Archive of Our Own

The first time Batman took off his cowl, Clark lost the ability to speak, move, and process thoughts that weren't holy shit that's Bruce Wayne holy fucking shit that's-

"Bruce Wayne," he'd blurted out, mind racing. "You're Bruce Wayne."

Batman's glare still translated across gorgeous blue eyes, the set of his mouth somehow even more alluring now that he saw the strong jawline, the high cheekbones, the dark hair, ever so slightly grey at the temples.

"Are you going to have a problem with this?" the billionaire said, his tone implying that any sort of problem was far less than welcome. "Clark. Clark."

"Hmm?" Clark was shocked out of his reverie, blinking in shock as Bruce's hand descended on his shoulder, shaking him. "Wait. What-You knew my identity the whole time?"

Bruce Wayne sighed, grabbing his cowl and making for the edge of the roof. "Of course I did."

"Wait-"

"Later," Batman grunted, aiming his grappling hook for a nearby gargoyle. "Kent."

Once he was gone, Clark sat, bewildered, hovering just above the roof's edge.

"I am-" he said to no one in particular, "I am so screwed."

See, the problem wasn't really that Batman was famous. Sure, it was shocking-Clark could count on one hand the number of times Brucie had said something vaguely intelligible in his life-but he could wrap his mind around it. His partner, his co-founder, was rich, intelligent, and a celebrity.

So no. That wasn't the problem. Strange as it was, he could have handled that.

No.

The problem was Bruce Wayne. Bruce Wayne's perfect cheekbones, the dark blue eyes that beckoned from the front pages of a half a dozen magazines at any given time. The tousled dark hair, the hint of stubble on his jaw. The suits that cost more than his yearly-take home pay, the scandalous vacations and threesome rumors-

(Maybe he had a problem. Maybe he'd always had a small sort of...obsession with Bruce Wayne. Didn't everyone?)

He'd always had the utmost respect for Batman-they were coworkers in every sense of the word, and he admired the man for his intellect, his precision in battle, his preparedness. But if given a chance, three and a half minutes ago, to go back in time and choose absolutely anyone else to be under that mask?

He would have begged for it to be anyone else, Lex Luthor, Dick Cheney, hell, even Perry White-anyone but Bruce Wayne.

See, Bruce Wayne had been his first-well. Not a fantasy, that would have been too sexual. Object of focus, is how he put it to a hysterical Lois one day.

"Well, Clark, I can't say I'm not...surprised," Lois said, her chest heaving. There was a copy of People's Magazine in either hand, Wayne's face (and abs) splayed across the covers. "You have a straight crush on Bruce Wayne."

Clark ducked his head, praying that the rest of the bullpen would just turn around and go back to whatever they'd been doing before Lois had dug through his desk. He could feel their stares on his back, knowing his face was bright red.

"I don't have a crush," he hissed at her, making a half-hearted grab for the magazines. "I'm doing a story."

"You're an investigative reporter, Clark!" Lois laughed, keeping the covers well out of his reach, kicking her heels in delight. "Are you telling me the minute details of Bruce Wayne's love life are under investigation?"

A night on the celebrity circuit, boring rumor-hunting as usual. He'd turned to check in with the cameraman, and had almost been blinded by the sudden onslaught of flashes.

"Who's that?" he remembered asking, watching a pair of legs extend from the luxury sportscar. His stomach had plummeted. "Some oil exec?"

"You must be new," the cameraman muttered in between shots, frowning at him. "That's Bruce Wayne."

"He could be hiding something," Clark retorted quickly, pointing at her. "Abuse, STDs, political favors-"

"What the hell is all this noise?" Perry's voice roared over the bullpen, striking fear into everyone but Lois as the man himself strode out of his office. "Get back to work! Why are we crowded around like this is story time? You write the stories, for Christ's sake!"

Reporters fled in terror. Lois winked at him and opened her stupid, stupid mouth.

"Clark has a crush on Bruce Wayne, sir," she said loudly, "We were just discussing it."

"Kent," Perry said, pinching the bridge of his nose. He groaned. "Am I going to have to start putting up firewalls on the office computers again?"

