Archive of Our Own

Chapter Text

“Take a picture, it'll last longer,” Arthur says, and Clark fumbles his communicator in embarrassment.

“It isn’t- I’m just curious,” he mutters as he watches Bruce’s beautiful tail swaying behind him. The black and silver fur catches the light falling in from the Hall windows just so, and he can’t look away from its hypnotic motion. He itches to bury his hand in Bruce’s fur, to feel the soft strands for himself the way every other damn person in this superhero club has gotten the chance to do, but every time he even comes close to thinking about asking about it, Bruce asks Clark if he’s alright, or if he can help with something in the Cave, and then Clark’s nerves have fizzled out and he’s missed his opportunity, yet again.

“Seriously, man, just tell him you want to touch him.”

Clark tries to contain some of the horror on his face, but it doesn’t work, because Arthur still laughs at him. “Isn’t that a little presumptuous?”

“Worked for Barry,” Arthur says with a shrug. It has indeed; Barry seems to occupy his hands during every meeting now with Bruce’s tail, fluffing the long fur up and smoothing it back down while Bruce ignores it and continues giving his report like it doesn’t faze him at all. Clark tries not to even look at the sight so he doesn’t burn into an envious little crisp.

Bruce Wayne had caught Clark’s eye from the moment he stepped out of his car in Metropolis. It was impossible not to notice right away that he was feline, with his stunning tail the color of stardust, but the rest of him was quite commanding as well. However, his captivating appearance was quickly ruined by his condescending attitude, and then all the Luthor and Batman and Doomsday stuff happened, and Clark didn’t get a chance to appreciate Bruce’s assets again for a very long time.

After coming back to life and fending off Darkseid’s invasion, Clark finally saw Bruce outside the cowl and suit, and was starstruck by him all over again, but somehow his absence from the team and the world rendered him incapable of doing something that everyone else in the League has.

“It just feels inappropriate to ask a colleague to- to touch their body for the sake of my own personal pleasure,” Clark explains, his eyes still trained on Bruce and Victor talking about airship upgrades on the other side of the Hall. They’re looking at one of Victor’s projections, too busy to pay any attention to Clark and Arthur’s nonsense. Bruce's soft, fuzzy ears are tilted forward toward Victor, fixated on whatever he's saying. Clark feels irrationally jealous that they aren’t turned toward him, even though this conversation is the last thing he wants Bruce to hear.

“Yeah, if you put it like that. If you don’t make it sound like you’re trying to cop a feel, he’s going to say yes. I mean, unless that’s what you’re going for. He’ll probably still say yes-”

“Arthur!”

“Just saying,” Arthur says, grinning. “C’mon, you’ve been single for like a year now,” he’s kind enough to whisper, “and no one's gonna blame you for trying to bag a hot billionaire.”

“It's not like that,” Clark lies. Arthur's raised eyebrow tells him it absolutely is like that, and everyone knows it.

He hadn't even realized himself, at first. Clark hadn't been actively looking for a relationship after Lois, so the feelings that grew over time didn't even register as feelings until they almost literally smacked him in the face mid-battle.

One second he was in the air, and then he was on the ground, a little more than magically singed, with Batman frowning severely down at him as he dragged Clark out of the rubble and into the sun. The thought that he wouldn't mind being frowned at every day for the rest of his life if it meant Bruce would always be there occurred to his addled brain. It wasn't until afterwards, as Bruce shone a penlight in his eyes, his ears flattened into his hair with concern, that Clark finally realized what it all meant.

The desire to be clever and urbane enough to draw that rare smile from Bruce’s lips, the need to prove himself capable of whatever Batman and the others required in the heat of battle. The solace he took in meeting Bruce’s eyes across a battlefield or a crowded room. The peculiar ache in his chest whenever the world quieted long enough for Bruce to let out that sigh that softened his shoulders to slump just enough for the space between them to shrink from friendly to intimate. The satisfaction that thrummed so incandescently beneath his skin each time Bruce allowed the mask to slip long enough for Clark to see his amusement or frustration or gratitude.

It was strange to be in love again. To want to know Bruce as deeply as he could, to long for the chance to touch him as proof that they were occupying the same moment in time together, to burn for any scrap of his attention more than the minimum he was allotted due to their overlapping work.

It made him feel both vulnerable and reborn, like he was treading ground that had once been familiar, but was now grown over with foliage that made the path both wild and new.

So Clark mostly chooses to ignore it. It's for the best that way.

