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The kitchen in Clark Kent’s Metropolis apartment was currently a war zone, and the enemy was a single, stubborn clove of garlic.
"I don't need the super-speed," Clark muttered to himself, his tongue poking out slightly in concentration as he wielded a dull paring knife. "Normal human prep-time. A normal, relaxing Tuesday dinner. Just a guy cooking for his boyfriend."
From the living room couch, a deep, raspy voice drifted over the counter. "The guy cooking for his boyfriend is about to amputate his own thumb. Use the micro-expression of your heat vision, Clark. I won't tell the Justice League."
"No! That’s cheating," Clark called back, pointing the knife playfully toward the living room. "This is a labor of love. Authenticity is the secret ingredient."
Bruce Wayne didn't look up from his phone. He was sprawled out across Clark’s mismatched, slightly sagging couch—a sight that still made Clark’s heart do a ridiculous little flip, even after all this time. The terrifying Dark Knight of Gotham was wearing a soft, faded gray sweater that belonged to Clark, the sleeves pushed up to reveal his scarred forearms. His long legs were draped over the armrest, and his thumb was flying across his phone screen at a speed that rivaled Flash’s typing skills.
Clark managed to smash the garlic without bringing the building down, tossed it into a sizzling pan of olive oil, and wiped his hands on a dish towel. He leaned against the kitchen island, just watching Bruce.
There was a soft, barely perceptible twitch at the corner of Bruce’s lips. A smirk. A genuine, relaxed smirk.
"Alright, I'll bite," Clark said, walking over to the couch with two glasses of cheap red wine. He handed one to Bruce, who took it with a murmured "Thank you," without breaking his typing rhythm. Clark sat down by Bruce's feet, lifting Bruce’s ankles to rest comfortably in his lap. "Who is making Gotham's most brooding billionaire smile at a glowing screen? Is it Dick? Please tell me he sent you another meme of a bat falling out of a tree."
Bruce’s thumb paused. He glanced over the top of his phone, his blue eyes deadpan and completely serious.
"Your mom."
Clark snorted, taking a sip of his wine. "Haha. Right. Good one, Bruce. Of course you are."
Bruce didn't laugh. He didn't even blink. He just turned the phone around and held it up to Clark’s face.
Clark blinked, squinting at the screen. The contact name at the top of the thread read, simply: Martha Kent. Below it was a massive wall of blue and gray text bubbles, interspersed with a dizzying amount of emojis—mostly little flowers, tractors, and smiley faces.
The most recent message from Martha read: 'Oh, Bruce, that’s wonderful! Just make sure Clark eats his vegetables. He always skips the broccoli if you don't watch him. Send him my love! ❤️🥦'
Clark’s jaw dropped. He looked from the phone, to Bruce, and back to the phone. "What... you're serious? You're actually texting my mom?"
"Yes." Bruce pulled the phone back, nonchalantly sending a quick reply.
"Why?!" Clark squeaked, his voice pitching high enough to alert the local canine population.
Bruce shrugged, a maddeningly casual lift of one shoulder. "Because I can. She has excellent syntax."
"Bruce!" Clark shuffled closer, his mind spinning as he tried to process the image of the world's greatest detective trading text messages with a sweet woman in flannel from Smallville, Kansas. "For how long has this been going on?"
"We started at Christmas," Bruce said, taking a slow sip of his wine, thoroughly enjoying the utter bewilderment on his boyfriend’s face. "So, almost six months."
"Six months?!" Clark gasped, clutching his chest dramatically. "You’ve been secret-texting my mother for half a year?! I didn't even think you liked texting. It takes me three business days to get a 'K' out of you when I ask what you want for dinner!"
"You ask redundant questions," Bruce countered smoothly. "Martha is direct. And she appreciates my input."
"Input on what?" Clark was staring at Bruce in absolute disbelief, shock, and a rapidly growing, overwhelming wave of pure affection. He leaned in, practically hovering over Bruce now. "What could Batman and Martha Kent possibly have to discuss for six months?"
