Archive of Our Own

Whip-cracks of lightning ripped across the Gotham City skyline in accompaniment to furious crashes of thunder, and Clark Kent sipped his coffee as he stood out on his hotel room fire escape and watched the storm break over Gotham. The tempest had threatened all day, with a sweltering and oppressive atmosphere in the city that had even started to get to him. Now, as a stiff breeze began to stir the trash littering the alley and the first fat drops of rain began to fall, it looked like relief was finally at hand.

This being Gotham, of course, before there could be peace and comfort, a fierce and elemental battle had to be waged. As the rain swiftly picked up in force and velocity, one jagged bolt after another of lightning sizzling across the sky, Clark could tell this was one was going to be a real doozy. He would expect nothing less.

Eyes closed, Clark stood there with his face turned up to the storm and let the icy rain pour over him. His powers might come from the sun but there was an exhilarating charge in this storm that he could feel as it tingled through every nerve. It felt…good.

After a moment, though, with his hair soaked through and dripping, and his jeans and white t-shirt plastered to his body, he made a face at the ridiculous picture he must make and ducked back through the tall window and slid it shut. Headed for the bathroom and a towel, he stripped off the clingy wet clothing en route and hoped he wasn’t dripping too much on the carpet.

Changed into sweats and a fresh t-shirt, Clark toweled off his hair as headed back to the window. As his bare toes discovered some damp patches on the carpet, he used his heat vision to carefully dry them. Slinging the towel over his shoulder, he propped an elbow against the window and looked out at the storm. There was no sign of its calming down yet. If anything, it was still picking up intensity. A gust of wind rattled the window pane and he watched the rain cascade down the glass in sheets.

It was a good night to be indoors even if you were Superman. He hoped that went for Dark Knights, too; that Bruce was even now settled cozily in front of a fire at Wayne Manor. It was a comforting image and he expanded it to include Dick and Tim stretched out on the floor with their homework, while Alfred appeared with cups of hot cocoa and cookies fresh from the oven. It took a supreme effort not to add himself to the picture but he rose to the occasion. More or less.

Right about the moment he sold himself on the warm and fuzzy image, the Bat signal cut through the storm and he sighed. So much for that, he thought, and itched to suit up and go out to join Batman on this night’s patrol. Clark waged another formidable battle to subdue that urge, telling himself that Bruce would call if he needed backup.

The boys would, anyway.

Maybe,

He sighed and watched another streak of lightning tear across the city and wished the bats he knew were just a little bit less stubborn.

Better to apply himself to something more productive, he decided and made himself comfortable on the bed as he reached for his notebook. With the television turned to a local news channel to monitor the storm, he stifled a yawn as he read through his interview with Mayor Hill and listened to the weatherman explain that this storm was part of a system that had already moved through the Midwest and spawned tornadoes near Central City. Just as Clark was wondering if Flash could use a hand, Summer Gleeson broke in to report that Gotham P.D. reported a possible breakout at Arkham. Great, just great…

He cast a look at the rain-lashed window and bit his lip, longing to be out there, to help.

He listened to the city and filtered out the storm as he narrowed the wild cacophony of sound down to a handful of voices, Harvey Bullock’s suddenly rang out loud and clear:“Headcount’s in, Commish. The only nutcase not accounted for is Jervis Tetch.” “You double-checked?” That was Commissioner Gordon. “Triple-checked, Commish. We’re good.” “Thank God for that…”

Clark could second that. Jervis Tetch, aka The Mad Hatter, was only harmless when compared against the Joker or Two-Face, but that was a significant distinction on a night like this. Whatever schemes Tetch might hatch, it was unlikely anything would happen tonight. Although Clark made a note to keep an especially sharp lookout for the Mad Hatter during the remainder of his stay in Gotham because the only thing he hated more than Kryptonite was mind control—especially his propensity to succumb to it.

On the television, Summer Gleeson reported that the Arkham crisis was contained and talk switched back to the storm, with Biff, the weatherman, reporting that Gotham would feel the full brunt of the storm while Metropolis was spared even a sprinkle. Jack Ryder made a remark about Superman blowing the storm over to Gotham that was probably meant to be a joke. Clark was not amused.

