(FIC) Fluent in silence (Bruce/Clark, R)
Written for Bruce's birthday, and posted a little bit early so I can celebrate it with starsandsea :D
I tried to do a '5 times...' but failed at the last one, so it's a '4 times...' fic. I think it works fine as it is anyway! Beta by the team beta damos and jij. All other mistakes by yours truly :)
Happy birthday to the Big Bad Bat! *twirls happily*
Title: Fluent in Silence: 4 Things that tell Clark it's not casual sex
Fandom: DCU
Characters: Clark/Bruce
Rating: R
Word count: 3300+
Summary: How a relationship of silences starts, and four things that tell Clark it’s not casual sex.
Fluent in silence
4 things that tell Clark it’s not casual sex
Clark isn’t a stupid man, and despite Bruce’s abrasive observations about Superman going into battle fists first, he always has a defined course of action for everything he does. He tries not to get too caught up in details, since there is no use in having a very detailed plan when so many variables depend on external factors. So he settles for a general idea of what he wants to accomplish and how he hopes to get there, and if that sometimes means his battle plans are ‘Stop the madman, knock him out’, well, he isn’t ashamed.
The first time he lay on his back trying to get his breathing under control, with the sheets tangled beneath him and Bruce collapsed over his chest, Clark couldn’t help thinking he hadn’t really planned for this. He hadn’t expected this to happen, a least not today, or soon… or at all. Bruce wasn’t the kind of man who did anything without weighing all the possible consequences, yet there he was, breathing heavily, his sweat mixing with Clark’s, their bodies still joined intimately.
No, Clark didn’t really think he would end up having sex with Bruce Wayne in his Watchtower quarters. It had started innocently enough, Batman asking to talk with him privately, and then not really talking and Clark pretending he didn’t know what they weren’t talking about. They had both almost died in the last two Justice League missions: J’onn had managed to save Superman from being consumed by a cosmic entity; Green Lantern had gotten to Batman just before the abandoned Citadel they were investigating had exploded. They had been on different missions, different corners of the universe, and as they went over the debriefing, Clark had seen Batman’s jaw tighten and heard his heart speed up while J’onn related how they had almost lost Superman. Superman’s nails bit into his palms as Green Lantern explained their close call, his eyes never leaving the black-clad figure sitting across him. Batman wouldn’t meet his eyes.
In his quarters, Batman had waited him out, and Superman had broken down, angry and frustrated and demanding an explanation. Clark couldn’t bear the thought of coming back to the Watchtower to find out Batman had been lost in action. Did he really have a death wish? Didn’t he know how important he was to the League, to Gotham? Didn’t he understand they needed him? That Clark needed him?
Things had turned slightly less innocent there, rapidly progressing into the baring of skin, mouths clashing, tongues exploring, asking questions that wouldn’t be voiced and giving answers that were too complicated to articulate. Clark had pulled Bruce onto the bed, collapsing under his reassuring weight, his hands burying in the short, sweaty dark hair, pulling him closer, closer. Bruce had mapped his body in a frenzy of kisses and caresses, bites and frustrated grips, silent but for the gasps and growls that Clark coaxed out of him. Still, Clark could hear his questions as clear as if he was making them out loud. Didn’t he see how important he was? Didn’t he see that Bruce couldn’t lose him? Why did he have to break his barriers, his rules? Why couldn’t Clark see that Bruce needed him?
Clark’s apologies had been swallowed by more kisses, Bruce’s body over his, coaxing him, leading him through the maze, unlocking secrets and soothing aches he didn’t knew he had. The room had been silent but for the sound of skin on skin, their breathing getting completely out of control as moans and pleas poured out of their mouths as the only answers that truly mattered, the only questions they could to answer. Pleasure overrode guilt and anguish, bringing them together so they would never fall apart.
And then his mind had cleared enough to think again, and Clark wasn’t sure what to make of what just happened.
‘What does this mean?’ had been met with a bite on his shoulder and little else. Clark lay there, wondering if it would happen again, if they were supposed to have worked through their uncertain and repressed feelings somehow, or if it just had been… an unplanned way to reassure each other about their survival.