"It’s a wide variety of topics," Bruce said, his voice softening just a fraction, a hint of genuine warmth bleeding through his stoic facade. "It started with recipes. I wanted to know the exact spice blend she uses for that pot roast she made when I visited the farm. Alfred was impressed with her measurements."
"You stole my mom's pot roast recipe?"
"I requested it. Politely," Bruce corrected. "Then, she asked about the hydrangeas and English roses that grow in the Manor’s eastern gardens. She mentioned she’d been trying to grow a specific hybrid in Kansas but the soil was difficult. I had the Wayne Enterprises agricultural division analyze the Smallville soil composition, sent her the correct fertilizer, and mailed her some harvested seeds from the Manor to sow for herself."
Clark’s chest felt incredibly tight, a warm, golden ache expanding behind his ribs. "You sent her seeds from the Manor?"
"I did. Then I had to follow up to ask how they were going," Bruce continued, looking almost defensive now as a faint pink hue touched his cheekbones. "So we talked about flowers. Then we talked about Christmas presents. Then food. And..." Bruce paused, his eyes flickering up to meet Clark’s intense, melting gaze. "...you, sometimes. Etc, etc."
"Etc, etc?" Clark echoed softly. "What does 'etc, etc' mean, Bruce?"
Bruce sighed, setting his phone down on the coffee table. He reached up, his large, calloused hand cupping the back of Clark’s neck, his thumb caressing the soft skin just behind Clark's ear.
"It means she tells me embarrassing stories about you falling into the hog pen when you were seven," Bruce murmured, a tender, teasing smile finally breaking through. "And she checks in on me. To make sure I’m sleeping. To make sure I’m not letting Gotham swallow me whole."
Bruce looked away for a second, his voice dropping to a rough whisper. "She’s a kind woman, Clark. I... I really like her."
Clark just stared at him. The kitchen was filling with the sharp scent of slightly burning garlic, but Clark couldn't care less if the whole apartment caught fire right now. He was looking at this brilliant, guarded, deeply wounded man who spent his nights fighting monsters, who had lost his own mother so tragically—and here he was, secretly cultivating a sweet, mundane relationship with Clark’s mom, just because he loved her, too.
"Clark?" Bruce asked, a flash of rare vulnerability crossing his features. "Are you mad?"
"Mad?" Clark choked out. In a split second, Clark moved, abandoning his wine glass on the floor and tackling Bruce fully into the cushions of the couch.
"Oof—Clark, gravity," Bruce grunted, though his arms immediately wrapped tightly around Clark’s waist, pulling the larger man flush against him.
Clark buried his face in the crook of Bruce’s neck, inhaling the comforting scent of expensive cologne, old paper, and pure Bruce. He kissed a warm spot right beneath Bruce's jaw, then kissed his cheek, then peppered his entire face with soft, adoring kisses.
"I love you," Clark mumbled against Bruce’s lips. "I love you so much it’s ridiculous. You are the most infuriating, secretive, deeply absurd, wonderful man in the universe."
Bruce scoffed, but his fingers were tangled in Clark’s dark curls, holding him close. "I'm a creature of the dark, Kent. Maintain my reputation."
"Not anymore," Clark laughed softly, pulling back just enough to look into Bruce’s eyes. "You’re a guy who texts emojis to a lady in Kansas. It's over, Wayne. Your street cred is completely ruined."
"She sent me a picture of a baby goat yesterday," Bruce admitted quietly, his eyes crinkling at the corners. "It was wearing a sweater."
"Oh my god," Clark gasped, pressing his forehead against Bruce’s, his heart bursting. "You're soft. My boyfriend is soft."
"Say that to the rogue's gallery and I will end you."
"Your secrets are safe with me," Clark whispered, his tone shifting into something deeply intimate, full of a fierce, protective love. He leaned down and caught Bruce’s lips in a slow, deep, bruisingly tender kiss. Bruce responded instantly, parting his lips, his hands griping Clark’s shoulders, pulling him down until there was absolutely no space left between them. It was a kiss full of six months of unspoken gratitude, of family, and a shared future.
When they finally broke apart, both of them breathing a little heavier, a sharp *beep-beep-beep* echoed from the kitchen as the fire alarm went off.
