Bruce finally decided on rationality. 

This lingering desire for Clark hadn’t waned in the two years they’d spent apart; it was not going to wane in two weeks. He wanted the other man. Wanted to feel those taut muscles, slick with sweat, trembling with suppressed lust as he ran his hands up and down Clark’s body. 

Even worse, he knew Clark wanted him, too. Bruce could see it in the way the reporter averted his eyes, in the subtle blush donning Clark’s cheeks whenever a wayward gaze travelled down Bruce’s body. 

He could hear the desire in Clark’s voice, deepening to a husky baritone when they were alone; he could feel it in Clark’s touch, the way Clark’s hands seemed to linger subconsciously on his skin.

Clark wanted him. He wanted Clark.

Why overcomplicate it?

The life of a hero is a lonely one. All the secrets, danger, long nights and early mornings were enough to burn even the most resilient relationships to a frazzle. Kent’s breakup with Lois was just the latest example of what it was like to love as a hero.

As Bruce Wayne, he could share a bed with anyone he chose to. His power, wealth and influence gave him the prerogative to do so. As Batman, however, there was no one he could share a life with. 

The thought of his other persona brought a wry smile to his lips. Sometimes, he didn’t know who he was. Was he first Bruce Wayne, son of the dearly departed Thomas and Martha Wayne, Chairman of Wayne Industries, philanthropist, playboy and billionaire? 

Or was he Batman? Leader of the Justice League, Guardian of Gotham, the Caped Crusader. 

Some days, the distinction was clear. He knew his roles and how to play them well. Who he was when he put on the mask and who he was when he took it off, much like a switch to flip in his psyche. Other days, the distinction muddied, and he stumbled in the dark, hands groping blindly for the switch.

His friendship with Clark was one of the few and precious things that transcended both worlds, a surety. A covenant that no matter who he was in the moment, Clark would always accept him. 

Why overthink it? He wanted Clark, and Clark knew him. Knew Bruce Wayne and Batman. They were here at these crossroads because they both wanted each other and were both afraid of their desire tainting their friendship. 

Ironically, in their hesitancy to acknowledge the mutual yearning, they’d ruined the relationship they had been so protective of. 

Will sex fix it? Probably not. But why not fulfil your thirst while waiting for the meal?

Making the difficult decision, Bruce pulled the sheets off, taking a moment to tug his joggers even lower, and padded barefoot out of his room, down the hallway until he came to a stop in front of Clark’s bedroom.

The door was flush against the threshold, so no sound or light leached from the other side. There was no way to know if Clark was behind the door. He could be anywhere in the massive base. Only Clark truly knew how many rooms and chambers he’d carved out of the mountain to create the fortress. Even if he was in the room, he might be asleep, getting a much-needed rest after their night of action. Or Clark could have dashed on another secret flight, like the one he’d had before dinner.

But Bruce knew, certainty heavy as a stone in his chest, that Clark was awake. He knew that Clark had heard him leave his room and was waiting for him.

Studying the door, Bruce raised his knuckles to rest against the rich brown wood, but, at the last moment, thought better of it. Hand dropping to his side, he said, voice barely above a whisper, “I know you can hear me, Clark.”

He waited. Two seconds passed, then three, then four. Perhaps he’d misjudged. Maybe Clark was asleep, maybe he’d left the Fortress, or perhaps he was ignoring Bruce. That was certainly a possibility.

He took a step back, ready to pivot and return to his room, unwilling to examine his disappointment, when the handle turned, and the door opened with a soft click.

And there stood the All-American Boy Scout in all his glory. 

Moonlight poured in from the floor-to-ceiling windows on the opposite side of the room, washing Clark in silver light. 

Bruce paused, mouth drying as he took in Clark’s silhouette, from his long legs encased in loose sleep trousers to his trim waist to the broad shoulders, up to his thick chocolate hair—almost auburn in the halo of moonlight—to his blue eyes glinting with innocent curiosity and a smidge of hope.

“Hi,” Clark started, his voice unusually delicate. 

“Hi,” Bruce replied. 

Yes, why were they stumbling, struggling with their almost painful attraction to each other? Here, as Bruce stood before Clark, in the silent hallway, with only a few inches separating them, it seemed stupidly manifest. 

Clark wanted Bruce, and Bruce wanted Clark.

“Do you want to have sex?” Bruce asked, a smirk tugging one edge of his lips. Talk about rhetorical questions.

For the next few seconds, silence and moonlight were their only company. The question echoed endlessly, bouncing off all the walls and corners of the hallway.

Bruce watched in growing amusement as Clark’s eyebrows flew upwards, so high they were in danger of disappearing into his hair.

“I d-don’t–W-What do you m-m–,” Clark stuttered, blinking rapidly as a hot blush settled on his cheeks. “I don’t understand,” he managed to get out, clearing his throat and averting his eyes.