As of now, they have been reassuring each other of their continued survival several times a week for eight months, and if Clark didn’t have any great revelation about his feelings about his teammate and friend that first time, by now he is acutely aware of his own affections and desires, and how attuned he truly is to the quiet man who shares his bed and trusts him with every aspect of his life.
The League found out about them shortly after their liaison started. Their involvement hasn’t changed how they work -if anything, they work better together now- but they do end up in each other’s quarters whenever they have time to spare. As the news continues to spread, Superman finds himself receiving warnings and advice. ‘He’s dangerous.’ ‘Don’t let him break you.’ ‘Batman doesn’t do relationships.’
Everyone -people in Batman and Superman’s life, people in Bruce and Clark’s life- concur in one thing. Bruce is already committed to something bigger than Clark. He won’t go steady.
Clark swivels from his station in the cave, smiling at the sound of the engine of the Batmobile dying down and the door opening, heavy boots walking out of the garage towards him.
Clark knows the people with the ready advice mean well, but he also knows they are wrong. Bruce doesn’t do great declarations of love, but that doesn’t mean Clark can’t hear them.
1. He wears Clark’s cologne
One of the little things Clark Kent always splurges on is his own cologne. He wears it all day long, because it’s bad enough that his super senses are constantly offended by awful smells -the city, no matter how clean Metropolis is, is a world of olfactory torture- without inflicting a cheap one on himself. He likes the delicacy and subtlety of expensive cologne, and if someone notices, he doesn’t mind accepting that little bit of hedonism. He lives a very Spartan life otherwise, and can afford to buy himself his favorite fragrance every three months.
Clark has always been appreciative of Bruce’s good taste and carefully refined image. He is a handsome man, immaculate expensive suits always matching perfectly with Italian shoes and discreet masculine accessories. He is pleasant to the eye; Clark would have admitted that even before they had gotten together, he would have admitted that even before he noticed he was attracted to him.
He always smells very good, too. That is one of the things that, perhaps, endeared him initially to Clark on a more primal level. He wears a nice combination of smells, a well matched mix of expensive fresh smelling cologne, the faint sweet smell of shower gel, the minty aftershave, and the dark musky scent that is essentially him. Sometimes there is Kevlar and leather and sweat in the mix, and by now Clark can admit it is a very overpowering scent.
After they get together, Clark finds himself very fond of the way Bruce smells after sex; it’s everything he liked before mixed with Clark’s own smell. To taste and smell himself on his lover always sends a jolt all the way down to his groin, a primal feeling of belonging and protectiveness surging through him. The mix of their scents makes Clark feel a primitive victorious delight too ingrained in his subconscious to fight the disappointment of Bruce getting up to shower.
Three weeks into their relationship, Batman walks into the Watchtower meeting room and takes a seat across Superman, smelling clean and fresh and like Clark. It takes Superman’s brain a moment to realize he hasn’t seen his partner since the day before. Bruce has switched his cologne for Clark’s brand.
Clark’s brand. A voluntary proclamation of who he belongs to for anyone who can put two and two together. Clark barely manages to get through the meeting, Batman’s almost imperceptible smirk as he stumbles for words making things worse. Finally, J’onn dismisses the meeting, and Superman rushes them to his quarters, taking his time to taste himself on Bruce, his detective laughing lowly underneath him as Clark bites, sucks and marks.
As the weeks pass, the overwhelming novelty of Bruce smelling like he has spent all day wrapped in Clark’s arms hasn’t worn off, and he’s learned to love the mix of smells of Gotham after patrol and his own scent on his lover’s skin, the dark city reminding him that once Bruce commits, he commits for life.
2. He’s letting his hair grow
It’s been three months since the first time they collapsed against each other in the Watchtower, and they have worked out a convenient routine that saves at least a couple of hours a day for each other, and that’s on top of the cases they work on together and the Justice League meetings. If anyone tried to tell Clark that is was possible to make yourself a niche in the busy life of Batman half a year ago, he would have laughed. But Bruce is nothing if not headstrong, and if he needs two hours a day to spend them with Clark, then the schedule better work itself out or the day grow two hours longer because if not there will be hell to pay.
