Gardens of Wayne Manor: Breaking Storm (32/40)
Title: Chapter Thirty-Two: Breaking Storm
Pairing/Characters: Clark/Bruce, Alfred Pennyworth, Martha Kent
Rating: NC-17
Warnings: None necessary
Continuity: The Gardens of Wayne Manor is an AU series in which Clark Kent and Bruce Wayne's lives intertwine at an early age. Click here for the complete series and series notes.
Word Count: 3900Summary: Bruce and Clark deal with Mannheim's thugs--and with the aftermath.
Clark felt hot sparks behind his eyes as they ran. The thug had pulled a gun on Bruce. It had been all Clark could do not to hoist the man above the skyscrapers of Gotham. Instead, he'd had to settle for freezing a patch of ground under his foot, giving Bruce time to scramble away.
He heard again the thwack of Bruce's hand hitting the goon's nose, heard the thud of Renee's rock smacking against the other one's forehead, and felt a crazy rush of exasperated affection at all the fragile, unspeakably brave humans who threw themselves into danger without heat vision or invulnerable skin.
"Help us!" screamed Renee as they pounded down the street. The bystanders who didn't simply turn away and ignore them merely looked shocked and vaguely concerned. No one raised a hand to help.
"This way," said Bruce, pulling them down a dark alley that looked much the same as any other alley. There was a chain link fence at the end, and Mannheim's men chortled as they closed in on them. But Bruce ducked to the left at the last second, where there was a small hole in the fence, just big enough for three teens. Not big enough for hulking thugs.
Renee didn't need any prompting; she scrambled through and the boys followed her.
"Here," said Bruce after a few more blocks. His breath was starting to hitch a little. "They'll be over that fence soon. Have to hide. Then get you to the police station."
They rounded a corner at a dead run and Clark saw a group of kids standing in front of a liquor store. "Tony!" called one of them. "You okay, dude?"
"Marc. We need a place to hide," said Bruce shortly.
"Sure, man," said Marc. He turned and gestured to a dumpster tucked into an alley; another kid threw open the lid. "Hop in."
The stench from the dumpster was agonizing, but there was no time to argue. Bruce, Renee, and Clark scrabbled in and the lid slammed down.
Reeking darkness closed around them. Almost against his will, Clark's sensitive nose analyzed each aspect of the aroma: banana peels, dirty diapers, rotting cabbage, semen-stained tissues, and beer mingled into an unholy incense. He could hear Renee and Bruce's shallow breaths near him. Without thinking, he reached out and brushed Bruce's arm. "Just like old times, huh?" he barely whispered.
Bruce grabbed his hand and squeezed it silently.
There were heavy, grating footsteps on the pavement nearby. "You kids see a couple of boys and a girl come running this way? All of 'em dark-haired, the girl's Hispanic, wearing a baseball cap?" growled a voice.
Sounds of animated conversation. "I was checking out that handsome guy in the Corvette, I wouldn't have noticed," said Marc. "Sophie, how about you?"
"No, man, I don't think anyone like that's come by lately."
"Look, there's a twenty in it for anyone willing to remember where they went."
"Wait, I think I saw 'em," announced one of the other boys. "Three kids, right? They ran by, took a left onto Washington. Or maybe--" He hesitated. "I mean, she didn't have a baseball cap, and--"
A growl of frustration. "That'll do," said Mannheim's man.
The kids launched into a discussion of the cute guy in the Corvette and whether he'd been actually cruising, whether he was likely to come back soon. After a fair amount of that, Marc said in a different voice, "Thanks, Ruby." He knocked lightly on the dumpster and opened the lid. "Ruby trailed them for a few blocks, she says they're safely gone."
They scrambled out of the dumpster. Marc held his nose, looking them up and down. "Jesus, man," he said to Bruce. "I hardly recognized you at first, but now you're looking like the Tony I know." He sniffed and mimed an elaborate shudder. "Smell like him, too."
Bruce cuffed him on the shoulder. "I owe you one."
"Don't be stupid," Marc said. "Go."
A quick jog and four blocks later, they stood outside the Gotham City Police Department headquarters. Renee was pale, her face uncertain. "I don't know..."
"I know the police can't always be trusted," said Clark. "But take the tape to Jim Gordon. Insist on Gordon, no one else. He'll listen. And he'll get you help. Won't he, Tony--" He turned and discovered he and Renee were alone on the sidewalk. After a moment, he smiled. "He's gone to keep an eye on your family," he said with absolute certainty. "Until the police get there."
"My family..."
"You can help them best by getting the police involved," Clark said. "Gordon will help you. I swear."
She nodded, her jaw set, and Clark watched her climb the steps of the building and disappear inside. Then he went back, retracing their steps, until he came to the Mireles house. Sure enough, there was Bruce on a nearby roof, watching the house, standing guard.
