Work Text:
The morning light in Gotham was rarely golden, but today, filtered through the heavy velvet curtains of Wayne Manor, it felt like spun silk. The master bedroom was a sanctuary of quiet, a rare pocket of peace in a life defined by shadows and steel.
Clark Kent lay on his side, his head propped up by a hand, simply breathing in the scent of the room—expensive cologne, old books, and the warm, muskier scent of a night spent in each other's arms.
Beside him, Bruce was a masterpiece of stillness. It was a sight few in the world would ever believe, let alone witness. The Batman—the man who held the weight of a crumbling city on his shoulders—was fast asleep on his stomach. He was tangled in charcoal-grey sheets, one arm hooked firmly around a pillow as if anchoring himself to the waking world. The blanket had slipped, dipping low across the small of his back, revealing the map of scars that told the story of his sacrifices.
But here, in the soft dawn, those scars didn't look like wounds; they looked like history.
He looks so human, Clark thought, his heart swelling with a fierce, protective tenderness. No masks, no grimaces. Just Bruce. Clark reached out, his fingers hovering just an inch above Bruce’s skin. He could feel the radiating warmth. He didn’t want to wake him—Bruce needed this rest more than he needed oxygen—but the urge to touch, to reassure himself that this was real, was a physical ache. After months of "will-they-won't-they," of stolen glances during Justice League briefings and brush-of-the-hand greetings in the Batcave, they were finally here.
With the grace of a man who could defy gravity, Clark eased himself out of the bed. He moved with agonizing slowness to ensure the mattress didn't creak. Standing there naked for a moment, he let his eyes sweep over his partner one last time. He felt a surge of domestic joy—a quiet, humming happiness that rivaled the yellow sun.
Breakfast, he decided. He deserves to wake up to something better than just Alfred’s (admittedly perfect) coffee. He deserves to be spoiled.
He moved silently across the plush carpet, pulling on his clothes. Each movement was a calculated effort to remain a ghost. He headed toward the window, ready to take flight to his favorite bakery in Metropolis—it would only take a few seconds—but as he passed the heavy mahogany mantelpiece, something caught his eye.
The mantel was Bruce’s private gallery. Clark stopped, his boots silent on the floor.
He looked at the silver frames, polished to a shine by Alfred’s tireless hands. There were Thomas and Martha Wayne, frozen in a moment of laughter at an anniversary dinner, their eyes full of a future they wouldn't get to see.
Then, the "strays." The boys who had become Bruce’s heartbeat. A candid shot of Dick laughing so hard he was doubled over; a stoic portrait of Tim looking far too wise for his years; a rare, grainy photo of Jason with a mischievous glint in his eyes. There was a larger frame in the center—the whole chaotic family, Alfred included, standing in front of the manor.
And then, Clark’s breath hitched.
Right there. Tucked between the photo of the boys and the one of Thomas and Martha.
It was a photo of Clark. Not Superman—no cape, no "S," no soaring over the skyline. It was just Clark. He was wearing his bumbling flannel shirt and those thick-rimmed glasses, squinting into the sun at a Smallville fair, a half-eaten corn dog in one hand. He looked completely ordinary. Completely himself.
Clark felt a lump form in his throat. In the world of Bruce Wayne, the mantel was holy ground. It was reserved for the people who defined him, the people he would die for. To Bruce, family wasn't just a word; it was a pact.
I’m on the mantel, Clark realized, a brilliant, giddy smile breaking across his face. I’m not just a secret or a boyfriend. I’m family.
The realization hit him harder than any punch from Darkseid. This was Bruce’s way of saying everything he struggled to put into words. This was Bruce saying, You are my home.
He looked back at the bed. Bruce hadn't moved, though his breathing had shifted into a deeper, more rhythmic cycle. Clark felt a rush of love so potent it felt like it might burst from his chest. He wanted to fly across the room and kiss every inch of Bruce's face, but instead, he just stood there, basking in the glow of being chosen.
He wasn't just the Man of Steel. He was the man on the mantel.
Clark turned back to the window, his heart lighter than air. He didn't just want to get breakfast anymore; he wanted to bring back the world. He eased the window open, the cool Gotham air rushing in, and whispered into the quiet room.
"I love you, Bruce."
With a silent blur of movement, he vanished into the sky, the image of that small, silver-framed photo etched into his mind as the ultimate victory.
The air in the bedroom crackled with the faint, ozone scent of high-speed flight and the mouth-watering aroma of fresh yeast, melted chocolate, and high-roast coffee. Clark landed on the balcony with the silence of a falling feather, balancing a large, grease-stained paper bag and a tray of artisanal coffees with practiced Kryptonian precision.
He paused at the threshold, his heart doing a little celebratory skip. Bruce was stirring.