Bruce cleared his throat, his eyes dark with affection but his lips twitching. "Clark."
"Yeah?"
"The authentic, non-super-powered dinner is smoking."
Clark groaned, rolling off Bruce and scrambling to his feet. "Right! The garlic!" He rushed to the kitchen, coughing slightly as he waved a dish towel at the pan.
Bruce sat up, adjusting his sweater, his eyes never leaving Clark’s frantic movements. He picked his phone back up, a soft smile on his face, and quickly typed out a message.
‘He burned the garlic. I’m ordering Thai. Don’t tell him I told you 🔥.’
A second later, his phone buzzed.
Martha: ‘Oh, bless his heart. Order the crab rangoon, Bruce, it’s his favorite. Have a good night, son. ❤️’
Bruce stared at the word son for a long moment. He didn't lock his phone this time. He just placed it face down, stood up, and went into the kitchen to wrap his arms around his boyfriend’s waist from behind, offering a quiet, perfect comfort against the smoke.
The kitchen smelled faintly of charred garlic and strongly of the spicy Thai green curry that Bruce had ordered on his phone. The takeout containers sat empty on the counter, cleared away with a speed that Clark insisted was just "enthusiastic cleaning" but Bruce knew was a subtle flex of super-speed.
Now, the apartment was quiet save for the low hum of the refrigerator and the gentle thud of a wooden spoon against a metal bowl.
"I thought we agreed on an authentic, human culinary experience tonight," Bruce said, leaning his hip against the counter. He had a mug of black coffee cradled in his hands, watching his boyfriend with an amused, heavy-lidded gaze.
Clark didn’t look up from the bowl, though his cheeks flushed a very endearing shade of pink. He was vigorously mashing a pile of ripe strawberries and bananas. "The curry was hot, Bruce. We needed something cold to balance the palate. And the freezer takes hours. I am merely… accelerating the natural thermodynamics of the kitchen."
"You cheated," Bruce deadpanned.
"I adapted," Clark corrected righteously. He leaned over the bowl, puckered his lips, and let out a gentle, highly controlled puff of frosty air. A fine mist of ice crystals swirled into the mashed fruit, instantly freezing the mixture into a perfectly creamy, soft-serve texture. Clark beamed, holding up the wooden spoon like a trophy. "See? Perfect strawberry-banana ice cream in thirty seconds. Batman approves of efficiency, doesn't he?"
Bruce walked over, took the spoon from Clark’s hand, and tasted a bit of the ice cream. He chewed thoughtfully, his expression unreadable, before nodding once. "Acceptable. Though your mother would say you lack patience."
"Oh, so we're bringing her into the kitchen evaluation now?" Clark laughed, a rich, booming sound that filled the small space. He grabbed two small bowls and began scooping the dessert. "You know, I’ve been thinking about it for the last hour. It’s actually incredibly sweet. You and my mom."
Bruce shifted slightly, his eyes dropping to his coffee. The terrifying vigilante who stared down parademons was suddenly looking intensely interested in the ceramic glaze of his mug. "She is an easy person to talk to. She doesn't expect me to be... anything other than a man who cares about her son."
Clark’s expression softened instantly. He set the bowls down, completely forgetting about the ice cream, and stepped into Bruce’s space. He slid his large, warm hands up Bruce’s chest, resting them on his shoulders.
"She loves you, Bruce," Clark said softly, his blue eyes shining with absolute sincerity. "I can hear your heart right now—it does a specific little skip when you talk about her. You don't have to be guarded about it with me. Knowing that the two people I love most in this world are late-night texting about gardening and my childhood embarrassments... it makes me feel like the luckiest man alive."
Bruce looked up, meeting Clark's gaze. The walls he usually kept so high were completely down, leaving only a profound, quiet tenderness. "I lost my mother a very long time ago, Clark. I didn't think... I didn't think I’d ever have someone ask me if I wore a coat when it rained, or remind me to eat a vegetable, without it being a tactical briefing from Alfred."
Clark choked back a small, emotional sound. He leaned forward and pressed his forehead against Bruce’s, closing his eyes. "She’s your family now, too. You know that, right? You're stuck with the Kents. Flannel shirts, awkward farm chores, and all."
