce said, leaning against the wall beside Clark. Not facing him, not crowding him. Just waiting. Slowly, Clark turned back around, still not looking directly at Bruce but at least he could see his face. No wonder he'd had such a strong reaction. "Since Lois, you said?"
Clark nodded. Bruce didn't know all the details, but still… "That was over a year ago, wasn't it?"
"Seventeen months and twelve days," Clark recited with ease.
Bruce snorted. "Sorry, sorry. Not laughing." He tried to lighten the mood a little. "Clark, buddy, it's okay. I mean, hey, I was kind of using my best moves on you out there. All things considered, I'd be put out if you didn't have a reaction."
Clark's lips twitched, a huff of breath shooting from his nose in something Bruce thought might be resembling a laugh. Oh, thank god. He couldn't handle an upset Clark, it was too much.
"Can I ask why?" Bruce probed, after a moment. "I mean, clearly it isn't a lack of… interest." He gestured vaguely, without letting himself glance down at Clark's crotch. "And you aren't exactly someone any reasonable person attracted to men would ever turn down."
Clark did laugh, then. "Ha! Well, I'm flattered, Bruce. It's not that, it's… the other thing."
"What other thing?"
Clark looked at him, an eyebrow raised. He gestured to himself. "I'm not exactly uncomplicated, am I? Superman can't go around sleeping with civilians, and Clark Kent… I could, I guess, but every time I thought about it I started worrying they'd see me without my glasses, without the suit disguising my body, and they'd put two and two together, you know? You never get that feeling?"
Bruce let out a slow whistle. "People really don't tend to be thinking that much when I get them in bed," he joked.
Clark laughed again, less pained this time. "Fair. And you're probably right, I'm just… Maybe it's an excuse. I've never slept with someone who I wasn't ready to trust with it, I guess, and lord knows I'm not ready to actually date anyone new, either. So, here I am. Embarrassing boners in front of my best friend who's just trying to protect his cover."
"Hey, it's not embarrassing." Bruce bumped their shoulders together.
Clark shot him a deadpan look.
"Okay, okay, it doesn't have to be embarrassing," Bruce amended. Silence fell between them, letting Bruce's mind spin away from him. A thought popped into his head—a dangerous thought, a traitorous thought. He shouldn't bring it up, but he couldn't hold it back. "So basically, you want to have sex, but you don't want it to be a stranger, and you don't want to start dating."
"Exactly. It's impossible."
Bruce's heart raced, and he knew Clark must be able to hear it. "Is it?" he asked.
Clark frowned at him.
"I'm kind of an expert at finding a third option, Clark."
"What are you talking about?" Clark asked, but Bruce could tell he knew what Bruce was implying. Still, he'd have to spell it out.
"I know you fairly well, by now. I think you trust me."
"I do," Clark interrupted, unable to let Bruce doubt that for even a moment.
"Well. Thank you." Bruce cleared his throat. "So, I mean, if the past few minutes have been any indication, I think it wouldn't be unpleasant. If you wanted to… you know."
Clark was looking at Bruce with wide eyes. "You… You're saying that you'd… that you want to… um."
"Only if you want to. I'm saying I need to take someone back to the suite I've booked for the night, and I wasn't planning to actually sleep with someone, but I wouldn't exactly mind, either."
He was trying so hard to sound casual, to act like he didn't care much either way, that this was all for Clark's benefit, but even Clark's brief hesitation made something deep within Bruce ache.
Clark was thinking about it. He was actually considering it, but Bruce told himself there was no chance he'd say yes, letting himself down before Clark could—
"Okay," Clark said.
"What?"
"Okay. Let's do this."
Bruce felt lightheaded. "You—you really… okay. Great. Okay." Bruce smiled, all his smooth flirtation from earlier in the night gone completely. He felt genuinely drunk, despite the nonalcoholic champagne he'd been downing all evening. "Do you have anything else you need to do here?" he asked.
Clark shook his head. "I'm good to go," he said.
It was maybe the hottest thing Bruce had ever heard.