"No," he said quickly, cheeks flaming, "Of course not! No! I would ne-"

"I better not be getting viruses off those damn porn sites again," Perry muttered, returning to his office and closing the door. "Damn Jerry and his sloth obsession-"

Lois was looking at him like she'd won the jackpot when he turned around. "What?"

"Nothing," she said demurely, wiping at imaginary dirt on her pantyhose. "I've just never seen you like this before."

"Like what?"

Wayne's face was perfectly symmetrical, his blue eyes brilliant in the light, but beauty had never been this shocking to him before. He couldn't describe it-something in his chest began to ache suddenly, the desire to reach out and touch almost too strong to bear-

Lois smiled. "Obsessed."

"I'm not obsessed."

There was a lengthy pause as she examined the two magazines in her hands, sliding over the half-naked pictures with glee.

"Uh huh."

He and Bruce-Batman-worked together without any serious problems post their big reveal. A hostile situation turned sour in Metropolis-no worries. Late night meet-up in Gotham? Perfectly civil.

But christ. Now that he knew, every interaction was a battle of wills like he'd never known. It took all he had not to-to crack, to stare a little too long at any exposed skin-to imagine what those hands looked like under his gloves, or what it would be like to touch his-

Honest talk: he'd been too horrified, too guilty to even think about touching himself since-well, since then. He'd never admitted it to anyone-only Lois, during the aftermath of a drunken attempt at sex one night at the Planet-but he thought about Wayne. Thought about those elegant hands, wrapped around him, a flash of white teeth-

But he couldn't anymore. Not when he lived, breathed in the presence of the man himself daily. It was wrong-dehumanizing. Objectifying. A betrayal to a man he'd now call his closest friend. Unforgivable.

He'd never felt attraction like this before. It made him sick. Every other man, woman, in between-nothing had ever touched him like this before. Nothing could hold a candle to the day he'd glimpsed Bruce Wayne for ten seconds, and now-

Now, he was confused. Lost. So, he did what he always did when strange feelings got a little too strange, and outsourced.

"Let me clarify," Jor-El said calmly, hands outstretched. "This kind of bond only occurs in matched pairs. There is no way for it to be...incompatible."

Clark was halfway through his second panic attack of the last ten minutes, hands on his head, attempting to rip out his invulnerable hair. "I'm bonded?"

"Yes," Jor-El frowned, looking statuesque, patient, all of the things Clark couldn't be at the moment. "It's perfectly natural-in fact, your mother and I met under fairly similar circumstances-"

"There has to be a mistake," he interrupted, waving a hand. "I didn't know who he was until a few days ago-and you're telling me I'm genetically inclined to jump his bones?"

"You've always felt fondness for him, have you not?" Jor-El asked, raising his eyebrows. "Something more than that, maybe? Your body knew, even before your mind did. This man is yours."

"I can't-I-this can't be-" Clark stuttered, looking anywhere but at his birth father, the ceiling of the Fortress so bright it dug into his brain. "He doesn't even really like me!"

"Let me phrase this correctly," Jor-El said with a sniff, "You met your bondmate, he is one of the most physically and intellectually capable beings on this planet, and you haven't claimed him?"

"He's human!" Clark protested. "He would kill me if I tried anything!"

Jor-El's glare could split steel. "If you feel the way you do-then trust me, he feels exactly the same right now. Perhaps worse, since he doesn't have the knowledge behind this process or why it is occurring. Just tell me one thing, son."

"What?" Clark asked, staring at the floor mournfully. "You sound worried. What?"

"Have you touched him?"

There was a pause, and then relief flooded through him. "No. No, I-"

Bruce's hand, descending on his shoulder, shaking him slightly. "Clark. Clark."

"Oh shit," he said, feeling the blood drain out of his face. "I did. I did touch him-on Monday, when he…"

Jor-El didn't look unhappy, but he certainly didn't look pleased. "Then there is no way to reverse the process. You will start...desiring him more, every day, until neither of you can stand it anymore-"

"F-uuuuckkk," Clark blurted out, sliding to his knees. "Fuck!"

"Stop swearing, Kal-El," his father said with a sniff, "You're acting rather dramatic." He considered this as Clark had another midlife crisis on the Fortress floor, a hand to his chin. "Though I was a competent actor in my younger days…"

"Alright," Clark said, springing to his feet a minute later. "I've made my decision."

Jor-El raised a brow. "Well?"