With a low laugh, Bruce decided to put both of them out of their misery. Surging forward, he crowded Clark into the room, absently tapping the door closed with a back-heel. 

He reached out to grip the front of Clark’s shirt, fingers tangling in the cotton fabric as he spun them around to push Clark against the shut door. Tilting his head upwards, Bruce did the one thing he’d been longing to do for innumerable nights. 

Yes, it was two years too late, but better late than never.

Their lips met with a soft, almost startled, indecision, barely brushing against each other as they shared a hot breath.

Bruce paused, and for a second, he was content.

He’d just kissed Clark. It was barely a brush of lips, the slightest of contact, the warmth here and gone.

And for that very long second, Bruce was content.

Content to hover his lips over Clark’s, content to savour the sensation of Clark’s hard body against him, content to feel Clark’s heart thump underneath his fingertips.

But years of suppressed longing, wanting, yearning and praying caught up to him, and in the next second, he ground his lips against Clark's, groaning as he forced his tongue into Clark’s hot and willing mouth, forcing them into a frenzied kiss that was all teeth and tongue; a wet battle for dominance which he swiftly won.

Satisfied he was in control, Bruce bit down on Clark’s bottom lip as he truly settled into the kiss, splaying both hands on Clark’s muscled chest so he could…touch the man. Feel him.

He tasted like raw energy, Bruce decided. Like he’d taken a live copper wire to the tongue. Electricity lit up his neurons, transmitted from every spot where their bodies touched, a thousand volts of pure magic racing through his veins.

And somehow, he pressed even closer to Clark, melding their bodies, kissing him until all the breath left their lungs. And then, some more. 

“I never got an answer,” Bruce whispered, as he ran his hands down Clark’s chest, delighting in the hard, hard muscles his palms skirted past. “Do you want us to fuck?”

“You know I do, Bruce. You know I do,” Clark replied, eyes blown, and with a subtle whine to his voice. “You’ve known all this while. Don’t be cruel.”

Feeling very cruel, Bruce closed the distance between them once more as he crushed their lips together. Forcing a knee between Clark’s legs, he lined their hips up, vision whiting out momentarily as their erections slid against each other.

They both groaned into the kiss, shivering as sensation overwhelmed them.

He needed this.

Clark brought his hands up, fingers scouring over Bruce’s back, the motion prompting a hum of appreciation from Bruce. The sound seemed to spur Clark as he groaned again and, jerking his hips, forced their cloth-covered erections into a rough froth.

Heartbeat pounding in his ears, Bruce instantly reached downward to still Clark’s hips, holding Clark firm against the wall as he parted their lips.

He studied Clark’s flushed skin, love-bitten lips, and ruffled hair. Flexing his grip around Clark’s trim hips, Bruce warned, his voice husky with unabashed lust, “I’m in control here, Boy Scout. You take whatever I give.”

A frisson of excitement visibly ran down Clark’s body, and Bruce smirked, taking in Clark’s dazed eyes. He cupped Clark’s jaw, leaning forward to run a wet tongue across the other man’s lower lip. “You like that?”

“Mm-hmm,” Clark nodded, eyes glazed with lust and obedience. “I like it.”

Clark’s submission sent a hot jolt of relish—and sadism—up Bruce’s spine. Bruce rewarded him with another hot kiss, tangling their tongues until they were out of breath.

“I want to ride you,” Bruce confessed, then chuckled darkly as his words turned Clark’s pupils into thin rings of blue.

Clark swallowed. “You can do anything you want to do to me.”

Bruce felt another thrill race up his spine, and he finally released the other man, walking backwards, eyes still fixed on Clark’s, to the large bed next to the massive windows until he felt the bedframe against the back of his legs.

Dropping onto the mattress, he parted his thighs and hooked a finger, beckoning the other man.

“Come here, Boy Scout. And take off that shirt while you’re at it.”

Clark jolted and very obediently raised a hand to grip the collar of the cotton shirt he wore. In one swift move, he ripped the fabric in two, shedding the scraps onto the floor as he made his way, almost staggering, to Bruce. 

Bruce felt his mouth dry at the display and the reveal of the chiselled muscles, lips parting as Clark knelt before him. Cupping Clark’s jaw in both of his hands, he leaned down to kiss him again.

“Touch me,” Bruce prompted, pressing Clark’s palm in between the junction of his thighs.

Clark was all too happy to comply, rubbing a large hand over Bruce’s erection, groaning into their kiss. “Please,” he whispered, and before Bruce could ask him what he was begging for, Clark’s fingers traced the elastic band of Bruce’s joggers before disappearing within.

Bruce let out a drawn-out moan as Clark’s long and firm fingers encircled his length. Breaking the kiss, Bruce rested his forehead on Clark’s, looking the man in the eye as he reached down to still his ministrations.