It isn't that Bruce dislikes him. At least, not that Clark can tell. He's pretty sure that Bruce has no qualms about making his negative feelings about people known. But Bruce doesn't treat him with quite the same comfortable trust that he does Diana. He isn't afforded the indulgence that Bruce gives Victor and Barry, nor given the kind of open frankness he shares with Arthur.

He never touches Clark except for strictly utilitarian reasons.

Sure, Bruce considers Clark an irreplaceable member of the team and seems to value his input and outlook. He’s cordial but dry, patient but prickly, generous but enigmatic. His door is always open to Clark even if sometimes he receives him with exasperation. Clark likes him best in those moments because that’s when he’s most honest.

Because Bruce is careful with Clark in a way that’s distinct from the precautions he plans for the rest of them. He remains always a little bit guarded, a tiny bit distant. Clark knows it isn’t fear or mistrust that keeps him away. Maybe it’s just that lingering awkwardness that some acquaintances never overcome, and Clark is too introverted himself to know how to surmount it. He’s not sure Bruce would ever let him.

But sometimes Bruce looks at Clark like he can't quite believe what he's seeing, like Clark is something fragile and terrifying and precious, and Clark wants to reach out and grab him, touch him. Tangle their hands together, skin to skin, and promise, fervently, that he's real, that he's here, that he wishes Bruce would stop looking through him at his ghosts and his regrets and finally just see Clark instead.

But he keeps his hands to himself. Leaves himself in perilous orbit because it's the safest place to be.

That’s the other problem. If Clark gets permission from Bruce to touch him, he’ll finally get a taste of the forbidden fruit, so to say. It’s going to make the temptation, the yearning, so much worse. Right now, he doesn’t know what he’s missing out on. Once he does, there’s no turning back.

At this moment, Clark is safe from the knowledge of what he doesn't have when he can’t run his fingers through Bruce’s fur, or kiss his cheek, or pin him to a bed, or—

There are just a lot of different fantasies in his head, okay?

It’s better never to know.

It’s easier to live like this, with his hypotheticals and his daydreams still intact, pristine and pure and forever out of reach.

Clark's made the casual acquaintance of a few felines over the years, so some quirks he has passing knowledge of, but no firsthand experience with. Heat, grooming, reversion — they're all terms he recognizes, but never thought about in much detail until Bruce came into his life.

Heat is something he tries to keep off his mind. The image of Bruce stripped down and presenting for someone, his skin flushed, his back arched, his hips raised...no. Clark is absolutely not going to follow that train of thought to its station of filth.

Grooming is something Bruce does casually during his downtime, smoothing down his fur and neatening his hair. Clark hasn't seen him lick himself yet, but that's only because he's never transformed in front of the League.

That is, until the day Bruce almost gets beaten to death by a giant robot.

In true Bruce fashion, he declines to mention the imminent death part until Clark zeroes in on his erratic heartbeat and labored breathing. His heart tells him to go help Bruce, but he gets snarled at to go finish chasing down the robot with the hostages.

“Go, Superman. I can handle myself,” Bruce says, and Clark has no choice but to continue onward, flying as fast as he can. He trusts his team enough to prioritize the civilians who need saving. Bruce has decades of experience; he isn’t going to let himself get overwhelmed without calling for backup if he really needs it. Still, Clark can’t help the unease that builds in his gut as he rounds up their enemies.

Victor helps Clark finish blasting the last few robots into pieces after Clark secures the people who were taken.

They hurry back toward the spot where Diana and Bruce were last seen, but she calls them over the comms before they arrive.

“Kal-El, Cyborg. Meet us in the cave. I am returning with Batman on the plane.” Her voice doesn't sound frightened, but there's an undercurrent of concern to it. Whatever she knows, she doesn't want to risk saying it until they're together in person.

“On our way,” Victor says, clapping Clark on the shoulder as they take off toward Gotham. Clark tries to steady his heart, knowing that if it were really that bad, Diana would've called him to carry Bruce back himself.

He doesn't know what to expect when he and Victor finally enter the cave — Bruce bedridden and bandaged, perhaps. But not this: Alfred, seated at the computer with a large mass of fluff curled up on his lap, his hand carding softly through the black and silver fur. Diana is seated across from him, a cup of tea in her hand and her eyes firmly fixed on what must be Bruce in Alfred’s lap.

“What happened?”

“He’s reverted,” Alfred says, and Clark looks at Bruce in alarm.