Carefully, quietly, Clark climbed to the roof to crouch beside Bruce. They said nothing, each of them merely nodding as their eyes met. Together they watched over the Mireles family until a police car arrived with Jim Gordon to take them to a safe house. Bruce sighed, a small sound like a weight had been lifted from him. They slipped from the roof before the police arrived to sweep the surroundings for Mannheim's man, and headed home together in silence through the deepening night.
: : :
Clark woke up to the sound of rain pounding on the windows, feeling well-scrubbed and satisfied. He'd taken a scalding hot shower the night before, scouring the reek of the dumpster off himself before his mother could notice. He stretched, feeling a smile on his face. He and Bruce had helped the Mireles family, hindered Mannheim's efforts to expand his influence into Gotham, and kept Cobblepot from going free before his time was up.
All in all, a good night's work.
As he pulled on his jeans, Clark wondered why he felt so much more satisfaction with last night's events than with almost anything he'd done with the Legion. Maybe it was because he had protected his home instead of some futuristic city or distant planet. Maybe because it was as Clark rather than Superboy.
Maybe because it was with Bruce.
It felt so natural, facing danger side by side with his friend. So right. Like pieces of a puzzle, coming together.
Clark shook his head, trying to banish that sense of certainty. This wasn't a lark like the Legion, where everyone had some kind of bizarre super-powers. Bruce couldn't shoot lightning, or go invisible, or shrink, or...bounce. Superboy was never going to charge into battle side by side with his trusty teammate...Gotham Guy. Or Orphan Lad. Or Billionare Boy.
He was rolling his eyes at himself (and mentally designing possible costumes for Billionaire Boy) as he grabbed an umbrella, tucked Foundation and Empire under his arm, and headed out to the gazebo.
As he passed the statue at the heart of the moon garden, giving it a friendly wave as usual, his steps slowed. Under the drenching rain he could hear the sound of steady, hoarse breathing, harsh with exertion.
He rounded the corner to see Bruce Wayne doing push-ups in the gazebo.
Bruce was wearing jeans and his Gray Ghost t-shirt, slicked tight to his body with rain and sweat His face was tight with pain, distant and rapt, unaware of his friend, the rain, of anything but his own endless movement. His panting breaths shrieked across Clark's nerves, tearing at him. There was a kind of ecstasy in Bruce's expression, a transcendent agony.
The umbrella dropped from Clark's hands and he was moving across the grass and up the stairs, too fast, but he couldn't slow down, couldn't bear it for another moment. "Stop it," he said, grabbing at Bruce's shoulders, feeling the exhausted muscles screaming beneath his touch, "Stop it, stop it, stop it."
Bruce tried to throw Clark's hands off with an impatient movement, flipping over onto his back, but Clark held on, as if he could somehow halt Bruce's headlong self-annihilation like he could halt spaceships and bullet trains. "What are you doing?" cried Clark into the thunder of rain on the roof, into the anguish on Bruce's face.
"I wasn't good enough," said Bruce. "Wasn't strong enough." His hands rose to shove at Clark. "I was weak. She almost died, I was weak and she could have died--" A sharp hitch of breath, "--you could have died--"
"Weak?" Clark didn't let go, couldn't let go. The rain was a constant drumroll in his ears, and he couldn't tell if he was going to laugh or cry. "Weak? You? The most amazing, impossible, stubborn-- You could never be-- not you, Bruce." His breath caught in his throat. "Bruce." The name came out deep with yearning, heavy with everything he had tried to hide and deny and couldn't any longer.
Bruce had gone very still, staring at him. Clark was suddenly very aware of the closeness of their bodies, his hands on Bruce's shoulders. He had one leg between Bruce's, and if he just leaned forward a little he'd be able to press against him...
Bruce shifted suddenly under him and Clark released his hold to let him go, to let him get away from the invasive, unwelcome touch. Bruce pushed--but he pulled, too, and somehow then it was Clark on his back, with Bruce leaning over him, his face no longer anguished and abstracted. Not at all.
"Clark," he whispered. It was almost a question. He moved his hips and Clark couldn't help it, he groaned out loud and arched up against the contact, feeling himself hard against his jeans, hard against Bruce's body. "Clark," gasped Bruce, his eyes falling half-closed. He pushed back against Clark, and Clark could feel--
Thunder and lightning didn't crack the skies open, but Clark couldn't have been more stunned if they had. Bruce's hands were bunched in his rain-splattered flannel shirt, and he rocked against Clark's body again, and he was as hard as Clark was, he wanted Clark to touch him.
He wanted him.
Clark's hands left Bruce's shoulders--he didn't seem to be doing it himself, he was still thunderstruck, still reeling--and went to his waist, pushing up the soaking t-shirt, feeling muscles and ribs under his hands, cool skin as he slid upward.
Bruce made a throaty sound in his throat and his head fell back. "Ah," he said, and Clark could feel his erection harden more, urgent between them. "You-- You--" Clark's hands shifted upward again, but Bruce halted them, shuddering. "You," he said like a revelation, and started unbuttoning Clark's shirt, his fingers oddly awkward and fumbling.