“I don’t want to force you to do anything, Clark. If there is something you don’t want to do, tell me to stop. Okay?”

Clark nodded. “Okay.” 

“Good boy.” Leaning back on the bed, Bruce placed one hand on the mattress for support, and using the other hand, swiftly tugged off his joggers, exposing his entire body to the light of the silver moon.

Clark did the same, returning to his knees after tossing his trousers away, eyes fixed on Bruce’s erection. Bruce was no different, eyes drinking in the sight of the heavy organ swaying between Clark’s legs.

He’d have him soon enough. He almost couldn’t wait, but…

“I want you to blow me,” Bruce said. He ran his hands through Clark’s luscious hair, bringing the man’s head to rest on his right thigh. He watched as Clark licked his lips, the motion thickening Bruce’s cock to impossible hardness.

Tracing a finger from Clark’s shoulder down to his palm, Bruce brought one of Clark’s hands to rest on his left thigh. “I want to come in your throat,” Bruce rasped, lust ablaze in his chest. Clark’s eyes finally left the engorged cock and met Bruce’s.  

“Tap two times if it becomes too much,” Bruce cautioned. “Do you understand?”

Clark nodded, licking his lips again. “I understand,” he replied, his voice taking on a guttural tone. Gingerly, Clark wrapped a large palm around the base of Bruce’s cock and, looking up to Bruce for permission, touched the tip of the organ to his lips.

Bruce moaned and then shivered as he pushed his cock into Clark’s hot mouth, parting the delectably plump lips. They both grunted as the head of Bruce’s cock hit the back of Clark’s throat. It took all of Bruce’s self-control not to thrust, to shove in the constriction he could feel just beyond.

But he knew that this was Clark’s first time with a man. Not that that was going to spare his partner from the brunt of his lust—if anyone could bear it, Superman could—but he wanted to make sure the experience was pleasurable for both of them.

“Suck,” Bruce commanded, hooking a finger under Clark’s chin so their eyes met in the glimmering light. “I’ll fuck your throat, but I need you to get used to this.”

Clark bore down, his tongue and throat working as he started to pull on Bruce’s cock. The swaths of Clark’s tongue were sloppy and unpractised, but the zest with which he blew Bruce could not be denied and soon enough, Bruce found his hands tangled into the sheets, fighting for his sanity.

“That feels…great,” Bruce gritted out. “Keep going.” 

A deep groan escaped Bruce’s lips as Clark hummed and tilted his head to the side to allow more of the cock to slip into his hot mouth. Drool dripped down Clark’s mouth as he continued to bob his head, the indecent rhythm causing Bruce’s thighs to shiver uncontrollably.

Bruce groaned again, one hand shooting out to grab the back of Clark’s head. “Relax your throat,” Bruce warned, hoping it was enough notice as he tightened his hips and pushed further into Clark’s throat.

He felt his cockhead breach the tight space and the resulting gag from Clark. Bruce waited, hips agonisingly tight, for the tap on his left thigh, but it did not come—in fact, Clark’s hand had disappeared from Bruce’s thigh and was now working furiously between his own legs.

With that tacit consent, Bruce thrust again, using his hand to angle Clark’s head so he could sink balls deep into the man’s throat. Clark groaned around the erection, sending an incredible vibration up Bruce’s spine.

Unhinging his hips, Bruce flexed his hands in Clark’s hair, ensuring his grip was firm as he began to steadily face-fuck the other man. Every thrust punched a grunt out of Bruce, as he rocked back and forth into that virgin yet sinful mouth.

As he neared his orgasm, his thrusts became more savage, punctuated by Clark’s short breaths around his dick as Clark’s jaw trembled with the effort of staying open and lax enough for the unfettered fuck.

“Clark, I’m coming,” Bruce moaned, his voice guttural in orgasm. That was the only warning he gave the man as he felt his balls tighten, his cock swelling with his release. He exploded with a shout a moment later, hot cum bursting out of him in waves that left him shivering in abandon.

All the while, Clark kept up the steady pressure, swallowing, sucking and milking Bruce through his orgasm, even as the aftershocks rocked him. Feeling debauched and still reeling from one of the best orgasms he’d ever had, Bruce released Clark, allowing the man to lean back.

He shivered as his cock slipped out of Clark’s mouth with a soft plop, watching as the other man huffed, trying to pull air into his lungs.

Before he fell back onto the bed, his eyes caught the pool of cum between Clark’s legs on the floor, and he smiled weakly, patting the other man on the hair. 

“Good job, Boy Scout.”

“Bruce,” Clark rasped, his voice rough from the throat fuck. “I want to…”

Bruce turned his head to see Clark climbing onto the bed. The erection between his legs, spent a moment ago, was still hard. More, it was filling, hardening and lengthening. Talk about a refractory period.

Bruce grinned, a wave of sheer carnality washing through him, revitalising him. “Where is your lube?”