"I'm going to avoid him, keep any and all inappropriate feelings to myself, and pretend I feel absolutely nothing until it's the truth."

He'd never a seen a drier, more disappointed look directed at him in his life, and he'd been the recipient of many such stares from Batman before. "You are...serious."

"Absolutely."

Jor-El looked skywards. "Rao help me."

Operation Pretend Bruce Isn't a Hot Piece of Ass was well into its second hour when he answered his comm, leaving a frowning Jor-El and the Fortress behind in his wake.

"Superman," he said, flying across the Antarctic.

"I need your help with something," Bruce's voice was businesslike, the Batman growl subverting his words, and it was still the most beautiful thing he'd ever heard. "Meet me at the Watchtower when you're done."

He walked into the monitor womb to find Diana and Bruce going over a tactical plan on one of the screens. It wasn't uncommon to find the two of them planning something together-Bruce was a master tactician when he put his mind to it (which was always) and Diana reaped the rewards of his plans more often than not, adding to them in brilliant ways that made her unstoppable on the field of battle.

Today, though, Diana was standing over Bruce, her hair nearly falling into his face as she pointed at something on the screen. Her hip brushed against his shoulder, breasts an inch from his head-

Clark didn't realize his eyes were on fire until he almost burned a hole in Diana's head. He shut them immediately, horrified. A low rumble had started in his chest, too deep for human ears to detect. He wanted her gone. Out.

"Superman," Diana said, turning to greet him. She straightened, frowning as she must have detected the low rumbling. "I…"

"Good, you're here," Bruce grunted, unaware of the tension suddenly filling the room. He stood, grabbing a file folder and making his way to the door. "I need your help with this case. I think Luthor is planning something-"

Clark was behind him in a flash, following the vigilante with a pointed look at Diana, before he could stop it, possessiveness burning through him.

Mine.

Bruce doesn't comment on his flustered state, shoving handfuls of paper his way, muttering about Lex Luthor under his breath. Clark can't think, can't even see beyond where their hands brush ever so briefly as he takes the papers from the other man.

He doesn't-can't talk-so he sifts through the data at super speed, taking a break from Bruce's presence, Bruce's scent when it gets to be too much. He hands the papers back in less than a minute, not looking up.

"You were right. Luthor has some holdings you need to look into. I marked them for you. Bye."

He flies to his quarters in a blur, chest heaving. He's sweaty, his hands trembling slightly.

You will start...desiring him more, every day, until neither of you can stand it anymore-

"Right," Clark says to the empty room, hopeless. "Except I'm the one who can't think-"

No. You're better than this. Get it together, Kent.

"I'm fine," he tells the room, and he can't be sure, but somehow, the Watchtower's answering silence seems to sound doubtful. "Really."

His mother looks at him funny when he rushes down for Sunday dinner that night, but nonetheless hands him a teeming plate of pot roast without comment. He makes small talk about work, Lois, and anything but Bruce for an hour, shoveling pot roast into his mouth at three hundred miles an hour.

"Clark," she says, after he finally calls food quits, looking at his plate mournfully, missing Bruce's presence suddenly. "Are you alright?"

He looks up, blinking. "...uh, of course. Yeah."

"You don't seem...okay," she frowned, folding her hands. "You almost look sick, dear."

He stood, walking over to the mirror on the far wall. His skin was paler than ever, dark circles under his eyes. His pupils were blown, swallowing his iris in a sea of black.

"I'm fine," he said abruptly, turning from the mirror. "I need to go."

"Take some pot roast with you," she stood, hurrying to grab a container. He felt horribly guilty for a moment, and flew away before she came back, chest burning.

The physical symptoms of...whatever this was only worsened. Soon, he couldn't sit through a Justice League meeting without fidgeting, aching to touch Bruce. He bit down on his tongue every second he wasn't speaking, looking anywhere but his mate.

He snapped three pens in half alone during the meeting on Monday, splattering himself and a very-perturbed looking Diana with ink. Bruce had been lecturing the group on some new weapons modifications, full cape and cowl in place, and he still couldn't take his eyes off of him.

By the third pen, even Bruce was forced to acknowledge his awkwardness, looking up from his presentation. "Superman, is something wrong?"