He shouldn't let Bruce see his body, Clark thought as if from very far away, as if underwater, with the rain all around them. Because there was no way it was the body of a high school nerd, he knew that. He shouldn't--
Bruce's fingers were on his skin, lower and lower with each button, and thoughts of secret identities fled Clark's mind entirely, leaving only a ravening need for Bruce to see him, to touch him, to--Oh God--
Bruce bent to lick one of his nipples and Clark bucked helplessly against him, a groan torn from his throat. "Yes," he heard his voice saying. He pulled at Bruce's t-shirt with clumsy, desperate hands, needing to get it off, needing to feel Bruce's skin against his.
Bruce made a breathy sound as he pulled Clark close against his bare chest, as Clark wrapped his arms around him. Clark's senses were stuttering with ecstasy, keenly aware of every single inch of Bruce's skin against his. Bruce rocked against him and Clark bit his lip hard as the movement almost sent him right over the edge. "Don't--" he gasped.
Bruce looked wildly at him, his silver-blue eyes almost violet in the dimness. "I'm sorry," he said, starting to pull back. "I just--I'm sorry--I won't--"
Clark grabbed him before he could get far. "No," he managed, desperate to explain, struggling for words. Everything seemed a new, foreign language. "If you do that much more I'll--I'll come," he managed.
The wariness lifted from Bruce's face, and an almost smug smile, touched with a sensuality that made Clark hunger to kiss it, replaced it.
"Is that such a bad thing?" Bruce whispered. His hand ghosted down Clark's chest and to his belt, slipping under the waistband. Clark's whole body jerked and he made a strangled sound. "I don't think that's such a bad thing," Bruce said. He slid a finger up and down the length of Clark's jeans-clad erection, then undid the button on Clark's fly. The zipper came down agonizingly slowly. "But I promise I won't do anything unless you ask me to," Bruce murmured.
Clark gasped and pushed up against Bruce's hand, but the touch receded before him.
"I promise I won't do anything unless you ask me to," Bruce repeated.
Words clogged Clark's throat. "Touch--touch me," he stammered.
Bruce smiled slightly. "But you said you'd come if I did that."
"Yes," groaned Clark. "Yes."
Bruce's fingers brushed white cotton--Clark wished he'd worn more exotic underwear, wished he had more exotic underwear--but didn't exactly touch. Instead he kissed Clark, hard and demanding, and Clark kissed him back as through he knew what he was doing, his body clamoring for more contact, more friction, more Bruce.
Bruce moved his mouth to Clark's ear, a sharp nibble on his earlobe. Clark could feel Bruce pushing hard against his hip, moving in slow, grinding circles that seemed almost involuntary. His hand was still hovering, not touching, and Bruce's breath was ragged in his ear.
"I want to make you come," he whispered. "I want to touch you and rub you and get you so crazy--" His voice caught and he shoved hard against Clark, jeans scraping together, "--Make it so you can't help it, you're so close, oh God, so close--" He was breathing hard, rocking against Clark, making small noises in his throat that made it hard for Clark to think at all.
"Please," Clark said. "I want it. Need it."
"You do." Bruce's voice was a growl of triumph, and then his hand was fondling Clark's cock through the white cotton, not gently, Bruce was touching him and Clark made a noise that was probably well beyond Bruce's range of hearing.
The breath in his ear was a ragged pant now, and the friction against his hip had gone from languorous to sharp, hard thrusts. "You're so hard," Bruce groaned against his cheek. "So good, you feel so good, Clark, my Clark--"
As if saying the name had triggered it, his whole body went suddenly rigid, his eyes wide with surprise and then with obliterating pleasure. Breath stuttered between his teeth, a rushing "Ah!" of shock as he rocked wildly against Clark.
It was the pure surprised sensuousness of his face in orgasm, as much as his strong and coaxing hand, that tipped Clark over the edge as well, and for a while there was nothing in the world but exquisite sensation and the sound of his own voice saying Bruce's name in turn.
Nothing.
: : :
Bruce lay across Clark's chest, feeling it rise and fall. He drew lazy circles across the damp white cotton with his thumb, savoring the shiver that ran through Clark's body at the touch. His own body was still ringing with the delicious aftershocks of his unexpected climax, and he felt more relaxed and comfortable than he had in a long time.
So it was a particular surprise when Clark sat up, avoiding his eyes, and zipped up his pants with a grimace, then started buttoning his shirt.
"Alfred and your mother never come out here while we're reading," Bruce pointed out. "We can...do what we want." What he wanted was to have all that warm, muscled skin up against him again. What he wanted was to kiss Clark for an hour or two.
"For now," Clark muttered indistinctly. "But you'll be leaving again soon, won't you? You're not staying here. I just think it wouldn't be...practical to get too...used to this kind of thing." He finished buttoning his shirt, looking resolute and unhappy.
"Are you ashamed?" Bruce asked without thinking, and Clark's eyes flashed angrily.