"I am aware," Bruce murmured, his hands coming up to grip Clark’s waist, pulling him flush against his body. "Though I draw the line at shoveling pig manure. I have people for that."
"We'll see about that when harvest season comes," Clark teased, tilting his head up to catch Bruce's lips in a sweet, lingering kiss. It tasted like strawberries, coffee, and pure comfort.
Suddenly, from the living room couch, a familiar *buzz-buzz* broke the silence.
Clark pulled back with a grin. "Speaking of the matriarch."
Bruce sighed, though there was no real heat in it. He walked back to the living room, Clark trailing closely behind him like a giant, curious golden retriever. Bruce picked up his phone, unlocked it, and checked the screen.
Clark unabashedly unhinged his jaw to peek over Bruce’s shoulder.
Martha Kent: Bruce, dear, I’m looking at the seed catalog you sent. Are you certain these Gotham night-blooming orchids will survive the Kansas wind?
Bruce’s thumbs began to move with practiced precision.
Bruce: I'm sure. I had the Wayne Enterprises botanists modify the root system for higher wind resistance. Plant them on the southern side of the porch, near the windbreak. They will thrive.
Clark let out a soft wheeze. "You had a multi-billion-dollar R&D department genetically engineer a flower just so my mom could plant it on her porch?"
"It was a slow Tuesday for the science division," Bruce muttered, keeping his eyes on the screen as the three typing dots appeared.
Martha Kent: You are a wonderful boy, Bruce. Thank you. And thank you for ordering Clark the Thai food. I know he tries his best, but his father and I always say his cooking could kill a normal human. How is the dessert going?
Clark gasped, deeply offended. "Hey! My ice cream is structurally sound! Tell her it’s delicious, Bruce! Defend my honor!"
Bruce ignored him, a wicked smirk playing on his lips as he typed back.
Bruce: He used his freeze breath, Mrs. Kent. He gave up on being a normal human within twenty minutes.
Martha Kent: Haha! I knew it! He has no patience. Just like his father when it comes to waiting for the pie to cool. Tell him I love him, and give him a kiss from me ♥️
Bruce paused at that last text. He stared at the screen, a sudden wave of quiet, domestic warmth washing over him. He looked up at Clark, who was pouting playfully but looking at Bruce with so much adoration it was practically radiant.
"She told me to give you a kiss," Bruce said softly.
"Well," Clark beamed, stepping closer and crossing his arms. "I am a very dutiful son. I wouldn't want you disobeying my mother's direct orders."
Bruce set the phone down on the coffee table. He reached out, grabbing the collar of Clark’s shirt, and pulled him down into a deep, fierce, and incredibly loving kiss. Clark wrapped his arms around Bruce’s back, lifting him slightly off his feet as he poured all his love, his tenderness, and his gratitude into the embrace.
When they parted, Clark’s eyes were dark with affection. "Did you tell her you're going to come with me to the farm this weekend?"
Bruce picked his phone back up, his thumb moving smoothly.
Bruce: I will be delivering the orchids in person this Friday, Mrs. Kent. Clark will be driving, so we may be late if he insists on stopping at every roadside diner.
Martha Kent: Oh, wonderful! I’ll make the pot roast. Safe travels, son. Tell Clark to drive the speed limit, even if he can fly.
Bruce smiled, a real, bright smile that reached his eyes, and looked up at his boyfriend. "She's making pot roast."
"Yeah?" Clark smiled, leaning over to kiss Bruce's cheek. "Then we definitely can't be late. Come on, Gotham's protector. Let's eat our cheating ice cream before it melts."
The strawberry-banana ice cream was, against all culinary odds, a resounding success. It was perfectly smooth, lacking the heavy ice crystals that usually plagued homemade desserts, a testament to the hyper-precise temperature control of a certain Kryptonian's respiratory system.
Clark carried the two identical glass bowls into the living room, a proud, boyish grin plastered across his face. He sat down on the couch, handing one bowl and a spoon to Bruce before settling himself comfortably at the opposite end, tucking one leg beneath him.