Reversion is an involuntary transformation, triggered in felines during moments of great stress or danger when keeping a human form poses more of a threat than being a cat. Unlike with transformation, reversion causes felines to go into full survival mode, their higher brain functions suppressed in favor of instinct and heightened senses. Most felines report memory loss of the time they spend reverted, and an inability to voluntarily transform back until they were certain they had escaped danger. Oftentimes felines remain reverted for a day or two even after reaching safety, in order to gather the energy needed to transform back.

“It must have happened after he cleared the street,” Diana explains. “He was leading his assailant away from the crowds, at his own expense; after setting his explosives, I think his body did the only thing it could to get him unpinned before the detonation. I found him like this, circling the remains of the machine and his suit.”

“Has this happened before?” Victor asks, scanning Bruce’s newly revealed form.

“More often than Master Wayne is happy about, but so it goes when one puts oneself in harm’s way every night,” Alfred sighs. “He’s trained himself to push his threshold for reversion, preferring to get half-killed instead, but I think he allowed himself to let go this time knowing one of you would come to his assistance. Having the League has done wonders for my nerves, I can tell you that.”

As if cognizant of their conversation, Bruce lifts his head and engages in a wide yawn that scrunches his adorable face. He noses against Alfred’s hand for a moment and then leaps down to the floor, his bushy tail sweeping behind him. Glancing briefly at each of them in turn, he eventually trots over to Diana, and Clark tries not to feel disappointed about it. They’ve always shared a special connection, and he probably remembers her taking him from the battle wreckage.

“Hello, my friend,” she says warmly, running a hand down his back. Bruce rubs his head against her leg and then steps neatly away, coming to examine Victor instead, who crouches down to see him.

“You’re going to be so annoyed about this later,” he says when Bruce presses a paw to his leg. He’s careful with his metal fingers, scritching very lightly at the fur on Bruce’s chest. “So he’s running purely on instinct at this moment?”

“More or less,” Alfred answers. “He recognizes people and places he considers safe, but he may be skittish still. Oftentimes he finds somewhere dark to hide until he is ready to transform.”

“So nothing too out of the ordinary for Bruce,” Clark comments. Victor chuckles and makes to lift Bruce into the air, but he dances out of reach, finally padding toward Clark with his white-socked paws.

Clark, having waited for this moment for lord knows how long, finds himself overwhelmed by the prospect of finally getting the chance to touch Bruce. He simply stands there and watches as Bruce peers curiously up at him and then does the unthinkable and paws at Clark’s leg.

“Um,” Clark says stupidly as Bruce bats at his shin for another few seconds, before he lowers himself to sit on the floor. With an unsteady hand, he reaches out to feel that luxurious fur, but before he can run a hand down Bruce’s back, Bruce leaps up and into his lap. Unable to process this, Clark remains frozen as Bruce circles around several times, soft paw pads pressing into Clark's calves, before he finally settles down into a fluffy loaf. Satisfied with his new spot, Bruce lowers his head and begins dozing again.

“Ah, he’s playing favorites,” Diana says, smiling when Clark sends her a baffled look.

“What should I do? Is it alright for him to be sleeping so much?”

“It’s quite normal. He’s recovering the energy expended in the reversion. As for you, Master Kent, do not feel obligated to remain here. You can place him on the floor-”

“No,” Clark says hastily, before following up with, “I don’t want to disturb his rest.” Moving Bruce now that he’s settled peacefully on top of Clark is inconceivable.

“Then you might be there for quite some time. I’ll bring down some refreshments.” Alfred excuses himself to the lake house, and then Clark is left with Diana and Victor watching him with amusement.

“So you’re not allergic to fur,” Victor comments.

“No, not at all.”

“Gotcha. So there’s some other reason you two never touch each other.”

Diana laughs when Clark gives them a startled look. “I...hadn't realized you noticed.”

“It's not like either of you are obvious about it, but it also stands out when you don't do it with anybody else. Not that Bruce is exactly the touchy-feely kind.”

“But he is much more reserved with you, and you with him,” Diana agrees. “Just a habit that the rest of us have seen.”

“Do you think he’s noticed?” Clark asks, and Diana makes a sympathetic face.

“I think there are few things about you he doesn’t know,” she says, and Victor snorts.

“Except the big one, of course.”

It isn’t hard to guess what he’s referring to, and Clark sighs. “He’s bound to figure it out eventually, but until then, I’m going to try not to think about it.”

“We respect that choice, but thinking about it could bring about better results than you expect,” Diana says gently.