Time isn’t cowardly and superstitious, but it too bends down to the will of Batman.
Clark’s schedule is crowded and unpredictable itself, always has been. Sometimes he gets called away during his time with Bruce, and megalomaniacs and rogues get a little more heat than at other times of the day. Still, they manage, rescheduling on short notice and juggling their various lives is a skill they quickly become masters of. They are almost domestic, if that’s in any way possible for them, using up their time together to watch movies, talk, take walks together or going out to eat. Things like making out in the den in front of a monster movie -unexpectedly, Bruce is a fan of monster movies, and hearing him laugh always makes it impossible not to kiss him- or making love in Clark’s apartment or the Manor’s study become the moments they look forward to through the day, the comfortable quietness a respite in their otherwise hectic lives.
If Clark had to explain what was so intoxicating about burying his hands in the dark hair and pulling Bruce’s head back, he would be at a loss. In a man otherwise hard and sharp, it’s one aspect that is soft and delicate, and a dark pleasure surges in seeing him compliant to Clark’s silent orders. It’s something like a rudimentary steering wheel to their moments of frenzy, a thread of control in Clark’s hands.
He wistfully wishes the shortly cropped hair was allowed to be long enough to curl around Bruce’s ears and fall over the winter blue eyes. He hasn’t said anything - Clark knows that long hair isn’t optimal for battle conditions, that the cowl is uncomfortable enough to also deal with the wayward locks plastering to Bruce’s face- but Bruce’s hair is growing longer despite the monthly appointments in the salon. Dating a detective has its perks, of course; Clark doesn’t have to name everything he wants to get it.
Clark’s hands bury in the growing mane, damp and cool to the touch after removing the cowl, locks curling around Clark’s fingers. Bruce is kissing his neck, whispering greetings against the sensitive spot behind his ear, teeth capturing his ear playfully. Clark pulls, bringing his head back, and Bruce concedes, smiling lazily. Clark licks his lips before giving his own silent greeting, the kiss slow and appreciative. He always thought Bruce was a dangerous predator who wouldn’t take well to captivity, but by the way he responds, it seems he doesn’t mind being tamed.
3. There’s nothing anonymous anymore to the mess that crawls around their quarters
Clark starts noticing about two months in. A month ago he thought his toothbrush in the master bathroom at the Manor was a victory, but when he finds a book that isn’t his in his apartment, a hardcover edition of L’isola del giorno prima, he has a revelation. There’s a drawer in his closet with a couple of shirts that are too tight in the chest to belong to him, a toothbrush in a cup by the sink, a bottle of shower gel that smells of exotic herbs, mango and vanilla. There’s a drawer in Bruce’s bedroom with Clark’s shirts, a couple of hangers with Clark’s clothes inside Bruce’s monstrous closet, a comb and a toothbrush in the bathroom. For men of the twenty-first century, these are bare necessities. The book means they have moved past the bare necessities, no longer just lust and need, all-consuming passion giving way to companionship and a slow-burning, less desperate kind of passion.
He gives Bruce a key to his apartment, despite knowing Bruce can’t be stopped by a simple lock if he wants in. There’s something in his eyes when he gives him the small key, in the way his thumb presses against the dents of the metal, that tells Clark more than any words could. Not only has he learned to understand the silences, he’s becoming fluent in them.
As the months pass, he has to clear a shelf for Bruce’s books in his apartment. Some of them Bruce picks up in Metropolis when they go shopping, and never takes back to the Manor. Some of them he brings to the apartment to show to Clark, so they can both read and discuss them. He’s surprised to find a toolbox in his closet one day, steel and black paint, filled with precision tools meant for more complicated things than fixing a leaking faucet or a wobbly chair.
Clark leaves a spare costume in the cave. By their sixth month together, there’s a second mahogany desk in the opposite corner of the study, papers and notes filled with Clark’s handwriting resting on top of it, filling the drawers. There’s a backup AC adapter for Clark’s laptop on the second drawer, and a bonsai lemon tree sitting on the top of the desk by the lamp.