"No." He took a deep breath. "I've known I was attracted to--to guys--for a long time now. That's not it at all." He shook his head. "I just worry it'll mess up our friendship if we get physically involved and then..."
"We won't let it," Bruce asserted. "Besides," he added hastily as Clark looked dubious, "You're going to Metropolis soon for college, right?"
"In the fall, yes, but--"
"--Then I promise you," Bruce said. "I promise you that I won't leave again until you're gone. You can be the one to leave me behind this time, Clark," he said, hearing a pleading tone in his voice, unable to banish it. "That's an opportunity you can't pass up."
A smile flicked at the corner of Clark's mouth. "Bruce Wayne, that's the most insane bargain I've ever heard."
"It's the best one I have. Look, you know we're both leaving soon. Let's have one summer together and--and enjoy it."
"No strings attached?"
Bruce shook his head. "Don't be silly." He put a hand on Clark's shoulder and squeezed. "I intend to always have strings attached to my best friend. Just--no worrying about the future for a little bit." Almost against his will, he lifted his hand to brush a finger against Clark's earlobe; Clark leaned into the touch as if he couldn't help it. "I want you, Clark Kent," he said, watching Clark bite his lip. "I want to argue with you about books and prune roses with you and kiss you senseless and touch you--" His voice shook in a way it never had when practicing urbane seduction in Europe and he broke off, almost afraid to keep talking.
Clark's eyes were half-closed as he turned his head to let his lips brush the inside of Bruce's wrist. "Stranger in a Strange Land is a better novel than Dune," he murmured.
Bruce fought back a gust of surprised laughter. "That's--that's crazy talk," he said. "The ecological extrapolation alone makes Dune--"
Clark kissed the argument from his lips.
They lay for a long time, just kissing, the rain on the roof a counterpoint to the long, slow exploration of their mouths. After a time, Bruce pulled back and reached out to take off Clark's glasses. "I want to see your eyes again," he said. Alarm flicked across Clark's face, but then suddenly he relaxed and smiled, a bit ruefully. His unobscured eyes were the same startling deep-sky blue Bruce remembered, like a limitless horizon. "You're gorgeous," Bruce said, and they widened in surprise.
"Stop it," muttered Clark, burying his face against Bruce's bare collarbone. Bruce put his face against his damp hair and breathed in the scent of him, feeling Clark's tentative lips nuzzling his skin.
"I have an idea," Clark said against his shoulder after a long, quiet moment.
Bruce made an interrogative sound.
"If we get carried away with boyish high spirits and wrestle on the lawn a bit..." Clark paused and Bruce could feel his lips curl, "...our clothes will get soaked and muddy all over and Ma and Alfred won't notice any...specific stains."
Bruce pulled back far enough to meet Clark's laughing eyes. "Have you always been so devious, or is this a recent development?"
"I learned from the master," Clark said solemnly. Then he scrambled upright. "Can't catch me," he announced, bolting from the gazebo into the pounding rain as Bruce growled imprecations, yanking on his t-shirt and following.
He tackled Clark on the slippery grass, both of them sprawling together into a tangle of limbs and spray and mud, hands groping in something that was almost innocent play. Bruce managed to get a good hard squeeze of Clark's behind, and Clark yelped once in shocked, sincere protest, then made a startled sound of revelation and grabbed Bruce's hand to put it back, yanking him closer into a rain-soaked kiss.
They each went home sopping wet and filthy, cheerful and smiling like lunatics, feeling very clever and knowing Alfred and Martha would have no evidence anything had changed between them.
: : :
Martha Kent listened to Clark loudly singing Barry White songs in the shower ("Tell me, what can I say? What am I gonna do? How should I feel when everything is you?") and raised her eyebrows, pouring his milk. When Clark emerged in his bathrobe to plant a kiss on her cheek and announce that he'd had a fantastic morning and this was going to be a fantastic summer, she just shook her head and hid her smile.
: : :
Alfred Pennyworth brought the freshly-folded laundry upstairs to find Bruce sitting in the bay window, looking out at the torrents of rain gusting across the gardens. "Are you all right, sir?"
"Alfred," Bruce said. "How did my parents fall in love? Was it, you know, love at first sight for them? Or were they..." He frowned. "Were they friends first?"
Alfred put the laundry down on a nearby chair and sat down next to Bruce in the bay window. "Your father used to claim he fell in love with your mother at first sight, but she always laughed and said that was romantic nonsense. She said she thought he was ridiculous at first, but that over time she came to respect and like him, and then more."
"When did she realize she was in love with him?"
"She said she never knew, that there was no clear moment of revelation. 'Like how twilight shifts into night and you realize the stars have been shining for some time,' she said once. Your mother had a gift for words."
Bruce nodded slowly, staring out the window. "I see."
After a while Alfred patted him lightly on the knee and left him alone with his thoughts, looking out at where the storm was tossing the trees so the front light of the Kent bungalow shone out fitfully, like a star through clouds.