"Nope," Clark said a little too quickly, refusing to even glance at the other man for fear of losing control. He's sweating, a strange sensation he's never had the misfortune of experiencing before. "Please continue."

Bruce grunted, diving back into the presentation without hesitation. Diana sent him a vicious glare, which he ignored in favor of staring at the ink spots across his hands.

He doesn't feel anything, a part of him whispered, terrified, look at him. He has no idea. No clue. You're alone.

I've always been alone.

It was true-a freak since he was a child, and even now, the paragon of virtue and bravery, and still-still a freak. Strange. Alien.

You could just take him, some part of Kal El whispered, growing louder. Grab him, force him down, take what's yours-

He stood, suddenly, the chair skidding out behind him. He heard the calls and shouts behind him as he left the room, his head spinning. He had been so close. He'd almost-

I can't. Never.

Whether conscious or not, he heard Bruce's heartbeat everywhere he went. The soft, steady thrumming nearly drove him mad as he abandoned the Watchtower at breakneck speeds. Leave me alone-

Three calls came into his comm, which he ignored. Eventually, the distance between him and the sun decreased, until he was close enough to feel its heat, willing it to burn this fever out of him.

(he could still hear Bruce's heartbeat, even his breathing, if he listened closely)

He had no conscious knowledge of how long he spent in the sun's orbit, drifting, his eyes firmly shut. Ages, decades, seconds later, a sharp pain ripped across his chest, forcing him from his trance.

Bruce's heart stuttered briefly with a significant drop in blood pressure, his respiration increasing dramatically. He was already halfway back to Earth before that had even registered to him, every nerve in his body standing on end, begging him to find Bruce, to protect.

He arrived in Gotham with enough speed to create a sonic boom, only managing to stop himself inches from the Hotel Gotham's facade. Bruce was on the third floor, in only shirtsleeves and a pair of slacks, fighting six men at once.

He was inside before he could even register it, eyes blazing. Bruce had a bullet in his shoulder, leaking blood as he grappled with the men. He took out two with ease, dispatching them with twin blows to the head.

Clark shoved the remaining four back with an arm, slamming them into the wall hard enough to knock them out. He grabbed Bruce and dove out of the building, flying as fast as he could to the cave.

He had Bruce on the infirmary table in less than a few seconds, windblown and dazed. Everything rushed in as they stared at each other, speechless.

"Grab me the tweezers," Bruce finally broke the silence. Clark handed him one wordlessly, still staring. "Clark. Earth to Clark…"

"You could have died," he told the human slowly, the horror of it edging his words. "Bruce. Do you have any idea how-"

The vigilante grunted, unbuttoning his shirt so he could look at the bullet wound. Clark could actually feel him psyching himself up to pull it out, and moved forwards instinctively, wanting to provide comfort. Bruce winced, digging into the flesh, and pulled it free after only two attempts, the bullet falling onto the floor, abandoned.

"Bandages?" Bruce asked, still ignoring his plea. Clark handed him a roll. "This will need stitches, but it looks like it'll have to wait."

"Why is that?" Clark asked, watching as the other man bound the wound firmly, rolling the bandages over and over again around his arm.

"You obviously have something you need to say to me," Bruce reminded him, tying off the bandage. "And also, Alfred's gone for the weekend-"

"They were going to kill you," Clark blurted out, defensive. "They shot you!"

"I had it under control," Bruce growled, looking more and more like his irritable self by the minute. He fumbled with the end of the knot, frowning. "Can you tie this off?"

Clark froze. Bruce's skin was right there, bare. Blood. Sweat. It was taking all he had not to leap forward and crush Bruce to his chest and now he wanted him to touch him?

"I...I can't," he said, forcing the words past numb lips. "I can't touch you."

"Don't be ridiculous," Bruce muttered, struggling with the knot still. "I'm literally right here."

"I can't," he said, backing up from the table as Bruce's expression twisted. "I'm sorry. I-"

"Don't you dare leave me alone with a bullet wound bleeding everywhere, Clark Kent," the billionaire warned, pointing a finger at him, "I swear to God if you fly away again-"

He was gone before Bruce could complete that thought, a blur on the horizon.

Jor-El looked on in reproach as he hid out in the Fortress, uncharacteristically silent. Clark barely noticed, too busy curling into an angsty ball in the center of the Fortress, trying to will some sanity into himself.