It’s been six months, three weeks and two days when he walks into the bedroom after letting himself in with his own key to the Manor, figuring the place is empty since it’s the day Alfred does the shopping. He walks in to see the sleeping form of his lover, just in from a very long patrol, the sun falling over his back. The curtains are open and the floor is cluttered with the Batman armor, gloves and cape and cowl laying haphazardly on the floor, the boots by the bathroom door. Alfred isn’t home and Bruce didn’t care to change downstairs.
The Bat spills over the domains of the Man, uncaring, unconcerned. No one Bruce doesn’t trust will step into his sanctuary.
Clark is no longer a visitor, a guest. This, too, is Clark’s home.
4. He’s welcome in the cave
They are having a late dinner in the cave for their seventh month anniversary, sandwiches in a tray beside them while Bruce works at one of the computer stations. He has been working on it for the past two weeks, arriving with components and smiling like a kid on Christmas Eve while tearing open every new package. Clark is slouched in one of the big chairs, munching on his sandwich and perusing the computer’s music library. Among the many things that surprises him about the computer, the music library is not one of the small ones. The files shared are from every station in the cave, which means every Robin and Batgirl that has walked through this place has a library and playlists. He has taken his time looking over them, and for the past two weeks, while Bruce works on his new station, Clark has been in charge of the music.
The bats above them seem to hate Tim's and Bruce’s playlists the most, probably because these are the ones that overlap more often. There are chirring noises and flaps of wings as Blondie starts playing, Bruce humming along under his breath.
“I think I’m done,” Bruce says, sitting back on his own chair, grabbing a half-forgotten sandwich.
Clark swivels closer, pulling his cape up to keep it from tangling with the chair’s wheels, and looks at the prompt screen on the station. “Looks good,” he says. “What’s its thing?”
Bruce looks at him for a long moment, chewing. His hair is falling over his forehead, curling against his neck, the cowl hanging behind him. “What thing?” He prompts after a while, sharp blue eyes truly curious as they hold Clark’s glance.
“I figure it must do something special if you’re going to the trouble of building a new one from scratch.”
A winged eyebrow raises, an elusive smile flashing and then disappearing, leaving him looking completely serious again. “Of course. It does many special things. Keeps conversation, prepares breakfast, reads lips, critiques art, keeps the house clean and falls in love with my boyfriend.”
Clark feels a rush of heat go through him when he hears the title. He forces himself to remain impassive. “Oh, so you built Hal 9000? Alfred’s going to be pissed.”
“Are you kidding? He’ll be happy to have someone polite to share his grievances about me. And then Hal will have to kill me to show you he’s clearly superior.”
Clark chuckles, reaching out to play with his hair. “Seriously, though.”
“I am being serious.”
Clark doesn’t press, and waits his answer out.
Bruce eventually shrugs, standing up to reach for another sandwich and giving Clark a chance to move in front of the newly built station. “It’s yours. Set a session password and you can access it from any of the other stations, but this one is yours. I thought it would be a good idea to have your files in here so we can run cross refs more easily. We could sync it with any data of the Fortress if you want, I’m working on a Kryptonian-friendly environment.”
Clark knows he means a Kryptonian-friendly system, but he can’t help but smile at the choice of words. “Oh, you have a very Kryptonian-friendly environment going on, mithen. I can attest to that,” he says with a leer.
Bruce’s face lights up with a grin just before he turns towards the costume vault. Clark is reminded of the little key to his apartment he gave Bruce months ago as he looks at the prompting screen. He has been welcomed to the cave for over half a year now, but always as a guest, not really comfortable to touch anything or make himself at home. This is Batman’s territory, and though he loves the man dearly, he knows better than to presume the right to intrude into something that so far, has been strictly for his family of crimefighters
The prompt blinks in and out and he can hear Bruce unclasping the armor, disengaging the safeties. He has just been given the keys to the Batcave, he thinks, just as he hears Bruce call from the vault.
“Clark, are you trying to drive Alfred insane? Don’t put your boots on top of your uniform, I don’t care if it won’t get dirty anyway, I will never hear the end of it. There’s a perfectly good place under your shelf for the boots.”
A toothbrush in the master bathroom, hangers in the closet, a drawer for his shirts, a shelf for his uniform. Past the bare necessities and beyond, a password for the computer.