(Chapter 33)
Pairing/Characters: Clark/Bruce, Alfred Pennyworth, Martha Kent
Rating: NC-17
Warnings: None necessary
Continuity: The Gardens of Wayne Manor is an AU series in which Clark Kent and Bruce Wayne's lives intertwine at an early age. Click here for the complete series and series notes.
Word Count: 3900Summary: Bruce and Clark deal with Mannheim's thugs--and with the aftermath.
Clark felt hot sparks behind his eyes as they ran. The thug had pulled a gun on Bruce. It had been all Clark could do not to hoist the man above the skyscrapers of Gotham. Instead, he'd had to settle for freezing a patch of ground under his foot, giving Bruce time to scramble away.
He heard again the thwack of Bruce's hand hitting the goon's nose, heard the thud of Renee's rock smacking against the other one's forehead, and felt a crazy rush of exasperated affection at all the fragile, unspeakably brave humans who threw themselves into danger without heat vision or invulnerable skin.
"Help us!" screamed Renee as they pounded down the street. The bystanders who didn't simply turn away and ignore them merely looked shocked and vaguely concerned. No one raised a hand to help.
"This way," said Bruce, pulling them down a dark alley that looked much the same as any other alley. There was a chain link fence at the end, and Mannheim's men chortled as they closed in on them. But Bruce ducked to the left at the last second, where there was a small hole in the fence, just big enough for three teens. Not big enough for hulking thugs.
Renee didn't need any prompting; she scrambled through and the boys followed her.
"Here," said Bruce after a few more blocks. His breath was starting to hitch a little. "They'll be over that fence soon. Have to hide. Then get you to the police station."
They rounded a corner at a dead run and Clark saw a group of kids standing in front of a liquor store. "Tony!" called one of them. "You okay, dude?"
"Marc. We need a place to hide," said Bruce shortly.
"Sure, man," said Marc. He turned and gestured to a dumpster tucked into an alley; another kid threw open the lid. "Hop in."
The stench from the dumpster was agonizing, but there was no time to argue. Bruce, Renee, and Clark scrabbled in and the lid slammed down.
Reeking darkness closed around them. Almost against his will, Clark's sensitive nose analyzed each aspect of the aroma: banana peels, dirty diapers, rotting cabbage, semen-stained tissues, and beer mingled into an unholy incense. He could hear Renee and Bruce's shallow breaths near him. Without thinking, he reached out and brushed Bruce's arm. "Just like old times, huh?" he barely whispered.
Bruce grabbed his hand and squeezed it silently.
There were heavy, grating footsteps on the pavement nearby. "You kids see a couple of boys and a girl come running this way? All of 'em dark-haired, the girl's Hispanic, wearing a baseball cap?" growled a voice.
Sounds of animated conversation. "I was checking out that handsome guy in the Corvette, I wouldn't have noticed," said Marc. "Sophie, how about you?"
"No, man, I don't think anyone like that's come by lately."
"Look, there's a twenty in it for anyone willing to remember where they went."
"Wait, I think I saw 'em," announced one of the other boys. "Three kids, right? They ran by, took a left onto Washington. Or maybe--" He hesitated. "I mean, she didn't have a baseball cap, and--"
A growl of frustration. "That'll do," said Mannheim's man.
The kids launched into a discussion of the cute guy in the Corvette and whether he'd been actually cruising, whether he was likely to come back soon. After a fair amount of that, Marc said in a different voice, "Thanks, Ruby." He knocked lightly on the dumpster and opened the lid. "Ruby trailed them for a few blocks, she says they're safely gone."
They scrambled out of the dumpster. Marc held his nose, looking them up and down. "Jesus, man," he said to Bruce. "I hardly recognized you at first, but now you're looking like the Tony I know." He sniffed and mimed an elaborate shudder. "Smell like him, too."
Bruce cuffed him on the shoulder. "I owe you one."
"Don't be stupid," Marc said. "Go."
A quick jog and four blocks later, they stood outside the Gotham City Police Department headquarters. Renee was pale, her face uncertain. "I don't know..."
"I know the police can't always be trusted," said Clark. "But take the tape to Jim Gordon. Insist on Gordon, no one else. He'll listen. And he'll get you help. Won't he, Tony--" He turned and discovered he and Renee were alone on the sidewalk. After a moment, he smiled. "He's gone to keep an eye on your family," he said with absolute certainty. "Until the police get there."
"My family..."
"You can help them best by getting the police involved," Clark said. "Gordon will help you. I swear."
She nodded, her jaw set, and Clark watched her climb the steps of the building and disappear inside. Then he went back, retracing their steps, until he came to the Mireles house. Sure enough, there was Bruce on a nearby roof, watching the house, standing guard.