Chapter 3

Okay, Clark knew exactly when things changed. In those cheerless days before the official establishment of the Justice League, when criminals plotted, trying to test the new bond between the heroes, during the never-ending meetings with governmental agencies, as the team struggled to prove their legitimacy, following the construction of the Watchtower.

The team was fresh and yet so close to being frayed. 

Clark had spent so many days at Wayne Manor, sneaking in through the Batcave. Staring at Bruce, his handsome features silhouetted by the faint light of multiple computer displays.

To the outside world, Clark was the frontman of the Justice League—the charming, winsome, all-powerful, all-American Superman. The Justice League had used his public appeal to win over the globe and to attract and negotiate terms with new heroes who wanted to join the League. But it was Bruce with his intellect, resources and caution who had pieced together the agreements and enforcements that made the League a reality. 

The Watchtower, the Justice Charter, and the Hall of Justice were all his machinations. Bruce Wayne was the engine that kept the Justice League running. 

They’d always been best of friends, complementing each other in unique ways, but those days at the genesis of the Justice League transformed their relationship into something else. Something special. He’d seen a version of Bruce Wayne no one else had ever seen. 

Beneath shoulders that never seemed to drop, underneath that steady, often omniscient gaze, there was a kind, perhaps, uncertain man. For all the intensity that surrounded him, Bruce was gentle, thoughtful, and considerate.

Clark had heard Bruce laugh, in true amusement, a low, subtle rumble. Had heard Bruce make a joke, the surprise forcing a chortle out of Clark. Had watched Bruce cook, seen Gotham’s most feared enforcer work a pan. 

Life in those days was akin to living in a haze. He could not tell the days apart, could not tell where he ended and where Bruce began. He’d spent almost all of his waking hours next to the man, listening to his heartbeats and the soft whistle of his breath as it left his lungs, studying the fine lines of his skin, watching his lips as they curved into one of those elusive smiles.

More and more, Clark became immersed in Bruce Wayne until he could barely form a conscious thought around Bruce. He simply spoke, felt, and acted around Bruce, allured by the Dark Knight’s charisma. 

It was on one of those eternal nights that the irrevocable damage had been done. Tired from the never-ending list of things to do, they’d crashed on one of the couches in the Batcave. When he’d woken up the next morning, his arm was around the other man. Inhaling sharply, Clark had been struck by the serenity of Bruce’s features, unburdened by deadlines and a superhero persona to maintain. 

His jawline was soft, a dusting of dark facial hair beginning to appear, and for a moment, Clark was struck with a sudden urge to kiss him. He had stared at the other man, imprisoned by his desire, until Bruce’s eyes fluttered, wakefulness beckoning him. 

Clark had frozen, and then, with the alacrity of a man caught red-handed, shoved away from the couch, accidentally sending the furniture careening a few feet away. Now fully awake and alert, Wayne sat up, eyes scanning the room for a non-existent threat. 

When he was satisfied they were safe, Bruce’s eyes settled on Clark, where he sat on the floor.

“Kent, what’s wrong?” Bruce had asked, his voice a deep baritone, husky with sleep.

“Nothing,” he’d answered, too late to be convincing. Bruce didn’t respond, simply staring at him.

Perhaps there was something Wayne saw in his eyes; perhaps it was Clark’s clenched fists; perhaps it was the gentle flush on Clark’s face in the well-regulated temperature of the Batcave that gave him away. Whatever it was, after a few moments, Bruce averted his gaze, and their relationship had changed irrevocably.

On the outside, they remained the same. Batman and Superman. In front of their friends, their relationship was unchanged. They still made playful jabs at each other. 

Between themselves, however, nothing was the same. They couldn’t look each other in the eye for more than a second, couldn’t sit together in comfortable silence, couldn’t talk to each other without stumbling over their words. For Clark, it was fear. Because he knew that if he let his guard down, Bruce would see it all.  

Now, he stood in the kitchen, pulling out some leftovers to reheat, trying his best—and failing—to block out the sounds of Bruce undressing filtering through multiple walls and into his ears. 

He could hear the man take off the suit belt, the sharp sound of gadgets hitting the marble countertop. He could hear the slide of fabric on skin as, one by one, Bruce shed his suit. He could hear when the last pieces of cloth came off, and Wayne stood naked in his room.

He could hear the bathroom door open and the shower start. He could hear Bruce step under the shower, without waiting for the water to heat up. He could hear the cold droplets of water hit Bruce’s skin and the soft groan that escaped from Bruce’s lips.

Clark’s arousal hit him like a General Zod punch to the gut. For a second, his vision whited out, and he blinked rapidly, trying to clear his head. He looked down at the pan he’d been holding, unsurprised to see it’d been twisted into a solid cast-iron knot. Tossing the ruined pan into the trash, he made a wild dash for the entrance of the Fortress and shot into the night sky.