He leans forward and types his secret key, unlocking the door for the first time.
I tried to do a '5 times...' but failed at the last one, so it's a '4 times...' fic. I think it works fine as it is anyway! Beta by the team beta damos and jij. All other mistakes by yours truly :)
Happy birthday to the Big Bad Bat! *twirls happily*
Title: Fluent in Silence: 4 Things that tell Clark it's not casual sex
Fandom: DCU
Characters: Clark/Bruce
Rating: R
Word count: 3300+
Summary: How a relationship of silences starts, and four things that tell Clark it’s not casual sex.
Fluent in silence
4 things that tell Clark it’s not casual sex
Clark isn’t a stupid man, and despite Bruce’s abrasive observations about Superman going into battle fists first, he always has a defined course of action for everything he does. He tries not to get too caught up in details, since there is no use in having a very detailed plan when so many variables depend on external factors. So he settles for a general idea of what he wants to accomplish and how he hopes to get there, and if that sometimes means his battle plans are ‘Stop the madman, knock him out’, well, he isn’t ashamed.
The first time he lay on his back trying to get his breathing under control, with the sheets tangled beneath him and Bruce collapsed over his chest, Clark couldn’t help thinking he hadn’t really planned for this. He hadn’t expected this to happen, a least not today, or soon… or at all. Bruce wasn’t the kind of man who did anything without weighing all the possible consequences, yet there he was, breathing heavily, his sweat mixing with Clark’s, their bodies still joined intimately.
No, Clark didn’t really think he would end up having sex with Bruce Wayne in his Watchtower quarters. It had started innocently enough, Batman asking to talk with him privately, and then not really talking and Clark pretending he didn’t know what they weren’t talking about. They had both almost died in the last two Justice League missions: J’onn had managed to save Superman from being consumed by a cosmic entity; Green Lantern had gotten to Batman just before the abandoned Citadel they were investigating had exploded. They had been on different missions, different corners of the universe, and as they went over the debriefing, Clark had seen Batman’s jaw tighten and heard his heart speed up while J’onn related how they had almost lost Superman. Superman’s nails bit into his palms as Green Lantern explained their close call, his eyes never leaving the black-clad figure sitting across him. Batman wouldn’t meet his eyes.
In his quarters, Batman had waited him out, and Superman had broken down, angry and frustrated and demanding an explanation. Clark couldn’t bear the thought of coming back to the Watchtower to find out Batman had been lost in action. Did he really have a death wish? Didn’t he know how important he was to the League, to Gotham? Didn’t he understand they needed him? That Clark needed him?
Things had turned slightly less innocent there, rapidly progressing into the baring of skin, mouths clashing, tongues exploring, asking questions that wouldn’t be voiced and giving answers that were too complicated to articulate. Clark had pulled Bruce onto the bed, collapsing under his reassuring weight, his hands burying in the short, sweaty dark hair, pulling him closer, closer. Bruce had mapped his body in a frenzy of kisses and caresses, bites and frustrated grips, silent but for the gasps and growls that Clark coaxed out of him. Still, Clark could hear his questions as clear as if he was making them out loud. Didn’t he see how important he was? Didn’t he see that Bruce couldn’t lose him? Why did he have to break his barriers, his rules? Why couldn’t Clark see that Bruce needed him?
Clark’s apologies had been swallowed by more kisses, Bruce’s body over his, coaxing him, leading him through the maze, unlocking secrets and soothing aches he didn’t knew he had. The room had been silent but for the sound of skin on skin, their breathing getting completely out of control as moans and pleas poured out of their mouths as the only answers that truly mattered, the only questions they could to answer. Pleasure overrode guilt and anguish, bringing them together so they would never fall apart.
And then his mind had cleared enough to think again, and Clark wasn’t sure what to make of what just happened.
‘What does this mean?’ had been met with a bite on his shoulder and little else. Clark lay there, wondering if it would happen again, if they were supposed to have worked through their uncertain and repressed feelings somehow, or if it just had been… an unplanned way to reassure each other about their survival.