Carefully, quietly, Clark climbed to the roof to crouch beside Bruce. They said nothing, each of them merely nodding as their eyes met. Together they watched over the Mireles family until a police car arrived with Jim Gordon to take them to a safe house. Bruce sighed, a small sound like a weight had been lifted from him. They slipped from the roof before the police arrived to sweep the surroundings for Mannheim's man, and headed home together in silence through the deepening night.
: : :
Clark woke up to the sound of rain pounding on the windows, feeling well-scrubbed and satisfied. He'd taken a scalding hot shower the night before, scouring the reek of the dumpster off himself before his mother could notice. He stretched, feeling a smile on his face. He and Bruce had helped the Mireles family, hindered Mannheim's efforts to expand his influence into Gotham, and kept Cobblepot from going free before his time was up.
All in all, a good night's work.
As he pulled on his jeans, Clark wondered why he felt so much more satisfaction with last night's events than with almost anything he'd done with the Legion. Maybe it was because he had protected his home instead of some futuristic city or distant planet. Maybe because it was as Clark rather than Superboy.
Maybe because it was with Bruce.
It felt so natural, facing danger side by side with his friend. So right. Like pieces of a puzzle, coming together.
Clark shook his head, trying to banish that sense of certainty. This wasn't a lark like the Legion, where everyone had some kind of bizarre super-powers. Bruce couldn't shoot lightning, or go invisible, or shrink, or...bounce. Superboy was never going to charge into battle side by side with his trusty teammate...Gotham Guy. Or Orphan Lad. Or Billionare Boy.
He was rolling his eyes at himself (and mentally designing possible costumes for Billionaire Boy) as he grabbed an umbrella, tucked Foundation and Empire under his arm, and headed out to the gazebo.
As he passed the statue at the heart of the moon garden, giving it a friendly wave as usual, his steps slowed. Under the drenching rain he could hear the sound of steady, hoarse breathing, harsh with exertion.
He rounded the corner to see Bruce Wayne doing push-ups in the gazebo.
Bruce was wearing jeans and his Gray Ghost t-shirt, slicked tight to his body with rain and sweat His face was tight with pain, distant and rapt, unaware of his friend, the rain, of anything but his own endless movement. His panting breaths shrieked across Clark's nerves, tearing at him. There was a kind of ecstasy in Bruce's expression, a transcendent agony.
The umbrella dropped from Clark's hands and he was moving across the grass and up the stairs, too fast, but he couldn't slow down, couldn't bear it for another moment. "Stop it," he said, grabbing at Bruce's shoulders, feeling the exhausted muscles screaming beneath his touch, "Stop it, stop it, stop it."
Bruce tried to throw Clark's hands off with an impatient movement, flipping over onto his back, but Clark held on, as if he could somehow halt Bruce's headlong self-annihilation like he could halt spaceships and bullet trains. "What are you doing?" cried Clark into the thunder of rain on the roof, into the anguish on Bruce's face.
"I wasn't good enough," said Bruce. "Wasn't strong enough." His hands rose to shove at Clark. "I was weak. She almost died, I was weak and she could have died--" A sharp hitch of breath, "--you could have died--"
"Weak?" Clark didn't let go, couldn't let go. The rain was a constant drumroll in his ears, and he couldn't tell if he was going to laugh or cry. "Weak? You? The most amazing, impossible, stubborn-- You could never be-- not you, Bruce." His breath caught in his throat. "Bruce." The name came out deep with yearning, heavy with everything he had tried to hide and deny and couldn't any longer.
Bruce had gone very still, staring at him. Clark was suddenly very aware of the closeness of their bodies, his hands on Bruce's shoulders. He had one leg between Bruce's, and if he just leaned forward a little he'd be able to press against him...
Bruce shifted suddenly under him and Clark released his hold to let him go, to let him get away from the invasive, unwelcome touch. Bruce pushed--but he pulled, too, and somehow then it was Clark on his back, with Bruce leaning over him, his face no longer anguished and abstracted. Not at all.
"Clark," he whispered. It was almost a question. He moved his hips and Clark couldn't help it, he groaned out loud and arched up against the contact, feeling himself hard against his jeans, hard against Bruce's body. "Clark," gasped Bruce, his eyes falling half-closed. He pushed back against Clark, and Clark could feel--
Thunder and lightning didn't crack the skies open, but Clark couldn't have been more stunned if they had. Bruce's hands were bunched in his rain-splattered flannel shirt, and he rocked against Clark's body again, and he was as hard as Clark was, he wanted Clark to touch him.
He wanted him.
Clark's hands left Bruce's shoulders--he didn't seem to be doing it himself, he was still thunderstruck, still reeling--and went to his waist, pushing up the soaking t-shirt, feeling muscles and ribs under his hands, cool skin as he slid upward.
Bruce made a throaty sound in his throat and his head fell back. "Ah," he said, and Clark could feel his erection harden more, urgent between them. "You-- You--" Clark's hands shifted upward again, but Bruce halted them, shuddering. "You," he said like a revelation, and started unbuttoning Clark's shirt, his fingers oddly awkward and fumbling.