“I’d rather not test my luck.” He rests a hand along Bruce’s back, stroking his soft, warm body. To his surprise, Bruce doesn’t tense or flee. Instead, he wiggles in place under Clark’s touch and begins making a gentle rumble that Clark registers as purring. Clark feels obligated to continue petting.

“Why, would you look at that,” Alfred comments as he re-enters the cave, and sees Clark sitting there like a fool, unable to move for fear of putting an end to the happy sound.

“Looks like Clark might want to stay over,” Victor suggests, as Alfred hands out cups and a plate of gingersnaps.

“Oh, no, I don’t want to impose. I’m sure Bruce will grow tired of me soon.”

Diana, sensing that he’s growing flustered, thankfully changes the subject. They discuss Victor’s work mapping the electronic systems not yet accessible to him and the latest antiquities that Diana’s been studying, and pass the next hour in pleasant conversation while Bruce naps in Clark’s lap.

Victor heads out to go check on something in Gotham that’s pinged his sensors, and Diana decides she should return to try and tie up some loose ends at work before the weekend. This leaves Clark with a lap full of drowsy feline and Alfred looking at him with too much knowledge in his eyes.

“It would be no trouble to make up the guest room for you,” Alfred says, but Clark shakes his head. He’s already stayed here too long, indulged his desires too much. He carefully stands, lifting Bruce with gentle hands to place him on the floor.

“Thanks for the offer, but I’d best be getting back too. Let me know when he changes back?”

“Of course.”

Alfred sees Clark out, Bruce trotting after them on his little white paws as Clark walks onto the driveway. He waves goodbye and then lifts slowly into the air, intending to take a leisurely route back. He’s a few yards off the ground before he notices the slight weight on his cape and the horrified noise from Alfred down on the ground. Glancing behind him, he realizes that Bruce has his claws dug into his cape, and is dangling precariously from it. Clark quickly swoops him into his arms, and heads back to solid ground, but Bruce yowls miserably against his chest as he lands. This would surely be an argument were Bruce still humanoid at the moment.

“I have no idea what’s gotten into him.”

“I do,” Alfred says, glaring at his wayward employer, who shamelessly licks his own paws, unaffected by Alfred’s admonishment. “I understand if you cannot stay the night, but perhaps it would be best if you brought Master Wayne home with you if you must return to Metropolis.”

“I can't- I mean, I shouldn't,” Clark says, even though he can't bring himself to outright refuse.

“Master Kent,” Alfred says, his tone firm but not unkind. “Let me assure you that if you are refusing for Master Wayne’s sake, he has likely never been more honest with you than he is now.”

Clark looks down at the soft body curled up against his chest and feels a tender warmth that he’s been too nervous to acknowledge. Even as a cat, Bruce is still himself. If he normally feels even half as attached to Clark as he seems to now, then maybe Bruce does more than tolerate his presence. Maybe he likes Clark more than he’s been letting on.

“I won’t be home for most of the day,” he hedges one last time.

“That won’t be a problem. Simply leave a window open and Master Wayne will occupy himself while you’re away. The only thing you need to be aware of is that he can still ingest human food while transformed.”

Although his brain tells him to hand Bruce over to Alfred, his heart fiercely refuses.

“Alright,” he finally says. “But he’s going to be in for a hell of a surprise when he transforms back.”

“He often is,” Alfred says crisply, his eyes bright with amusement. “But perhaps this time the lesson will actually stick.”

The first thing Clark does upon returning home with Bruce is to set out a shallow bowl for water. He has no food bowl or litter box or any of the other supplies that a cat might need, but then again, felines aren’t often in their cat forms for extended periods of time, so he hadn’t wanted to bother Alfred for supplies.

While Clark was flying, Bruce had stayed obediently huddled up against his chest, his head resting against Clark’s heart. But now that they’re back at his apartment, Bruce instantly abandons Clark to cautiously explore the new space, ignoring Clark’s questions about whether he’s hungry or not.

“Always a great conversationalist,” Clark says as he cracks open the window by the fire escape so Bruce can go outside at his own leisure. He puts on his civilian clothing while Bruce trots around the living room, and then follows his teammate around as he wanders the kitchen, the bathroom, Clark’s bedroom.

Clark makes idle one-sided chit-chat about his place, knowing that Bruce likely won’t remember any of it when he changes back. Bruce noses around Clark’s couch, his sink, his bookshelves. He settles onto Clark’s bed after his self-guided tour, curling up in a ball of fur right in the center, and peers with his dark eyes at Clark, who perches on the edge of the bed next to him.