As of now, they have been reassuring each other of their continued survival several times a week for eight months, and if Clark didn’t have any great revelation about his feelings about his teammate and friend that first time, by now he is acutely aware of his own affections and desires, and how attuned he truly is to the quiet man who shares his bed and trusts him with every aspect of his life.
The League found out about them shortly after their liaison started. Their involvement hasn’t changed how they work -if anything, they work better together now- but they do end up in each other’s quarters whenever they have time to spare. As the news continues to spread, Superman finds himself receiving warnings and advice. ‘He’s dangerous.’ ‘Don’t let him break you.’ ‘Batman doesn’t do relationships.’
Everyone -people in Batman and Superman’s life, people in Bruce and Clark’s life- concur in one thing. Bruce is already committed to something bigger than Clark. He won’t go steady.
Clark swivels from his station in the cave, smiling at the sound of the engine of the Batmobile dying down and the door opening, heavy boots walking out of the garage towards him.
Clark knows the people with the ready advice mean well, but he also knows they are wrong. Bruce doesn’t do great declarations of love, but that doesn’t mean Clark can’t hear them.
1. He wears Clark’s cologne
One of the little things Clark Kent always splurges on is his own cologne. He wears it all day long, because it’s bad enough that his super senses are constantly offended by awful smells -the city, no matter how clean Metropolis is, is a world of olfactory torture- without inflicting a cheap one on himself. He likes the delicacy and subtlety of expensive cologne, and if someone notices, he doesn’t mind accepting that little bit of hedonism. He lives a very Spartan life otherwise, and can afford to buy himself his favorite fragrance every three months.
Clark has always been appreciative of Bruce’s good taste and carefully refined image. He is a handsome man, immaculate expensive suits always matching perfectly with Italian shoes and discreet masculine accessories. He is pleasant to the eye; Clark would have admitted that even before they had gotten together, he would have admitted that even before he noticed he was attracted to him.
He always smells very good, too. That is one of the things that, perhaps, endeared him initially to Clark on a more primal level. He wears a nice combination of smells, a well matched mix of expensive fresh smelling cologne, the faint sweet smell of shower gel, the minty aftershave, and the dark musky scent that is essentially him. Sometimes there is Kevlar and leather and sweat in the mix, and by now Clark can admit it is a very overpowering scent.
After they get together, Clark finds himself very fond of the way Bruce smells after sex; it’s everything he liked before mixed with Clark’s own smell. To taste and smell himself on his lover always sends a jolt all the way down to his groin, a primal feeling of belonging and protectiveness surging through him. The mix of their scents makes Clark feel a primitive victorious delight too ingrained in his subconscious to fight the disappointment of Bruce getting up to shower.
Three weeks into their relationship, Batman walks into the Watchtower meeting room and takes a seat across Superman, smelling clean and fresh and like Clark. It takes Superman’s brain a moment to realize he hasn’t seen his partner since the day before. Bruce has switched his cologne for Clark’s brand.
Clark’s brand. A voluntary proclamation of who he belongs to for anyone who can put two and two together. Clark barely manages to get through the meeting, Batman’s almost imperceptible smirk as he stumbles for words making things worse. Finally, J’onn dismisses the meeting, and Superman rushes them to his quarters, taking his time to taste himself on Bruce, his detective laughing lowly underneath him as Clark bites, sucks and marks.
As the weeks pass, the overwhelming novelty of Bruce smelling like he has spent all day wrapped in Clark’s arms hasn’t worn off, and he’s learned to love the mix of smells of Gotham after patrol and his own scent on his lover’s skin, the dark city reminding him that once Bruce commits, he commits for life.
2. He’s letting his hair grow
It’s been three months since the first time they collapsed against each other in the Watchtower, and they have worked out a convenient routine that saves at least a couple of hours a day for each other, and that’s on top of the cases they work on together and the Justice League meetings. If anyone tried to tell Clark that is was possible to make yourself a niche in the busy life of Batman half a year ago, he would have laughed. But Bruce is nothing if not headstrong, and if he needs two hours a day to spend them with Clark, then the schedule better work itself out or the day grow two hours longer because if not there will be hell to pay.
Time isn’t cowardly and superstitious, but it too bends down to the will of Batman.