He turned down the volume and went back to his notes. With a little luck, that might have been all of this night’s excitement. He suspected Bruce would remind him that luck in Gotham didn’t tend to run that way but Clark didn’t see the harm in a little optimistic wishful thinking.

Startled awake by a crash of thunder, Clark sat up in bed and looked around his hotel room. He scrubbed his face, certain the bedside lamp and television had both been on when he must have dozed off. He uselessly clicked the lamp a couple of times, though, before he slid off the bed and went over to pull back the window curtain and look out at the city.

While everything in the immediate vicinity was plunged into an even deeper darkness than usual, he could see the glimmer of lights just a few blocks away and breathed out a sigh of relief. He didn’t like to think of even Metropolis plunged into total darkness. A Gotham completely devoid of light was not something he wanted to dwell on at all.

A quick sweep of the area showed him that most people were in bed asleep and didn’t even know the power was out, and he let the curtain fall back into place. The instant he did, a shriek sounded in the hallway and he yanked his door open in time to see three scantily-clad young women race by, flashlight beams bouncing off the walls and ceiling. Footsteps pounded down the hall after them, and Clark was about to step out and confront two men as they chased after the women. What halted him was the way the women giggled and stage-whispered to the men. Surmising that there was about to be an orgy in progress (he hadn’t just fallen off the turnip truck), he hastily stepped back inside and shut his door—just as something thumped out on the fire escape.

As if on cue, another crash of lightning lit up the night and illuminated a dark, bat-shaped form silhouetted against the curtains.

“Batman…”

Clark hastily yanked back the curtains and opened the window, reaching for Batman as the other man swayed unsteadily on his feet. “You’re hurt!”

The way the pointy-eared cowl angled toward him, Clark was positive Bruce had just rolled his eyes at him.

“Come on,” Clark urged as he carefully hauled him inside and deposited him on a chair. “What happened?” he asked, heedless of the water that dripped onto the carpet now. That Bruce didn’t put up a fight and insist that he was all right had him a lot more concerned than any potential water damage.

“Roland Daggett and his goons,” Bruce said, pain laced through his voice. He shifted in the chair, teeth gritted against the discomfort he must be feeling. “The never ending battle, right?” He sighed and tilted his head against the back of the chair. Droplets of rain, beaded up on the cowl, slid down to fall upon his lips. Clark watched with avid fascination as the tip of Bruce’s tongue flicked out to catch them, lap them up as if he were thirsty.

Guilty, Clark grabbed a bottle of water from the nightstand. He cooled it with a light puff of air before he unscrewed the cap and handed the bottle to Bruce. “Here,” he said and pressed the bottle into Bruce’s hand, curling his fingers around it,

“Thanks.” Bruce pushed the cowl back before he raised the bottle to his lips and took a generous swig. He swallowed the mouthful and glanced at Clark. “Light would be good, and a first aid kit.”

Light? Clark blinked owlishly. “Lights. Of course. Sorry.” He remembered some fat, white candles in a drawer and located them easily, along with saucer-like holders and a small box of matches. He set the candles out on the dresser and nightstands, fumbled with the matches for an instant but then successfully struck a flame and applied it to each wick. Instantly, the hotel room was softly lit with flickering candlelight that altered the atmosphere to something cozy and intimate—and lightly scented with vanilla.

“Nice,” Bruce murmured with a faint smile. Then he moved again, to place the water bottle on the floor, and bit back a grunt of pain.

Clark took the bottle from him and eased him back in the chair. By the candlelight, he took stock of Bruce’s injuries. A bruise was darkening along one cheekbone and blood seeped from a cut along his jaw. More wounds corresponded to rips in the costume where Daggett’s henchmen had landed some lucky strikes.

“Aren’t you going to tell me not to x-ray you?”

“Would that actually deter you?”

“Probably not.”

“You already did it, didn’t you?”

Clark smiled, neither confirming nor denying. “Be right back,” he said and headed for the bathroom and the first aid kit.