"See? I told you," Clark said boastfully, taking a large spoonful of his own creation. "A perfect harmony of texture and flavor. Wayne Enterprises could never replicate this level of artisanal craftsmanship."
Bruce looked down at his bowl. Then he looked across the couch at Clark’s bowl. He squinted. He leaned forward slightly, analyzing the two mounds of pink, frozen fruit with the intensity of a man examining a crime scene.
Without a word, Bruce reached across the gap, bypassed his own bowl entirely, and plunged his spoon directly into the center of Clark’s ice cream. He scooped up a generous portion and popped it into his mouth.
Clark froze, his spoon hovering halfway to his mouth. He stared at his boyfriend in sheer, unadulterated bewilderment.
"Bruce," Clark said slowly. "You have your own bowl."
"Yours looks better," Bruce said evenly, swallowing the bite.
"They are literally from the exact same batch!" Clark threw his hands up, nearly dislodging his spoon. "I mashed them in the same metal bowl! I froze them with the exact same breath! They are Molecularly. Identical."
"Visually, perhaps," Bruce countered smoothly, shifting his weight and leaning back into the cushions. "But the structural integrity of your specific scoop had a superior aerodynamic curve. The distribution of strawberry seeds on your left quadrant implies a higher concentration of natural sugars."
Clark stared at him, a slow, helpless smile tugging at the corners of his lips. He shook his head, his chest swelling with that familiar, ridiculous wave of affection that only Bruce could evoke. "You are a lunatic. You know that, right? The world thinks you’re this terrifying, calculated shadow, and you’re sitting on my thrift-store couch stealing my ice cream because it has a 'superior aerodynamic curve.'"
"I am a man of details, Clark," Bruce said, though the corner of his mouth twitched upward. He took another bite from his own bowl this time, apparently satisfied with his tasting experiment. "And it is good. Even if you cheated."
"It's not cheating, it's utilizing my natural resources," Clark argued gently. He shifted closer, sliding his free arm along the back of the couch so it rested behind Bruce’s shoulders. He leaned in, pressing a soft, lingering kiss against Bruce’s temple. Bruce didn't lean away; instead, he subtly tilted his head into the touch, a quiet admission of how much he craved the physical closeness.
For a few minutes, the only sound in the small Metropolis apartment was the clinking of metal spoons against glass. It was peaceful. The kind of peace neither of them got enough of. Clark listened to the steady, calm rhythm of Bruce’s heart, a stark contrast to the frantic, terrified racing it usually did during their nights in uniform. Here, wrapped in a faded gray sweater, eating stolen ice cream, Bruce was safe. He was warm.
Suddenly, Bruce’s phone, resting on his knee, buzzed again.
Clark let out a joyful chuckle. "Is the general checking in again?"
Bruce picked up the device. A soft, immediate softening of his eyes gave the sender away before he even opened the message.
Martha Kent: Bruce, I forgot to ask. Are you still having those terrible migraines from the Gotham smog? I made a batch of my lavender and chamomile salve yesterday. I’ll set a jar aside for you on Friday.
Bruce stared at the screen, his thumb hovering over the keyboard. Clark watched him, his super-vision easily catching the text. The teasing smile faded from Clark's face, replaced by a profound, melting tenderness. He knew exactly what that salve was—his mother only made it for the people she considered her own.
Bruce began to type, his movements uncharacteristically slow.
Bruce: Thank you, Mrs. Kent. That is very kind of you. The headaches have been manageable, but Alfred swears by your herbal remedies. He still talks about the mint tea you sent home with us in February.
Martha Kent: I'll make sure to get you some more then! Alfred is a gentleman who appreciates tradition! Unlike my son, who thinks a hot dog from a street cart counts as a balanced meal. Please tell me you made him eat something green with that Thai food.
Bruce let out a low, raspy chuckle—a sound so rare and precious that Clark’s heart practically skipped a beat. Bruce shifted his phone slightly, giving Clark a pointed, highly amused look.
"She's onto you, Kent," Bruce murmured.
"Hey, I ate the basil leaves in the curry! That counts as a green," Clark protested, leaning his chin directly onto Bruce’s shoulder, his curls brushing against Bruce’s cheek. "Tell her I’m a grown man who successfully manages a metropolitan diet."