Clark’s schedule is crowded and unpredictable itself, always has been. Sometimes he gets called away during his time with Bruce, and megalomaniacs and rogues get a little more heat than at other times of the day. Still, they manage, rescheduling on short notice and juggling their various lives is a skill they quickly become masters of. They are almost domestic, if that’s in any way possible for them, using up their time together to watch movies, talk, take walks together or going out to eat. Things like making out in the den in front of a monster movie -unexpectedly, Bruce is a fan of monster movies, and hearing him laugh always makes it impossible not to kiss him- or making love in Clark’s apartment or the Manor’s study become the moments they look forward to through the day, the comfortable quietness a respite in their otherwise hectic lives.
If Clark had to explain what was so intoxicating about burying his hands in the dark hair and pulling Bruce’s head back, he would be at a loss. In a man otherwise hard and sharp, it’s one aspect that is soft and delicate, and a dark pleasure surges in seeing him compliant to Clark’s silent orders. It’s something like a rudimentary steering wheel to their moments of frenzy, a thread of control in Clark’s hands.
He wistfully wishes the shortly cropped hair was allowed to be long enough to curl around Bruce’s ears and fall over the winter blue eyes. He hasn’t said anything - Clark knows that long hair isn’t optimal for battle conditions, that the cowl is uncomfortable enough to also deal with the wayward locks plastering to Bruce’s face- but Bruce’s hair is growing longer despite the monthly appointments in the salon. Dating a detective has its perks, of course; Clark doesn’t have to name everything he wants to get it.
Clark’s hands bury in the growing mane, damp and cool to the touch after removing the cowl, locks curling around Clark’s fingers. Bruce is kissing his neck, whispering greetings against the sensitive spot behind his ear, teeth capturing his ear playfully. Clark pulls, bringing his head back, and Bruce concedes, smiling lazily. Clark licks his lips before giving his own silent greeting, the kiss slow and appreciative. He always thought Bruce was a dangerous predator who wouldn’t take well to captivity, but by the way he responds, it seems he doesn’t mind being tamed.
3. There’s nothing anonymous anymore to the mess that crawls around their quarters
Clark starts noticing about two months in. A month ago he thought his toothbrush in the master bathroom at the Manor was a victory, but when he finds a book that isn’t his in his apartment, a hardcover edition of L’isola del giorno prima, he has a revelation. There’s a drawer in his closet with a couple of shirts that are too tight in the chest to belong to him, a toothbrush in a cup by the sink, a bottle of shower gel that smells of exotic herbs, mango and vanilla. There’s a drawer in Bruce’s bedroom with Clark’s shirts, a couple of hangers with Clark’s clothes inside Bruce’s monstrous closet, a comb and a toothbrush in the bathroom. For men of the twenty-first century, these are bare necessities. The book means they have moved past the bare necessities, no longer just lust and need, all-consuming passion giving way to companionship and a slow-burning, less desperate kind of passion.
He gives Bruce a key to his apartment, despite knowing Bruce can’t be stopped by a simple lock if he wants in. There’s something in his eyes when he gives him the small key, in the way his thumb presses against the dents of the metal, that tells Clark more than any words could. Not only has he learned to understand the silences, he’s becoming fluent in them.
As the months pass, he has to clear a shelf for Bruce’s books in his apartment. Some of them Bruce picks up in Metropolis when they go shopping, and never takes back to the Manor. Some of them he brings to the apartment to show to Clark, so they can both read and discuss them. He’s surprised to find a toolbox in his closet one day, steel and black paint, filled with precision tools meant for more complicated things than fixing a leaking faucet or a wobbly chair.
Clark leaves a spare costume in the cave. By their sixth month together, there’s a second mahogany desk in the opposite corner of the study, papers and notes filled with Clark’s handwriting resting on top of it, filling the drawers. There’s a backup AC adapter for Clark’s laptop on the second drawer, and a bonsai lemon tree sitting on the top of the desk by the lamp.