Once there, he had to take a moment, though. He leaned against the counter, gripping the edge until he felt the granite start to crack and hurriedly let go before he broke it. That could be a little hard to explain. He made himself lightly rest his palms against the countertop as he fought to get his reaction to Bruce’s injuries under control. How did Alfred deal with this night after night? How did Bruce, when it was one of his boys beat up and battered?

Another moment and he nodded to himself—everything under control—and grabbed the first aid kit from the medicine cabinet. Back in the main room, Clark looked at Bruce over in the chair, long legs stretched out and arms dropping over the sides, black hair plastered to his head. He looked exhausted and vulnerable in a way he had never let Clark see before.

That meant something. When Bruce could have gone to Dr. Thompkins, or home to Alfred, he had come to Clark instead. Of course that might simply mean he was closer, Clark reminded himself, wary of reading too much into this.

It didn’t matter. Bruce was here, letting Clark take care of him, and that might never happen again. The last thing he wanted to do was risk fumbling things now.

“This all needs to come off,” he said and reached a tentative hand to the cape and cowl.

Bruce nodded and let Clark help him sit up straighter. Between the two of them, Bruce mostly directing, they got the cape and cowl off, with gauntlets, shirt, and utility belt to follow. There was a bruise on his left hip, along with a nasty scratch down his left thigh, but that could wait awhile. A half-naked Bruce, alone with him in this hotel room, was sufficient distraction, thank you very much.

“Where are the boys?” he asked as he snapped the first aid kit open and cataloged its contents. Bandages, packets of antiseptic wipes, tape, tweezers, gauze, pain meds—everything you needed in case Batman happened to drop by.

“Home, with orders to stay there.”

Clark tore open a packet and withdrew an antiseptic pad. He tried not to notice the way Bruce bit his lip against the sting as Clark cleaned the cut on his jaw as gently as possible. “You could have stayed there, too,” he said, but kept his tone mild. “Daggett could have waited for another day.” The battle might be never ending but sometimes he wished it would take a break and let them all catch their breath every now and then.

Bruce grunted a noncommittal reply. “You should use a butterfly bandage for that,” he said as Clark finished cleaning the cut and applied a careful dab of antibiotic ointment.

“I know.” Clark searched through the assortment of adhesive bandages and found the right one. “I learned first aid in the Boy Scouts.” His Scout Master, Mr. Zapprano, had never covered what to do about the queasy sensation you might experience as you took care of someone you were in love with, though. Instructions on how to keep it together, for instance, as you held a wound closed and fixed one side of a bandage in place, checking to make sure the edges of the cut were perfectly lined up and tightly closed before you pressed the other side of the bandage down, all while being intensely aware of the vulnerable, beloved life in your hands, might have been really useful.

Suddenly aware that he had been holding his breath, Clark let it out shakily as he fixed another butterfly bandage into place. All of the times he had faked feeling sick and about to faint and he was completely unprepared for the real thing as it hit him. He sank down to kneel beside the chair, breathing deep and slow, and all at once it was the most natural thing in the world to let his head rest against Bruce’s knee.

Maybe Bruce wouldn’t notice. Maybe Clark would only rest there for a second. Maybe…Bruce would touch him? Almost convinced he was imagining it, Clark closed his eyes against the sensation as Bruce’s long fingers stroked through his hair in a slow and steady rhythm.

“Anyone would think you were the one bleeding all over the place.” The words might have been a caustic reprimand. They weren’t, not at all.

Clark looked up. “I wish it was.” He ached to take Bruce’s pain into himself. To erase all the old scars and keep him safe forever. He could do so much but he would never be able to do that, not the way he wanted.

Bruce slid his fingers down Clark’s cheek. “I don’t.” He rubbed his thumb along Clark’s bottom lip, thoughtful, lingering as if this was something he needed to learn and store up. “But thank you.”

Clark rested his cheek against Bruce’s leg and let a few more contented seconds tick by. “Umm,” he cleared his throat, “did you want me to finish patching you up?” He tried to sound casual, as if nothing momentous had just happened…just in case it really hadn’t.

Bruce rested his hand on the nape of Clark’s neck, toyed idly with the short curls there. “That would be helpful, yes.”