I can't do this anymore. I just can't.

He woke up, dazed, to hear the ship announcing an intruder. He looked up and saw Jor-El at his side, a curious expression on the scientist's face. Uh oh. That was never a good sign.

"Clark?"

His vision nearly went white as Bruce's presence hit him. He steadied himself with a hand on the wall, also an anchor to hold him back. Bruce was here. Bruce was in Antarctica-

"Clark," Bruce entered the room, eyes locking onto him immediately. He was wearing a heavy-duty parka, snow boots, and had a climbing axe in one hand. He looked ridiculous. He looked perfect. "And...your father, I presume?"

"Leave," Clark said, hating the order, and giving it nonetheless. Jor-El narrowed his eyes. "Now."

"No," Bruce said firmly, squaring his jaw. He dropped the axe, stepping out of the parka. "I don't think I will."

"You have no idea what you're getting into," Clark warned him, pausing as the other man began to advance. "What-what are you doing?"

"Walking around," Bruce said dryly, sending him a look as he moved closer, "What does it look like?"

Clark was trembling by the time Bruce was a foot away, his fists clenched at his sides. Jor-El disappeared with a wink over his shoulder, leaving them alone. Alone.

"Are you going to tell me what's wrong?" Bruce asked quietly, his eyes strangely soft, yielding for the first time Clark had seen them. "Or am I going to have to get closer?"

Clark closed his eyes, inhaling deeply, so deep it was almost painful.

"If you get any closer," he let his eyes open slowly, lazily, like a predator watching prey, "You won't walk for a week."

There was a twitch in one of his eyes as Bruce processed this, his face otherwise expressionless. "And if I told you I was okay with that, what would you say?"

There was a moment, an earth-shattering moment of silence. Clark's pupils dilated, arousal singing through his veins.

He had a hand on Bruce's shirt before either of them could speak, walking him backwards until he was pressed against the wall, hard. It had taken less than a quarter second; to Clark, it was like a blink.

"You're serious," he breathed, so close, their chests touching, their lips an inch away from each other. "You...feel it, too?"

"I'm giving the greenest light possible," Bruce said, glaring up at him, "And you wanna talk about our feelings?"

He crushed their mouths together instead, grabbing the billionaire by the back of the neck and tugging him up, grabbing his ass through his pants and yanking, all the while, the word mine, mine buzzing through his head. It was like he was drunk, drunk on this feeling-

Much, much, much later, as Clark rolled off of Bruce, onto his side of the bed, he stopped to just...breathe. He listened to Bruce's heart slow, a sated delight curling through his veins.

"You knew," he said finally, looking at the sweaty man beside him. "The whole time, you knew I was going crazy, didn't you?"

Bruce mulled this over, pushing Clark's arm over so he could lay across his chest. He tucked his head into the crook of his neck, shoving his nose there and inhaling. The gesture made Clark hum, content. "I was trying to figure out what was wrong with me the whole time."

"You?" Clark exclaimed, "You were ice cold! I heard your heartbeat-"

"I have biofeedback built into the suit," he murmured into Clark's chest, "And much better self control than you, I'm afraid."

"I nearly killed Diana," Clark finally realized, squinting up at the ceiling. "She must be so pissed."

"Pissed doesn't begin to cover it," Bruce replied, yawning. His hair was sweaty, so Clark pushed it down, smiling as he did so. "Stop touching my hair. I'm taking a nap."

"A nap?" Clark looked over at the bed stand. "It's noon."

"How do you think I got down here?" Bruce asked grumpily, "Not all of us have superflight, you know. Some of us have to take fourteen hours plane rides."

Clark tightened his arms, trapping Bruce in a hug the man had no hope of escaping. "Don't you dare leave me you stubborn, wonderful man."

"Not planning on it," Bruce said, muffled against his chest. "Besides, your mother called the Watchtower. Said she was worried about you, or something."

Ouch. "Did she now…"

"Mhmm," Bruce sighed, "I'd point out that you gave her the off-limits non-civilian line, but since I'm tired, I'll just yell at you later."

"I'm an idiot."

"Tell me something...new."

Clark reconsidered, feeling Bruce's heartbeat slow, his breathing perfectly even. "I'm your idiot?"

"Much better."