He took Clark's hand and led him out of their quiet hallway, into the busy foyer. It was even busier than it had been when they first passed through, more people getting ready to leave the ballroom. Clark stuck close to him, but not close enough. As much as this was real, when he was out here he was also playing a part. He pulled Clark closer, wrapping the hand he was holding around his waist. By the time they reached the elevator, Clark had gotten the hint, hands gripping Bruce's hips, nosing across his jawline.
"Is this gonna end up in tabloids?" Clark whispered in his ear.
"Probably," Bruce admitted. "But if it helps, nobody who knows me trusts a thing the press says. Present company excepted."
Clark snorted. "Good to know." His lips brushed against Bruce's neck from behind and he almost whined at the faint touch. The elevator dinged and they stepped inside.
The act dropped, but Clark didn't let go of him. If anything, he pressed closer, arms wrapping around Bruce's waist. Bruce turned to face him.
"You're sure about this?" Bruce asked. Before they made it up to the room, he had to be sure.
"Of course," Clark said. "You?"
Bruce nodded. "Absolutely." And then, because he was his own worst enemy, because he always chose the path of hurting himself before allowing anyone else the chance to, he added: "Just don't go falling in love with me, Kent. This is purely friendly."
It was a long ride up to the penthouse suite, a long time to stand there, arms around each other, decidedly not taking any further steps towards what they were about to do.
And then, just as the elevator slid to a stop, as the door pinged and opened directly into the penthouse suite, Clark kissed him.
Bruce stumbled back, almost falling out of the elevator into the room, but Clark followed him, kept him steady, lips firm and warm and gentle and everything Bruce had ever dreamed they would be. How had he ever managed to stop dreaming about this?
Bruce's hands flew to Clark's hair, tangling through the strands. It was different now. Before, he'd been teasing, putting on a show, playing a game, but this was real. Clark's lips were on his, his hands large and firm over his waist, and they were moving with purpose towards the suite's bedroom.
Bruce broke the kiss, breathing heavy. "Do you want anything?" he asked. "A drink, or—?"
Clark looked at him, smile wide, eyes bright and shining. "I'm good."
"Great." Bruce nodded to himself, pulling Clark in for another kiss. The kissing was good—scratch that, it was great, but it wasn't why they were up there. Bruce fumbled with the door into the bedroom, finally getting it open and stumbling through.
"Fancy suite," Clark noted.
"Only the best," Bruce grinned at him. He took a few steps back from Clark, getting his bearings on the situation at hand. He pulled off his tie, then loosened a few more buttons on his shirt. Clark watched him, and Bruce saw his fingers twitch a little. "Wanna help?" he offered.
Clark rushed forward, slipping the jacket from Bruce's shoulders then fumbling with the buttons on his shirt. One popped off and rolled across the floor, the sound deafening in the silence. Clark froze.
"Shoot, sorry, I—"
"Rip them all, Clark. I don't care."
Clark tried to be careful with the next button, then made a little sound of frustration in the back of his throat and ripped the final buttons off, letting the shirt fall away, leaving Bruce shirtless.
Clark stared at him, and Bruce would feel exposed if he hadn't been shirtless around Clark so many times before. They'd torn each others clothes away under much less pleasant circumstances so many times that this shouldn't feel like anything new, but as Bruce started removing Clark's shirt, he couldn't help the little shake in his fingers which he hoped Clark wouldn't notice.
Hands on bare skin, tracing the scars that laced Bruce's torso from years of bloody fights and near misses. Clark's bare chest, golden and pristine under a thick thatch of dark hair, coarse under Bruce's callused fingertips, impossibly perfect. Clark gripped Bruce's waist and pulled him close, hips flush together. The suit pants they both wore were tight, and the pressure of feeling Clark against him caused a shiver to run down Bruce's spine.
It was already too much, already overwhelming. This was Clark, it was Kal-el, it was Superman. The man Bruce had fought alongside, who had always been there when Bruce needed him. The person who possibly knew Bruce better than anyone else in the world, not clouded by secret identities or paternal worry. His best friend.
Was this a mistake? Clark cupped his face in a hand, eyes searching, recognizing something in Bruce's stillness.
"Talk to me," he said in a low voice.
Bruce shook his head. He'd already checked in with Clark, multiple times. They were both adults who knew what they were doing. Still, he could change his mind. He could step back, tell Clark he wasn't sure, and Clark would smile and laugh in a self conscious sort of way, he'd offer to leave and maybe Bruce would say yes, spending the rest of the night on his own, jerking off to the brief taste he'd gotten of this.