Helpful; yes, that’s what Superman was good for, he remembered and tried not to be disappointed. He tried so hard he missed what Bruce said next and had to ask him to repeat it. “What?” He raised his head to look at him.

“I said,” Bruce cupped a hand along Clark’s jaw, “one of us needs to call Alfred.”

“So he can come pick you up?” That didn’t make sense. Why would Bruce want Alfred to come out on a night like this when he knew Clark could get him to the Manor in no time flat?

“No.” Bruce looked at him with amusement and exasperation—and maybe a hint of tenderness?—and said, “So he and the boys will know where I am tonight.”

“Oh.” Clark swallowed. “And where will you be?”

“Here, With you.” Then, an uncertain note in his voice, a guarded look in his eyes, he asked, “If that’s okay?”

If that was okay? “Bruce…” Clark rocked back on his heels and looked at him, pretty sure all the wonder and joy he felt was plastered all over his face. “Bruce, that is…way more than okay.”

Bruce nodded, solemn as ever, and raised an eyebrow. “So? The patching up?”

Clark smiled and got to his feet, reaching for the first aid kit again. “So, all this time I chased you and all I had to do was take a thorn out of your paw?” he asked as he got to work.

Bruce grumbled something indistinct but held still as Clark cleaned and bandaged the scratches along his ribcage. Sphinx-like, he murmured, “Would you believe me if I said I experienced an inspirational vision tonight?”

Clark gave him a skeptical look. “Inspirational vision?”

Bruce held out a hand; Clark took it and helped him to his feet. “Is the water running?”

Clark blinked at the non sequitur. “Umm, yeah.”

“Good.” Bruce headed for the bathroom, snagging a candle on the way.

“Bruce,” Clark caught up to him, “what do you mean, inspirational vision?”

“Hmm? Oh,” Bruce paused in the doorway, a cryptic smile on his lips, “it was earlier this evening, just as the storm broke. I saw an angel out on a fire escape, putting on a wet t-shirt show.”

“Wha…” Comprehension dawned slowly. Ohhh… “Umm.” Suddenly self-conscious, barefoot and in nothing but a pair of thin cotton sweats and an even thinner, albeit dry, t-shirt, he felt heat burn his cheeks. “You were watching me?”

“You were a little hard to miss.” Abruptly serious, Bruce leaned in close to whisper in his best Dark Knight voice, “Never, ever put on a show like that again for anyone but me. Got it?”

“I wasn’t--”

“Got it?”

Clark sighed. “Fine. I will never do anything like that again.” Honestly… “You do realize you’re trying to boss around Superman?”

Bruce faced him directly, an eyebrow cocked as if to say, And your point is?

This time it was Clark who rolled his eyes. He rapidly reviewed a number of replies, several of them with the potential to drastically derail what was starting here tonight. He settled for, “You know, you’re cute when you’re jealous,” and slipped past him into the bathroom. He could feel that intent gaze on his back and held his breath…and let it out again as Bruce followed him inside and put down the candle.

“I can actually wash myself, you know,” Bruce said as Clark turned on the shower and adjusted the water.

“I know. You have to be careful of your bandages, though. How’s that?” He indicated the water.

Bruce gave him a thoughtful look before he put his hand into the stream of water. “Little cooler,” he said, and nodded as Clark turned the taps just right. As Clark urged him to lean back against the counter so Clark could remove the boots, Bruce said, “I should probably warn you that if you’re hoping for hot and heavy action tonight, we’re going to have to take a rain check.”

“Rain checks are good,” Clark said. Granted, he had been momentarily distracted by the thought of heavy and action with Bruce, but like they said, the best things in life were worth waiting for. “Down payment?” he said. And where he got the courage to do what he did next, Clark would never know, but, on his knees before Bruce, he stretched up and pressed a kiss to Bruce’s stomach and felt as thrilled by the way the hard muscles fluttered at his touch as by the sharp gasp of surprise from Bruce.

Before he could even think about running away, Bruce hauled him up and looked at him. Clark had never seen Bruce on Christmas morning as he unwrapped presents, but Clark thought the look on his face right then might be the one Bruce wore when he pulled away all the bright ribbons and paper and discovered something he had wanted all of his life. He was pretty sure that same look was all over his own face.