Bruce’s thumbs flew across the screen.
Bruce: He claims the basil leaves in the green curry fulfilled his nutritional requirements for the week. I am currently monitoring him to ensure he does not develop scurvy.
Clark squawked, swatting Bruce's arm. "Scurvy?! Bruce! I am the Man of Steel! I cannot get scurvy!"
"It’s about setting an example, Clark," Bruce deadpanned, though his eyes were dancing with pure, unadulterated mischief.
The phone buzzed almost instantly.
Martha Kent: Scurvy! Oh, heavens. I knew it. I am making a giant spinach salad the moment you two arrive on Friday. Bruce, you have my full permission to withhold his dessert if he doesn't finish it.
Bruce smirked, typing back with a definitive flourish.
Bruce: Understood, Mrs. Kent. I will enforce the salad protocol.
Martha Kent: Thank you, dear. Get some rest, both of you. See you Friday. ❤️
Bruce stared at the little red heart emoji for a few seconds before locking the phone and setting it face-down on the coffee table. The playful smirk on his face slowly dissolved into something much quieter, a look of profound, contemplative gratitude.
Clark didn't say anything at first. He just wrapped both arms around Bruce from behind, pulling the billionaire securely against his chest. He buried his face in the crook of Bruce’s neck, breathing him in, feeling the solid, grounding weight of the man in his arms.
"You really love her, don't you?" Clark whispered against his skin, his voice thick with emotion.
Bruce quieted, his large hands coming up to rest over Clark’s forearms, squeezing gently. He didn't deflect. He didn't make a sarcastic comment about operational security.
"I do," Bruce admitted, his voice a low, gravelly rumble. "She... she makes the world feel smaller, Clark. Safer. When I talk to her, Gotham feels very far away. The cape feels very far away. It’s a strange feeling. I haven't had someone fuss over me like a mother since..." He trailed off, but he didn't need to finish the sentence.
Clark tightened his grip, planting a soft, fiercely affectionate kiss right below Bruce's ear. "You deserve that, Bruce. You deserve to be fussed over, and loved, and given homemade lavender salve. You give so much of yourself to the world. Let my mom love you. Let me love you."
Bruce turned around in Clark’s embrace, shifting so he was facing him fully. He reached up, his fingers gently tracing the sharp line of Clark’s jaw, his blue eyes intense and brimming with an absolute, unwavering devotion.
"You already do," Bruce murmured, his voice softening into that rare, intimate tone reserved only for the quiet corners of this apartment. "Every single day, Clark."
Clark’s breath hitched. He leaned down, capturing Bruce’s lips in a slow, deep, profoundly tender kiss. There was no rush, no looming threat of an alien invasion or a asylum breakout. It was just the two of them, tasting faintly of sweet strawberries and cold coffee, completely anchored in each other. Bruce’s hands slid up to tangle in the dark curls at the back of Clark’s head, pulling him closer, deepening the kiss until Clark let out a soft, contented sigh against his mouth.
When they finally parted, their foreheads resting together, Clark let out a tiny, breathless laugh.
"What?" Bruce asked, his thumb gently wiping a stray bit of condensation from Clark's cheek.
"I was just thinking," Clark chuckled, his blue eyes crinkling at the corners. "When we go to the farm on Friday... you realize you’re going to have to wear flannel, right? It’s a Kent family requirement. My mom will probably have a red-and-black plaid shirt laid out on the guest bed for you."
Bruce’s expression instantly flattened into his classic, intimidating Batman stare. "I do not wear flannel, Clark. I am a creature of the night. My wardrobe consists of black, dark gray, and occasionally a very deep navy."
"We'll see," Clark grinned, completely unbothered by the terrifying glare. He leaned in and stole one last, quick kiss from Bruce’s lips. "I think you’d look incredibly handsome in plaid. And besides... you can't say no to Mrs. Kent."
Bruce opened his mouth to argue, realized his boyfriend was entirely correct, and simply let out a defeated, deeply affectionate sigh, burying his face into Clark's chest as Clark laughed, wrapping him up in a warm, unbreakable embrace.