Flying always put him in a better mood. As he trawled through Metropolis skies, he felt the evening breeze rush through his hair and over his face, cooling his mind. 

It had always been there. This emotion. He’d refused to put a name to the desire he’d begun to feel coiling tightly in his gut. Those long nights at Wayne Manor, staring at Bruce, feeling the deep baritone of the other man’s voice wash over him. Sharing meals, opinions and secret laughs. 

Even as he suspected that Bruce was concealing a piece of Kryptonite, they’d been friends. Best of friends. But now, Clark wanted something more. Something more intimate, something more physical, something more complete. And he wasn’t sure Bruce was willing to give it.

“Damn,” Clark whispered, the word a weak representation of the turmoil bubbling underneath his chest.

He wanted to run his hands through Bruce’s midnight hair, sink his teeth into that pale skin, and stare deep into those grey eyes while he…

Another flash of red-hot arousal had Clark braking suddenly mid-flight, causing a stream of air to slam into him and rush past.

“Deep breaths,” Clark begged himself. “Deep breaths.” 

Batman was the world's greatest detective. There was no way he hadn’t noticed Clark’s nascent attraction. 

Yet, Bruce had approached him for this mission, had asked for his help. This was a golden opportunity to rebuild the breach in their friendship. If he showed Bruce that he could compose himself and let these feelings go, then perhaps they could enjoy a little of the bond they once had.

He couldn’t think of kissing Bruce, he couldn’t allow his eyes to wander, he couldn’t allow his mind to conjure images of their naked bodies tangled.

He couldn’t ruin this. 

Hovering somewhere over the bright, incessant lights of Metropolis, Clark rubbed his face vigorously, trying to regain a modicum of control. After a few moments of head shaking and quiet swearing, he felt calm enough to return to the Fortress. 

As he neared the sanctuary, the sounds of life within began to reach him. Bruce was done showering and was dressing in his room. Taking another deep breath to steady himself, Clark slid into the entrance and headed back to the kitchen. 

The sooner they had something to eat and parted to rest, the sooner this day could be over. 

He’d just taken the pan of potatoes off the heat when Bruce walked barefoot into the kitchen, footsteps strangely rhythmic. 

“Smells nice,” Bruce said, leaning on the doorframe. 

Clark glanced over his shoulder to smile at the other man, and their gazes met. Bruce’s hair was still wet, dripping water off the ends and onto a…bare chest. The Caped Crusader had evidently thought that Clark’s life was too easy and so decided to forgo a shirt. Instead, he opted to waltz around in a pair of navy blue joggers, which were riding too low on his hips to be modest. 

Clark didn’t need his X-Ray vision to know that there was a weapon hidden somewhere in those slacks. Even here in the Fortress of Solitude, Bruce refused to let his guard down. Clark didn’t know if he should be insulted or amused.

Averting his eyes, Clark refocused on the meal in front of him and on counting his breaths. “Yes, I made steak and potatoes the other day. I still have a lot of it leftover.”

“I’ll set the table,” Bruce offered.

Clark nodded, eyes still focused on the potatoes sizzling in the pan. “Thanks. Food’s almost ready.”

There was a pause in which Bruce was undoubtedly taking in Clark’s windswept hair and wrinkled clothes. But the Dark Knight remained silent as he placed the plates and utensils down on the countertop. 

Two minutes later, Clark plated up the meal, and they settled into chairs opposite each other on the kitchen island. 

Dinner was a silent affair. Tension so thick a knife could be run through it descended upon the pair. For long periods of time, the only sounds to be heard were the chinks of cutlery hitting porcelain dishes as they cut, sliced and stabbed at their meal. 

Clark reasoned that this must be some sort of purgatory. Bruce was a few inches from him, yet so unreachable. Stimuli assaulted all of Clark’s senses: the scent wafting off Bruce’s skin, the gentle glow of the kitchen lights reflecting off his translucent skin, and the shadow his wet hair cast over his grey eyes. 

There was nothing Clark wanted more than to walk around the island and kiss Bruce until neither of them could think. The desire pulsed and bubbled under Clark’s skin until the urge scalded him, making it almost impossible for Clark to keep still.

Staring at the plate of half-finished food before him, he could only hope that to Bruce, he seemed normal and composed. 

The sharp sound of a chair scraping the kitchen floor broke Clark out of his lust-imposed imprisonment. He looked up to see Bruce standing, holding his plate in his hand.

“Thank you for the meal,” Bruce said in that smoky voice, grey eyes unreadable. 

“You’re welcome,” Clark responded.

Clark watched from the corner of his eye as Bruce walked to the sink and swiftly washed up, drying his hands on a towel. 

“Good night, Clark.”

 “Good night, Bruce,” he whispered.