He shouldn't let Bruce see his body, Clark thought as if from very far away, as if underwater, with the rain all around them. Because there was no way it was the body of a high school nerd, he knew that. He shouldn't--
Bruce's fingers were on his skin, lower and lower with each button, and thoughts of secret identities fled Clark's mind entirely, leaving only a ravening need for Bruce to see him, to touch him, to--Oh God--
Bruce bent to lick one of his nipples and Clark bucked helplessly against him, a groan torn from his throat. "Yes," he heard his voice saying. He pulled at Bruce's t-shirt with clumsy, desperate hands, needing to get it off, needing to feel Bruce's skin against his.
Bruce made a breathy sound as he pulled Clark close against his bare chest, as Clark wrapped his arms around him. Clark's senses were stuttering with ecstasy, keenly aware of every single inch of Bruce's skin against his. Bruce rocked against him and Clark bit his lip hard as the movement almost sent him right over the edge. "Don't--" he gasped.
Bruce looked wildly at him, his silver-blue eyes almost violet in the dimness. "I'm sorry," he said, starting to pull back. "I just--I'm sorry--I won't--"
Clark grabbed him before he could get far. "No," he managed, desperate to explain, struggling for words. Everything seemed a new, foreign language. "If you do that much more I'll--I'll come," he managed.
The wariness lifted from Bruce's face, and an almost smug smile, touched with a sensuality that made Clark hunger to kiss it, replaced it.
"Is that such a bad thing?" Bruce whispered. His hand ghosted down Clark's chest and to his belt, slipping under the waistband. Clark's whole body jerked and he made a strangled sound. "I don't think that's such a bad thing," Bruce said. He slid a finger up and down the length of Clark's jeans-clad erection, then undid the button on Clark's fly. The zipper came down agonizingly slowly. "But I promise I won't do anything unless you ask me to," Bruce murmured.
Clark gasped and pushed up against Bruce's hand, but the touch receded before him.
"I promise I won't do anything unless you ask me to," Bruce repeated.
Words clogged Clark's throat. "Touch--touch me," he stammered.
Bruce smiled slightly. "But you said you'd come if I did that."
"Yes," groaned Clark. "Yes."
Bruce's fingers brushed white cotton--Clark wished he'd worn more exotic underwear, wished he had more exotic underwear--but didn't exactly touch. Instead he kissed Clark, hard and demanding, and Clark kissed him back as through he knew what he was doing, his body clamoring for more contact, more friction, more Bruce.
Bruce moved his mouth to Clark's ear, a sharp nibble on his earlobe. Clark could feel Bruce pushing hard against his hip, moving in slow, grinding circles that seemed almost involuntary. His hand was still hovering, not touching, and Bruce's breath was ragged in his ear.
"I want to make you come," he whispered. "I want to touch you and rub you and get you so crazy--" His voice caught and he shoved hard against Clark, jeans scraping together, "--Make it so you can't help it, you're so close, oh God, so close--" He was breathing hard, rocking against Clark, making small noises in his throat that made it hard for Clark to think at all.
"Please," Clark said. "I want it. Need it."
"You do." Bruce's voice was a growl of triumph, and then his hand was fondling Clark's cock through the white cotton, not gently, Bruce was touching him and Clark made a noise that was probably well beyond Bruce's range of hearing.
The breath in his ear was a ragged pant now, and the friction against his hip had gone from languorous to sharp, hard thrusts. "You're so hard," Bruce groaned against his cheek. "So good, you feel so good, Clark, my Clark--"
As if saying the name had triggered it, his whole body went suddenly rigid, his eyes wide with surprise and then with obliterating pleasure. Breath stuttered between his teeth, a rushing "Ah!" of shock as he rocked wildly against Clark.
It was the pure surprised sensuousness of his face in orgasm, as much as his strong and coaxing hand, that tipped Clark over the edge as well, and for a while there was nothing in the world but exquisite sensation and the sound of his own voice saying Bruce's name in turn.
Nothing.
: : :
Bruce lay across Clark's chest, feeling it rise and fall. He drew lazy circles across the damp white cotton with his thumb, savoring the shiver that ran through Clark's body at the touch. His own body was still ringing with the delicious aftershocks of his unexpected climax, and he felt more relaxed and comfortable than he had in a long time.
So it was a particular surprise when Clark sat up, avoiding his eyes, and zipped up his pants with a grimace, then started buttoning his shirt.
"Alfred and your mother never come out here while we're reading," Bruce pointed out. "We can...do what we want." What he wanted was to have all that warm, muscled skin up against him again. What he wanted was to kiss Clark for an hour or two.
"For now," Clark muttered indistinctly. "But you'll be leaving again soon, won't you? You're not staying here. I just think it wouldn't be...practical to get too...used to this kind of thing." He finished buttoning his shirt, looking resolute and unhappy.
"Are you ashamed?" Bruce asked without thinking, and Clark's eyes flashed angrily.