Bruce Wayne did not "wake up" so much as he slowly materialized into consciousness. He shifted, a low, gravelly groan vibrating in his chest that made Clark’s ears perk up. With the grace of a very tired, very muscular cat, Bruce pushed himself upward. He dragged a silk pillow behind him, propping it against the heavy mahogany headboard, and leaned back.
The duvet pooled around his waist, leaving his torso bare—a landscape of tanned skin and powerful muscle, dappled by the morning light. His black hair was a disaster, standing up in sleep-mussed spikes that made Clark want to drop the breakfast and dive back into bed just to smooth them down.
"You're hovering," Bruce murmured, his voice a deep, sleep-thickened rasp that sent a shiver down Clark’s spine. His eyes were barely slits, squinting against the dim light.
"I am technically standing on the floor, Bruce," Clark teased, his voice bubbling with a joy he couldn't suppress. He floated—alright, maybe he was hovering an inch off the rug—over to the bedside table. "But I come bearing gifts. From that bakery in Paris you like. And the coffee is from that roastery in Metropolis you pretend not to like."
Clark handed him the cup. Bruce’s hand, scarred and steady, wrapped around the cardboard sleeve. He didn't drink it immediately. Instead, he lifted the cup until it was right under his nose, closed his eyes, and took a long, deep breath of the steam.
A soft, low hum of approval vibrated from Bruce’s throat.
God, he’s beautiful, Clark thought, leaning against the bedpost, his cape (which he'd thrown on over his civilian clothes for the flight) draped over his arm like a waiter’s towel. The most dangerous man on Earth, and he’s defeated by a latte.
"You look..." Clark started, his voice trailing off into a breathless laugh. "You look incredibly relaxed. It’s a good look for you."
Bruce opened one eye, looking at Clark over the rim of the cup. "I look like I was hit by a freight train, Kent. My back hurts, my hair is a sentient entity, and I can smell the sugar in that bag from here. It’s offensive."
"And yet," Clark grinned, leaning in closer, "your heart rate just picked up when you smelled the chocolate croissants."
Bruce took a slow, methodical sip of the coffee, his eyes fluttering shut again in genuine relief. "I hate your super-hearing. It’s an invasion of privacy."
"It’s a diagnostic tool," Clark corrected, sitting on the edge of the mattress. The bed dipped under his weight, and Bruce instinctively leaned his shoulder toward Clark’s warmth. "And my 'diagnostic tool' says you’re happy. And hungry."
Clark began unpacking the spoils. He set a small wooden tray across Bruce’s lap, carefully draping a napkin over the edge of the duvet to protect the expensive fabric. He laid out flaky pain au chocolat, a savory spinach tart, and a dish of fresh berries.
Bruce stared at the spread, then at Clark. The grogginess was still there, a soft haze over his usually sharp blue eyes. "You flew to France for a croissant?"
"Technically, I flew to France for three croissants. I ate one over the Atlantic," Clark admitted, blushing slightly. "But the point is, I wanted you to have the best. Because you are the best."
Bruce paused, his hand hovering over a pastry. He looked at Clark—really looked at him—and the mask of the "grumpy billionaire" slipped entirely. His expression softened into something so raw and tender it made Clark’s breath hitch.
"You're ridiculous," Bruce whispered, but he reached out with his free hand and squeezed Clark’s forearm. His thumb stroked the fabric of Clark's shirt, a lingering, intimate touch. "Thank you, Clark. Truly."
Clark’s mind flashed back to the picture on the mantel. The pride he’d felt seeing his own face nestled among the Wayne family line-up surged again. He couldn't keep it in.
"I saw the picture, Bruce," he said softly, his voice thick with emotion.
Bruce froze for a second, a piece of croissant halfway to his mouth. He didn't look away, but a faint, rare flush of pink crept up his neck. "It’s a good photo. You look... less like a god and more like the man who argues with me about the thermostat."
"It's on the mantel," Clark insisted, his eyes shimmering. "Next to Jason. Next to your parents. Do you have any idea what that means to me? To know that when you're in here, in your private space, I'm part of the circle?"
Bruce set his coffee down and reached out, cupping Clark’s cheek. His palm was warm, his skin slightly rough. "Clark," he said, his voice dropping to a serious, intimate register. "You aren't just a guest in this house. You're part of the reason I want to come back to it. You’re family. Get used to it."
Clark leaned into the touch, closing his eyes and letting out a shaky breath. "I love you so much, it’s actually a little terrifying."
"Tell me about it," Bruce huffed, though he was smiling now—a real, genuine smile that reached his eyes. "I’m sitting here naked, eating French pastries in bed while the most powerful being in the galaxy looks at me like I hung the moon. My reputation is in shambles."
Clark laughed, a bright, booming sound that filled the room. He leaned forward, pressing his forehead against Bruce’s. "Your reputation is safe with me, Batman. Now, eat your breakfast. You need the energy."