Clark refused to watch Bruce exit the kitchen, but he listened as the kitchen door shut with a click, listened to Bruce’s silent footsteps as Bruce made his way back to his room, listened as Bruce brushed his teeth and listened as the other man slid under the covers. 

Appetite ruined, Clark rose from the kitchen table and tossed the rest of his dinner in the trash. He didn’t bother washing the dishes; the kitchen bots would clean up after him. He trudged to his room, passing Lois’ chambers as he did, pausing to pull the door shut.

By the time Clark had showered and sunk into his bed, he was ready for the day to be well and truly over. He needed to sleep, needed his energy for another day of pretending he was not obsessed with his best friend.

If Bruce were here, lying across him on the bed, with those sinfully low joggers…

His cock seemed very onboard with that idea, lengthening and hardening in his pants. Clark flipped onto his stomach and let out a feverish groan into the pillow.  Oh, the things he would do to get Bruce in his arms right now, to see Bruce naked, body flushed and willing. To hear that small, drawn-out moan.

He would pin him down to the bed and..

Clark grunted as he rubbed against the sheets, the friction causing his eyes to roll back. 

“Don’t do it,” he warned himself, biting down on his lower lip even as his hips remained tight against the mattress. He could not allow himself this release. If he came thinking about Bruce Wayne, he’d never recover from it. 

He allowed himself another small thrust before rolling to lie on his back with a moan. His cock was pressed against his left thigh, a throbbing reminder of a desire he didn’t have the right to fulfil.

He closed his eyes and breathed deeply, trying to extinguish the furnace of lust burning within. He’d just finished counting back from a hundred when he heard Bruce’s door open. 

Arching a brow in mild confusion, Clark sat up in his bed, listening as Bruce got closer and closer to…Clark’s room?

When the Caped Crusader came to a stop in front of Clark’s door, Clark's first thought was that the other man had heard him moan. But that was not possible, so Clark immediately dismissed that thought. 

“I know you can hear me, Clark.” Bruce’s voice, quiet but demanding, sent shocks spiralling down his spine. 

Clark threw the covers off and, after a huge breath, opened the door, being extra careful to angle his lower body so that his erection stayed hidden behind the door. There, standing in those joggers that made him look eminently fuckable was Bruce Wayne.

“Hi,” Clark said, unable to think of anything else.

“Hi,” Bruce replied. Tilting his head, he said, “Do you want to have sex?”

Chapter 2

The ringing in his ears was the only damage the explosion had caused. He’d been shielded from most of the blast by Clark, who’d swooped in and flown them both out at the last minute.

Bruce cursed silently. This was why he never liked missions with Kent. He always felt his rationality slipping in favour of trusting Kent’s invincibility. If he had been alone, he would have spent more time surveilling the building and sniffing out potential traps. 

With Kent, however, he had the propensity to dive in headfirst and worry about the consequences later.

After Clark had handed the driver over to the Metropolis police officers who, alongside firefighters, swiftly descended on the blazing fire, he returned to Bruce and offered to fly him to where he’d parked the Batmobile.

“Where’s your… no worries, found it.” Gently, Clark set them both down on a patch of disused road miles outside Metropolis. There, the Batmobile gleamed, its glossy black surface reflecting the silver moonlight.

“Can you pilot?” Clark asked, affixing Bruce with a worried stare as Bruce brushed off the last of the blast detritus on his suit.

Bruce fought the urge to roll his eyes. Ringing ears was negligible damage in his line of work. He had been stabbed, poisoned, shot, and hypnotised on several occasions and still found a way to pilot the Batmobile. No need to tell Clark that, though.

“Autopilot,” he replied, unlocking the vehicle with a flick of his wrist. “Back to the Fortress?”

Clark nodded and then smiled. “Race you there.”

This time, Bruce did roll his eyes, shaking his head as Clark disappeared, shooting off with a thunderous clap. As the red-and-blue suit disappeared into the night sky, Bruce allowed himself a small smile. They worked well together; they always had. 

Not recently, of course. In fact, it had been two years since the duo last went on a mission. And that was squarely his fault, he knew.

The thought of their crumbling bond elicited an uncomfortable twinge in his chest, and a better man would have paused, examined the feeling thoroughly and tried to determine the cause. But not Bruce. 

He did not—could not—dwell on his emotions; that deep, inky well chock full of monsters he dared not gaze into. Monsters that lurked at the edge of his consciousness, waiting with baited breath and bared fangs to rip his sanity into shreds.

With another look over his shoulder at the now-dwindling column of smoke in the distance, he stepped into the Batmobile, powered the vehicle up, feeling the vibration of the engine deep within his bones, and started the journey southward. 

The Fortress of Solitude was hidden in one of the mountains bordering Metropolis to the south. The vast multi-chambered sanctuary was carved directly into the mountaintop and served as Kent’s base of operations.