It’s been six months, three weeks and two days when he walks into the bedroom after letting himself in with his own key to the Manor, figuring the place is empty since it’s the day Alfred does the shopping. He walks in to see the sleeping form of his lover, just in from a very long patrol, the sun falling over his back. The curtains are open and the floor is cluttered with the Batman armor, gloves and cape and cowl laying haphazardly on the floor, the boots by the bathroom door. Alfred isn’t home and Bruce didn’t care to change downstairs.
The Bat spills over the domains of the Man, uncaring, unconcerned. No one Bruce doesn’t trust will step into his sanctuary.
Clark is no longer a visitor, a guest. This, too, is Clark’s home.
4. He’s welcome in the cave
They are having a late dinner in the cave for their seventh month anniversary, sandwiches in a tray beside them while Bruce works at one of the computer stations. He has been working on it for the past two weeks, arriving with components and smiling like a kid on Christmas Eve while tearing open every new package. Clark is slouched in one of the big chairs, munching on his sandwich and perusing the computer’s music library. Among the many things that surprises him about the computer, the music library is not one of the small ones. The files shared are from every station in the cave, which means every Robin and Batgirl that has walked through this place has a library and playlists. He has taken his time looking over them, and for the past two weeks, while Bruce works on his new station, Clark has been in charge of the music.
The bats above them seem to hate Tim's and Bruce’s playlists the most, probably because these are the ones that overlap more often. There are chirring noises and flaps of wings as Blondie starts playing, Bruce humming along under his breath.
“I think I’m done,” Bruce says, sitting back on his own chair, grabbing a half-forgotten sandwich.
Clark swivels closer, pulling his cape up to keep it from tangling with the chair’s wheels, and looks at the prompt screen on the station. “Looks good,” he says. “What’s its thing?”
Bruce looks at him for a long moment, chewing. His hair is falling over his forehead, curling against his neck, the cowl hanging behind him. “What thing?” He prompts after a while, sharp blue eyes truly curious as they hold Clark’s glance.
“I figure it must do something special if you’re going to the trouble of building a new one from scratch.”
A winged eyebrow raises, an elusive smile flashing and then disappearing, leaving him looking completely serious again. “Of course. It does many special things. Keeps conversation, prepares breakfast, reads lips, critiques art, keeps the house clean and falls in love with my boyfriend.”
Clark feels a rush of heat go through him when he hears the title. He forces himself to remain impassive. “Oh, so you built Hal 9000? Alfred’s going to be pissed.”
“Are you kidding? He’ll be happy to have someone polite to share his grievances about me. And then Hal will have to kill me to show you he’s clearly superior.”
Clark chuckles, reaching out to play with his hair. “Seriously, though.”
“I am being serious.”
Clark doesn’t press, and waits his answer out.
Bruce eventually shrugs, standing up to reach for another sandwich and giving Clark a chance to move in front of the newly built station. “It’s yours. Set a session password and you can access it from any of the other stations, but this one is yours. I thought it would be a good idea to have your files in here so we can run cross refs more easily. We could sync it with any data of the Fortress if you want, I’m working on a Kryptonian-friendly environment.”
Clark knows he means a Kryptonian-friendly system, but he can’t help but smile at the choice of words. “Oh, you have a very Kryptonian-friendly environment going on, mithen. I can attest to that,” he says with a leer.
Bruce’s face lights up with a grin just before he turns towards the costume vault. Clark is reminded of the little key to his apartment he gave Bruce months ago as he looks at the prompting screen. He has been welcomed to the cave for over half a year now, but always as a guest, not really comfortable to touch anything or make himself at home. This is Batman’s territory, and though he loves the man dearly, he knows better than to presume the right to intrude into something that so far, has been strictly for his family of crimefighters
The prompt blinks in and out and he can hear Bruce unclasping the armor, disengaging the safeties. He has just been given the keys to the Batcave, he thinks, just as he hears Bruce call from the vault.
“Clark, are you trying to drive Alfred insane? Don’t put your boots on top of your uniform, I don’t care if it won’t get dirty anyway, I will never hear the end of it. There’s a perfectly good place under your shelf for the boots.”
A toothbrush in the master bathroom, hangers in the closet, a drawer for his shirts, a shelf for his uniform. Past the bare necessities and beyond, a password for the computer.
He leans forward and types his secret key, unlocking the door for the first time.