"And why is that?" Bruce asked, a playful, dangerous glint finally appearing in his eyes.
Clark winked, reaching for a strawberry. "Because it’s a long walk to the shower, and I don’t plan on letting you go in there alone."
Bruce hummed again, that deep, satisfied sound. "Best idea you've had all morning, Smallville."
The last of the crumbs had been cleared, and the coffee cups sat empty on the nightstand. The air in the room was thick with the scent of high-end espresso and the lingering, sweet heat of a night that had pushed both of them to their limits.
Then, Bruce moved.
With a fluid, unselfconscious grace, he tossed the duvet aside and swung his legs over the edge of the mattress. He stood up, fully reclaiming his height. He didn't reach for a robe; he didn't look for a towel. He simply stood there in the center of the sun-drenched room, completely, magnificently naked.
Clark felt the air leave his lungs. Even after a night of tangled limbs and whispered confessions, seeing Bruce like this—bathed in the unapologetic clarity of the morning—was a different kind of sensory overload. Clark’s eyes traveled over the powerful slope of Bruce’s shoulders, the tapering V of his stomach, and the rugged, functional strength of his thighs.
A fierce, hot blush crept up Clark’s neck, coloring his cheekbones a vivid scarlet. He tried to look away, then realized he didn't want to, then tried to look away again. He ended up just staring, a goofy, helpless smile plastered on his face.
Bruce caught the expression in the vanity mirror and turned around slowly, a brow arched in amusement. He didn't cover up; instead, he leaned one hip against the heavy bedpost, his arms folded loosely over his chest.
"Clark," Bruce said, his voice dropping into that dark, teasing baritone. "We spent the better part of six hours exploring every inch of each other’s anatomy last night. And yet, I stand up to go to the bathroom and you’re blushing like a farm boy who just saw his first pin-up poster."
Clark let out a shaky, breathless chuckle, rubbing the back of his neck. "Last night was... different, Bruce."
Bruce tilted his head, his blue eyes dancing with a predatory sort of mischief. "Different? How?"
"I don't know," Clark stammered, his Super-speed brain suddenly stalling out like a broken engine. Focus, Kent. You’ve flown through the heart of a sun, you can handle a naked billionaire. But he couldn't. Not when the billionaire looked like a statue carved out of warm marble and stubbornness.
"You don't know?" Bruce repeated, his voice trailing off into a hum. He began to walk toward Clark, his stride deliberate and slow. Every muscle in his legs flexed with the movement. "The Man of Tomorrow, the leader of the Justice League, the investigative journalist... and you're at a loss for words?"
Bruce stopped when he was inches away. The heat radiating off his body was better than the sun. Clark had to look up slightly, his heart hammering against his ribs like a trapped bird.
"I can't... think," Clark managed to whisper, his gaze dropping to Bruce’s chest, then back to his eyes. "I can't think when you’re standing right there. Naked. Looking like that."
"Like what?" Bruce challenged, stepping even closer until their chests were almost brushing—warm skin against Clark’s soft flannel shirt.
"Like everything I’ve ever wanted," Clark thought, though what he actually said was a strangled, "Like you’re doing it on purpose."
Bruce’s smirk widened, that rare, genuine "Bruce" smile that he only saved for the inner circle. "Well, if it’s such a distraction..." Bruce leaned in, his lips hovering just an inch from Clark’s ear, his breath hot against the skin. "I suppose I could go put on some clothes. I think there’s a pair of sweatpants in the closet."
"No!"
The word jumped out of Clark’s mouth before he could filter it. His hands instinctively reached out, hovering near Bruce’s waist as if to keep him from moving an inch toward that closet.
Bruce let out a low, triumphant soft laugh that vibrated through both of them. He reached up, his fingers tangling in the hair at the nape of Clark’s neck, pulling him just a fraction closer.
"I thought so," Bruce murmured. He leaned back just enough to look Clark in the eye, his expression shifting from playful to something deeply intimate, something that promised another kind of "long night" even though it was barely 9:00 AM.
"Come with me," Bruce commanded softly. He turned, heading toward the en-suite bathroom where the sound of the rainfall shower head began to hiss behind the frosted glass. He paused at the door, looking back over his shoulder, his eyes raking over Clark’s clothed form with a hunger that matched Clark’s own.
"I'm taking a shower. And Clark?"
"Yeah?" Clark asked, already unbuttoning his shirt with trembling fingers.
"I’ve spent the last ten minutes being admired," Bruce said, his smirk turning into a wicked grin. "I think it’s only fair that you get naked, too. I’ve been waiting to see you in the daylight since I woke up."
Clark’s blush reached a whole new level of "solar flare" red. He followed Bruce into the steam, the door clicking shut behind them, leaving the world—and the mantelpiece—behind for a few more hours of perfect, private bliss.