The entrance of the Fortress was so well-hidden that other members of the League often struggled to find their way in. To Bruce, however, the Fortress was like a second home, another Batcave (though not as well-equipped) where he could rest, recover and restrategise. 

Although he’d not been here for the past two years, it was with a familiar deftness that he steered the Batmobile, now in flight mode, between two jagged peaks and dipped to land in front of the entrance. 

He stepped out of the Batmobile, wincing a little at the strength of the wind, and walked up to a portion of the striated blue-grey and dark brown rock face. He placed a hand on the cool mountain rock, waiting as his biometrics were scanned. A second later, the ground vibrated, and with a grinding sound, a fissure in the rock face appeared, and he slid into the space.

The Fortress was as he remembered; the dark-blue crystals lining the walls and the floors, impossibly high ceilings with glittering ice chandeliers dripping from them, a statue of Kar-El and another of Lara, and a faint incandescence that seemed to radiate from all corners of the base.

Bruce walked through the vestibule, under the linked hands of Clark’s parents and made his way into the main hall. Numerous hallways and doors branched off the hall, leading to different chambers in the base, and he took the hallway directly opposite the entrance. As he ambled to the Crime Lab, he scanned the Fortress, taking note of how things had changed in his absence. 

He walked past a slightly ajar door to a room he knew once belonged to Lois Lane.

A glance through the cracked door told him that it hadn’t been used in a while. The shelves, typically full of Lois’ books and other trifles, were empty. The large bed that took up most of the space was gone; the table, chair and desk lamp were all hidden under a large dust cover.

Bruce knew that Clark and Lois had broken up even before the Justice League was established, but he also knew that post-breakup, their relationship remained…complicated. 

Bruce recalled one evening after they’d finished a tour of the upper levels of the newly constructed Hall of Justice. He’d been impressed with the detailing work, but had wanted to hear Superman’s opinion on the design of the meeting room. He’d turned a corner, searching for the other man, when he’d seen Clark standing in the shadow of a tall column with his head bowed and his face scrunched.

“I know, Lois,” Clark had said in a very tender voice into a phone, his eyebrows pinched with an emotion akin to remorse. “I’ll be there to see you.”

That was not how people spoke to their exes. 

But now, looking at the barren room that used to be full of life, it seems like they have finally cut their ties and moved on. He was only speculating, but he could ask. Clark could use the comfort.

A better man would have asked, given his friend the opportunity to speak about a failed—and most likely, painful— relationship. But not Bruce. He did not dare glance into that ugly pit. 

“That was quite eventful,” Clark said, as Bruce stepped through the doors of the Crime Lab. “Thank you for the interesting evening, Bats.”

Clark turned to look at Bruce with a smile on his face. The Kryptonian had shed the top half of his suit, the material pooling around his waist, to reveal a sculpted torso and a smattering of hair across his chest.

Bruce allowed his eyes to wander briefly, taking in the broadness of Clark’s shoulders and the

Ignoring the tendrils of lust slowly unfurling deep in his stomach and lower, he joined Clark at the display table. The Crime Lab was the third most advanced technology and science lab in the world (behind the Batcave and the Watchtower). The large space was divided into four sections. On the left, there was a laboratory dedicated to chemical and spectrographic analysis, complete with test tubes, balances and spectrometers—all automated. The two sections on the right were the biological and physical analysis labs.

In the centre of the room were the computers, capable of processing mountains of data within nanoseconds.

The manifest they’d taken from the driver lay on the tabletop, and Bruce placed the driver’s phone next to it. Clark had already pulled the preliminary report on the explosion and was displaying it in holograph at the centre of the console.

“If you like close calls with explosions, then I’ll be more than happy to indulge you, Kent,” Bruce replied, scanning through the police report. The cops had found nothing of interest for now. 

Clark shrugged. “We were aware that it might have been a trap. Even if they knew you were investigating them, encasing the bomb in lead is proof that at least they expected me.”

Bruce paused, hands inches away from the manifest lying on the table. Shock rippled through his body, and he whipped his head to stare at Clark. “How?”

The Man of Steel was formidable, and one of his most important superpowers was his ability to see through solid objects. Clark could see through metal, concrete, wood, crystals, ice…He could see through all solid objects, all except lead. This was not a well-known fact. Outside the members of the League, he doubted that there were up to five people aware of this caveat.

“Even if they were expecting you, how did they know to encase the bomb in lead. Are there many people who know that you can’t see through lead?” Bruce demanded.

Even if the bomb had been triggered to only activate once the doors to the container had been opened, how would they have known that Clark wouldn’t be able to see through the lead casing?

A thoughtful look descended on Clark’s face, and he pinched his chin as he considered. “I haven’t told many people.”

“Luthor?”

Clark shook his head. “I’m not sure he is aware. My life would have been a little more difficult if he knew.”

“Anybody in your private life?”