Or maybe he'd ask Clark to stay, and he would. They'd sit up together, pretending none of this had happened, and maybe things would go back to normal, neither of them acknowledging what had almost happened.
But Bruce didn't want any of that. He wanted Clark. He wanted more than just a taste, didn't want to live with the what if.
It was selfish, Bruce knew. It was selfish to do this, to ask for this, but Clark wanted it too. There was physical evidence of that, a firm weight straining through their clothes, and Bruce was too weak to pull away now.
He reached for Clark's glasses, taking them off and setting them aside before kissing him. He pushed him back onto the bed, climbing on top of him. Clark blinked, eyes shining, then his face broke into a smile, dimples taking over his face. Fucking hell, he was beautiful—Bruce couldn't stand it. He growled, unbuckling Clark's belt, all but attacking those stupid fucking beige pants until he managed to get them off, mouth going dry at the sight that met him.
"Fucking hell," Bruce said, eyes following the trail of hair leading from his chest, down his stomach, framing his hard, leaking cock in a thick nest. Bruce lowered himself, kissing Clark's stomach, then the crease of his thigh.
He nuzzled the base of Clark's cock, breathing in deep, not even bothering to suppress a moan at the thick, heady scent of it.
"Bruce," Clark said, voice hardly more than a growl. "Bruce, please."
Bruce didn't need to be asked twice. He pressed open-mouthed, sloppy kisses along the length until he reached the tip, swirling his tongue round the head, tasting the salty, sweet tang of precome coat his tongue.
"Ohh." Clark moaned, long and soft, and maybe Bruce was imagining things, maybe it was just wishful thinking, but it sounded to his ears almost like a prayer.
He sunk down over Clark's cock, until the tip hit the back of his throat. Clark was big, though Bruce had never imagined he might be otherwise. Everything about Clark was larger-than-life and Bruce relished the stretch, the ache he was already beginning to feel in his jaw. He could stay like this forever, pulling up, suckling on the head before sinking back down further, taking Clark in deeper each time. He was so hard it almost hurt, his own cock straining against the restrictive fabric of his pants as he bucked against the mattress, not enough, never enough.
Clark gasped the next time he sunk down, a half gasped "Wait!" piercing Bruce's fogged-up thoughts. Bruce stopped with a whine of disappointment, pouting until he looked up and saw just how much of a state Clark was in, eyes blown wide, lips bitten, breathing heavy.
"Clark?" he asked.
"Get the heck up here," Clark grabbed at Bruce, pulling him up the bed and into a messy, desperate kiss. hands grappled at Bruce's belt, then his fly, and then finally, finally, Clark shoved his pants down, letting his cock spring free. He barely had a moment's relief before Clark's hand wrapped around him and Bruce lost all sense.
"Oh my—"
Clark's free hand gripped the back of Bruce's head, pulling him back into a kiss, pumping his cock in a slow, steady rhythm.
"Do you—what do you want?" Bruce managed to ask, once he remembered how to form words.
Clark's fingers flexed around him, drawing out another moan. Bruce swore, swatting his hand away, sitting up to get out of his reach.
"What—" Clark frowned, reaching for him again. Bruce grabbed his hand, bringing it to his mouth, kissing the palm.
"Clark, you… if you kept doing that, we wouldn't get to doing anything else tonight," Bruce managed. He put Clark's hand down on his thigh, where he immediately began moving back towards Bruce's crotch, stopping just shy. "Which, if that's what you want, I am absolutely okay with that," he added. "But, I got the feeling you—"
Clark swallowed, nodding. "Yeah. Yes, please—do you want to—"
Bruce was still holding Clark's wrist, guiding it to his ass. "Fuck me."
Clark's dick twitched, a fresh spurt of precome beading at the tip. "Really? I—Yeah, yeah, okay, do you have—?"
Bruce nodded to his bag, leaning next to the nightstand, where he knew the lube he'd packed would be. Clark reached for it, pulling the drawer too hard so it clattered out of the stand. "Oh my—geez, sorry, let me just—" He rolled over, almost dislodging Bruce from his perch in his lap as he leaned over the edge of the bed.