"No." He took a deep breath. "I've known I was attracted to--to guys--for a long time now. That's not it at all." He shook his head. "I just worry it'll mess up our friendship if we get physically involved and then..."
"We won't let it," Bruce asserted. "Besides," he added hastily as Clark looked dubious, "You're going to Metropolis soon for college, right?"
"In the fall, yes, but--"
"--Then I promise you," Bruce said. "I promise you that I won't leave again until you're gone. You can be the one to leave me behind this time, Clark," he said, hearing a pleading tone in his voice, unable to banish it. "That's an opportunity you can't pass up."
A smile flicked at the corner of Clark's mouth. "Bruce Wayne, that's the most insane bargain I've ever heard."
"It's the best one I have. Look, you know we're both leaving soon. Let's have one summer together and--and enjoy it."
"No strings attached?"
Bruce shook his head. "Don't be silly." He put a hand on Clark's shoulder and squeezed. "I intend to always have strings attached to my best friend. Just--no worrying about the future for a little bit." Almost against his will, he lifted his hand to brush a finger against Clark's earlobe; Clark leaned into the touch as if he couldn't help it. "I want you, Clark Kent," he said, watching Clark bite his lip. "I want to argue with you about books and prune roses with you and kiss you senseless and touch you--" His voice shook in a way it never had when practicing urbane seduction in Europe and he broke off, almost afraid to keep talking.
Clark's eyes were half-closed as he turned his head to let his lips brush the inside of Bruce's wrist. "Stranger in a Strange Land is a better novel than Dune," he murmured.
Bruce fought back a gust of surprised laughter. "That's--that's crazy talk," he said. "The ecological extrapolation alone makes Dune--"
Clark kissed the argument from his lips.
They lay for a long time, just kissing, the rain on the roof a counterpoint to the long, slow exploration of their mouths. After a time, Bruce pulled back and reached out to take off Clark's glasses. "I want to see your eyes again," he said. Alarm flicked across Clark's face, but then suddenly he relaxed and smiled, a bit ruefully. His unobscured eyes were the same startling deep-sky blue Bruce remembered, like a limitless horizon. "You're gorgeous," Bruce said, and they widened in surprise.
"Stop it," muttered Clark, burying his face against Bruce's bare collarbone. Bruce put his face against his damp hair and breathed in the scent of him, feeling Clark's tentative lips nuzzling his skin.
"I have an idea," Clark said against his shoulder after a long, quiet moment.
Bruce made an interrogative sound.
"If we get carried away with boyish high spirits and wrestle on the lawn a bit..." Clark paused and Bruce could feel his lips curl, "...our clothes will get soaked and muddy all over and Ma and Alfred won't notice any...specific stains."
Bruce pulled back far enough to meet Clark's laughing eyes. "Have you always been so devious, or is this a recent development?"
"I learned from the master," Clark said solemnly. Then he scrambled upright. "Can't catch me," he announced, bolting from the gazebo into the pounding rain as Bruce growled imprecations, yanking on his t-shirt and following.
He tackled Clark on the slippery grass, both of them sprawling together into a tangle of limbs and spray and mud, hands groping in something that was almost innocent play. Bruce managed to get a good hard squeeze of Clark's behind, and Clark yelped once in shocked, sincere protest, then made a startled sound of revelation and grabbed Bruce's hand to put it back, yanking him closer into a rain-soaked kiss.
They each went home sopping wet and filthy, cheerful and smiling like lunatics, feeling very clever and knowing Alfred and Martha would have no evidence anything had changed between them.
: : :
Martha Kent listened to Clark loudly singing Barry White songs in the shower ("Tell me, what can I say? What am I gonna do? How should I feel when everything is you?") and raised her eyebrows, pouring his milk. When Clark emerged in his bathrobe to plant a kiss on her cheek and announce that he'd had a fantastic morning and this was going to be a fantastic summer, she just shook her head and hid her smile.
: : :
Alfred Pennyworth brought the freshly-folded laundry upstairs to find Bruce sitting in the bay window, looking out at the torrents of rain gusting across the gardens. "Are you all right, sir?"
"Alfred," Bruce said. "How did my parents fall in love? Was it, you know, love at first sight for them? Or were they..." He frowned. "Were they friends first?"
Alfred put the laundry down on a nearby chair and sat down next to Bruce in the bay window. "Your father used to claim he fell in love with your mother at first sight, but she always laughed and said that was romantic nonsense. She said she thought he was ridiculous at first, but that over time she came to respect and like him, and then more."
"When did she realize she was in love with him?"
"She said she never knew, that there was no clear moment of revelation. 'Like how twilight shifts into night and you realize the stars have been shining for some time,' she said once. Your mother had a gift for words."
Bruce nodded slowly, staring out the window. "I see."
After a while Alfred patted him lightly on the knee and left him alone with his thoughts, looking out at where the storm was tossing the trees so the front light of the Kent bungalow shone out fitfully, like a star through clouds.
(Chapter 33)