Clark tilted his head, blue eyes flashing as he said, “Lois knows.”

Bruce paused. There it was, another opportunity to ask, but he mentally sidestepped the emotional landmine and said, “I’m certain she is not telling the world your weaknesses, so we can remove her from the list of potential leaks. You think someone in the League was a little bit too loose with that fact?”

“I doubt it. Besides, I don’t want to doubt any member of the League, Batman,” Clark replied, shooting Bruce a dangerous look, his voice heavy with accusation.

Ah. 

In a second, the atmosphere in the room transformed, and the hairs on Bruce’s skin stood on end, as if he were standing next to a power generator. The danger in Clark’s eyes was a sharp reminder that Bruce was inches away from the most powerful person on earth, a superhuman who could literally kill him with a glare.

An image floated into his mind. The tiny Kryptonite crystal enclosed in a borosilicate glass tube, concealed deep in the Batcave. The tiny piece of Kryptonite that Luthor used to weaken and immobilise Clark. That insignificant piece that was somehow never found, even after Luthor’s plot was foiled. 

Bruce was certain Clark was listening to his heartbeat, counting his breaths, watching his face. Clark suspected Bruce was with that missing piece of Kryptonite. He had no proof, but he’d always suspected. 

Batman smirked. “I don’t want to suspect any member of the League, too, Superman. But it remains a possibility.” As a jab, he added, “Alongside Lois Lane, of course.”

There was nothing to be gained from goading the most powerful man on earth. Absolutely nothing, but Bruce found that he could not resist. Especially now that their relationship was this dark, murky swamp of anger, attraction and suspicion.

Still, the pleasure he got from seeing Clark’s jaw grind was priceless.

Clark shot him another warning look. “We are getting off track. The lead casing is secondary. Let’s focus on Luck & Co.”

Bruce gave a small nod of acquiescence. He commandeered the console and pulled up the report he’d been drafting about the elusive company. “Here’s what I’ve gleaned about them.”

Luck & Co. was a manufacturing company specialising in the production of military-grade communications equipment. The company was founded three years ago, and according to publicly available financial records, it had done enough to keep itself going. 

Six months ago, the company hit a big milestone. They applied for a defence contract and won the bid. The government had given their go-ahead, and Luck & Co. began importing materials to ramp up production for the military. 

None of the items they imported, however, were necessary for the production of communications equipment. Add that to the revelation that the manifests never completely matched the actual content of the shipments, and there was a solid basis for suspicion. 

Even more telling was the fact that there was no invitation to tender from the Department of Defense around the time Luck & Co claimed to have submitted a bid.

“Their founder, Mr Reacher King, is said to be an astute but very private businessman,” Bruce concluded, a mocking lilt in his voice. 

“Let me guess, he has never been seen in public.”

“Correct. And there are no records of the name in any database.”

Clark nodded thoughtfully. “So everything about the company is falsified. The government contract, their financial records, their founder, and now their shipments. How did you get on their trail?”

“I got the lead from Robin,” Bruce said, picking up the manifest and thumbing through it. “He was busting a Penguin operation at the docks. The Penguin and his cronies have been a persistent thorn for the past couple of weeks, and Robin went to investigate the rumours that there might be a new drug being imported into Gotham. 

“By sheer luck, he searched a Luck & Co. container and noticed that the list of contents pasted on the container did not match the actual contents. He brought it to my attention, and I took the case up. A little digging and a lot more discrepancies cropped up.”

“Hmmm,” Clark said after a while. “And these shipments just disappear into thin air.” 

“At first, the convoluted trail led me to believe the containers were disappearing somewhere in Gotham. However, I began to track more and more of these containers crossing state lines. More and more shipments are coming into Metropolis. With the bomb trap today, I am beginning to suspect that Metropolis might be the true target and Gotham just a conduit for the smuggling.

“I’ll run a search on all recent Gotham-Metropolis cargo transport. I’ll also run a check on the list of chemicals to see if I can find a lead there,” Bruce continued, waving the manifest. He turned to face Clark fully. “If they are building something, they need space and equipment to build it. You can find out if there are any abandoned buildings or factories in Metropolis that are suddenly enjoying an increase in activity.”

“That’s a good plan,” Clark said, fingers deftly turning off the holographic display. “But let’s call it a night for now.”

Bruce eyed the other man. His blue eyes were bright with energy. “I hope you are not saying that for my sake, Clark. I am nocturnal.”

Clark chuckled slowly, shaking his head. “It’s been a long night, Bruce. We almost got blown up. Let’s call it a night.”

Bruce nodded, dropping the manifest onto the tabletop.

“Go wash up,” Clark added with a small wave. “I’ll have dinner whipped up in no time. You know your way to your room.”

Bruce thanked him and turned to leave. And as he left the Crime Lab, he could feel Clark’s gaze on him, trailing every move he made.