Bruce caught himself, sitting back onto the mattress as Clark sat back up, victorious with a bottle of lube in his hand. "You were prepared, huh? Do you have condoms?" he asked, hair disheveled.
"Couldn't hurt to pack it, just in case," Bruce shrugged. "They're there somewhere, but do we need them?" Clark's eyebrows shot up.
"No? I mean, I can't—"
"I know." Bruce reclined against the pillows, spreading his legs to make space for Clark to crawl in between them. He couldn't pretend this wasn't part of the fantasy he'd shamefully indulged in early in their friendship, when he'd first learned of Clark's immunity to human infections. He'd hated where his mind had gone in the moment, but now it was a blessing.
He wrapped his legs around Clark's waist as fingers played across his hole, one lubed digit slipping inside of him, the stretch already blissful. Bruce hadn't gone as long as Clark without being touched, but this? Letting someone open him up, giving away control like this? It wasn't something he did often. Or… ever, really.
Clark was so careful, so gentle and considerate as he slowly worked Bruce over, finger by finger, until he was squirming, begging for more. A finger brushed against his prostate and Bruce cried out. Again and again, Clark's fingers found that spot, massaging, teasing, until Bruce couldn't take it anymore.
"Cla—Kal, please, fuck, I'm—"
Clark kissed him, open mouthed and filthy as he slipped his fingers out. It was a matter of moments before the pressure was back, though. "Ready?" Clark whispered in his ear.
"Please," Bruce begged. Clark wrapped an arm around Bruce's back, guiding him into position before pressing in. Slow, tortuously slow, Clark filled him up, scattering Bruce's thoughts into nothing but more and please.
Bruce crested wave after wave of pleasure as Clark moved inside of him, slowly at first, carefully, then losing a small piece of that control he always held so close. Bruce met him thrust for thrust, a bruising pace that shook the bed frame. Bruce clutched at Clark's shoulders, lips all but attached to his skin—cheek, lips, jaw, throat, wherever he could reach, just needing to feel him, to taste him, the salty tang of sweat that clung to him.
And then, a hand slid between their bodies, wrapping around his cock. It was too much, Clark's cock hitting his prostate with every other thrust, his hand pumping Bruce's in tandem, every sensation building, building until there was nothing but pleasure, every inch of him burning with it.
"Clark, I'm—fuck—" he didn't manage to so much as finish his warning before he came, hot waves of pleasure washing over him until he went slack in Clark's grip. He didn't stop, and Bruce didn't want him to.
It was too much, and not enough all at once. Bruce forced himself to watch as Clark came apart above him, as his jaw went slack, as the movements of his hips turned erratic.
A long, drawn out moan punctuated by his hands grasping tight around Bruce's thigh, his waist, and Bruce felt him come, felt him spill inside of him, hot and wet and perfect—it was almost enough to make his spent cock want to go again, twitching limply in his own mess.
Clark collapsed on top of him, a solid weight, breath hot against his skin.
"H-holy cow," Clark stuttered. Bruce wrapped an arm around him, pressing a kiss to his shoulder.
"Yeah, I know," he agreed with a huff of laughter. "Jesus Christ."
Clark hummed, the sound rumbling through Bruce's chest.
They lay like that, wrapped up in one another, until Clark suddenly stiffened. He sat up, slipping out of Bruce in the process.
Bruce frowned, whimpering a little at the loss. "What's wrong?" he asked, managing to lift a leaden arm to thread his fingers through Clark's curls.
Clark leaned into the touch, looking down at him. "I just… I don't know what comes next," he admitted. "Do we… can we sleep, or would it be better if I—" He looked towards the door.
"Stay." Bruce pulled Clark back down to rest against his chest. "Unless you have to go. I mean, I won't force you. But this is… you can stay as long as you want."
Clark pressed a kiss to Bruce's chest and pulled the covers up over them both, blanketing them both in warmth. "Good," he said. "That's good."
They drifted off like that, Clark a warm and comforting weight on top of Bruce. In the moments before he succumbed to sleep, Bruce wondered whether he would regret this, but before he could begin to spiral, Clark let out a soft snore, and he smiled, letting sleep wash over him.