“You…” Bruce touched his face, shaking his head as if he couldn’t find the words he wanted. “Come here,” he urged and pulled Clark close.

Their lips met in a kiss that felt like Christmas and the Fourth of July, and maybe that was hyperbolic but there were things in life, like the first time he flew or stopped a tornado, or kissed Bruce Wayne, that felt too extravagant for anything less.

“Down payment,” Bruce agreed as he pulled back, a smile on his face that Clark had never seen before. “So…” Bruce seemed to falter, as if he didn’t know what happened next, which was impossible because Bruce always knew what happened next, “Help me wash my back?” he asked, and made a face like he couldn’t believe he’d just said that.

Clark thought it sounded wonderful, though. “Love to.”

Bruce shook his head again, a rueful look in his eyes. He sighed and trailed a hand along Clark’s shoulder, down his arm to clasp his hand. “This isn’t exactly how I ever pictured this happening.”

“You pictured this?” Clark hadn’t thought it was possible to feel any happier. Clearly he had been wrong about that.

“Not exactly like this.”

Clark got the rest of their clothes off and maneuvered Bruce into the shower stall, careful of the bandages and the scratches he hadn’t seen to yet. “Was there going to be wooing involved?” He carefully soaped up Bruce’s back and rinsed it off. They hadn’t closed the stall door and the candle flame cast strange shadows over their bodies.

“Lots of wooing. “ Bruce caught his breath as Clark’s fingers traced a line down his spine.

“I’d hate to miss the wooing.”

Bruce turned in his arms. “I have a feeling something can be arranged,” he whispered as he angled in for another kiss. This kiss was deeper and longer, the warm water pattering down over them like an echo of the storm outside.

“I think I’m going to have to redo some of your bandages,” Clark said as they parted for a moment.

“Pity about that,” Bruce said and drew him back, clearly not at all concerned.

“How come I didn’t know you were ogling me out on the fire escape?” Clark asked. “And if you say, ‘Because I’m Batman…’”

They were in bed now, sleepy and cozy with the rain still coming down.

“What? You’ll what?” Bruce said, daring him, laughing at him.

Clark lightly ran his fingertips along Bruce’s flank, mindful of injuries old and new. “I know where you’re ticklish now,” he said, putting plenty of dire warning in his voice. That tone of voice could convince the most habitual of criminals who weren’t Lex Luthor to set themselves on a path to complete reformation.

Bruce gave him a look that wasn’t the least bit impressed, marred only by the enormous yawn that got in the way. “Dope,” he said, affection warm in his voice. “It would never cross your mind that someone might lasciviously gaze upon you.”

“Well it will now, thanks.”

Bruce yawned again and settled down against the pillow. “I’m going to sleep now.”

“Huh. So are all our arguments going to end like this now?”

“Only the ones that aren’t about you being boneheaded…”

Bruce stretched over Clark to shut off the radio. “That’s a stupid song.”

“Really? Some people might think it would be right at home on your personal soundtrack.”

“Not today,” Bruce said as he settled back beside Clark.

It was almost dawn, the candles melted down to hard puddles of wax as the sky grew lighter. The rain was still falling, but softer now the fury of the storm was finally spent, with the promise of a beautiful day ahead.

“Want me to hit the snooze alarm?”

“Not really.” Bruce slung a leg over Clark’s and made himself even more comfortable.

“Are we sleeping in today?”

Bruce looked at him, a glint of something cautious but hopeful in his eyes. “Do you have things to do and places to go?”

Clark smiled and kissed his cheek. “Not today.”

“Then yes, we’re sleeping in today.”

“Okay.”

“Okay.” Bruce managed to scoot closer and let his head rest on Clark’s shoulder, eyes drifting shut. Voice sleepy, he murmured, “I’ll start wooing you when I wake up.”

“I’m looking forward to it,” Clark whispered. Although, with Bruce asleep in his arms as the sun glimmered through the rain, he had a hard time imagining how anything could ever be better than this.