“I don’t have a separate bed for you either, so we’ll have to share. I’d apologize for the poor lodgings, but you chose to come along, so don’t complain when you turn back,” Clark says, taking a chance on petting Bruce’s head again. Bruce meows softly in response, blinking slowly at Clark, who would love nothing more than to sit here transfixed for the rest of the day. Sadly, duty calls.

“I hope Alfred was right about you amusing yourself. I’ve gotta get back to the Planet, but I should return before nightfall. I’ll leave some food out for you. Don’t follow me, okay?”

Bruce rubs his face against Clark’s palm in what seems to be agreement, and remains seated on the bed when Clark exits the room. He puts out a plastic plate of random leftovers: two sausage links, some spinach, and rice pilaf. Before leaving, he can’t help but peek into his room one more time to check on Bruce.

Sensing his presence, Bruce lifts his head to peer at Clark, and Clark gives him a brief wave. “See you soon. Lunch’s in the kitchen.” He hurries out of the apartment before he can be tempted not to go into work at all.

Clark has to crunch to meet all of today’s deadlines, having been occupied for the better part of the morning. At least he got some work in before getting called to the robot crisis. He skips going to dinner with Lois when he’s finally free that evening, worried about what Bruce might’ve gotten himself into while he was away.

Bruce’s heartbeat as a cat isn’t quite the same as when he’s human, but Clark made sure earlier to commit it to memory, which works out for the best because Bruce is five blocks away from Clark’s apartment when Clark returns. He tracks Bruce to the back of a convenience store, where he seems determined to scratch up a man. Even as a large ball of fur, the Batman is a bit of a terror. There’s a young woman on the ground, and Clark doesn’t have to think twice about settling that situation if Bruce already has his claws out.

With Bruce tucked under one arm, Clark deals with a few more minor problems on his way back home, his work accompanied by some rather opinionated meowing. The sound subsides when Clark gets home and stir fries himself some rice. Bruce follows him around the kitchen, leaping up high to weave delicately between Clark’s dishware, before sitting on the table behind Clark to groom himself while he waits imperiously for Clark to feed them.

“Your dinner, Master Wayne,” Clark says as he places Bruce’s dish in front of him with a flourish. Bruce gives him a painfully familiar look despite his much fuzzier face, and begins to carefully eat his rice alongside Clark. He sharply bats Clark’s hand away each time he reaches over to try and help by pushing the rice back into a mound.

Clark is surprised enough that Bruce is willing to dine with him, but when Bruce climbs back into his lap on the couch after dinner, he just thanks his lucky stars that he gets to see this unusually clingy side of Bruce. Although he resists at first, he inevitably ends up resting his hand on Bruce’s back as they watch the television, occasionally stroking his tail or letting Bruce rub his face gently against his knuckles.

“I don’t think the Genoise was the way to go,” he tells Bruce as they watch bakers hurrying around on screen, trying to whip their cakes into shape before time runs out. Bruce purrs in agreement, making his own biscuits in the meat of Clark’s thigh. Like this, they pass the evening in peace, though Clark does have to fly in and out to handle a handful of emergencies.

When it’s time for him to turn in for the night, he expects Bruce to curl up somewhere on the bed as well, so he puts a pillow down beside his own.

“Not sure if you prefer a firm or soft surface, so I’ll let you make the choice,” Clark says as he slides under the covers. Through the dark, he can see Bruce pacing the bed, whiskers twitching as he tries to find a suitable place to sleep. Eventually he walks right over Clark’s face to burrow beneath the covers until he’s situated on Clark’s chest again.

“Really?”

Bruce shifts around until he’s made himself comfortable, and then shuts his eyes. Case closed. Discussion over.

He weighs nothing to Clark, so it isn’t like he minds, but in this moment he can’t help but think — like he has been all night — about what life would be like if Bruce could be this affectionate normally.

If Bruce were human now, he would be spooned up against Clark. His hair would be tickling Clark’s throat, his arms wrapped tight around Clark as he dozes. He would have eaten dinner with Clark, spent the evening with him, gone to bed with him.

Every single one of their interactions tonight would have been previously unthinkable, and are still beyond Clark’s scope of belief when he thinks of Bruce doing any of them as a human. And yet they happened. Without the roadblock of Bruce’s complicated brain and guilt complex and myriad of other emotionally stunted excuses, this is what he does: he follows Clark home. He curls up against him like personal space is an alien concept.

He trusts Clark enough to allow himself to be cared for in his most vulnerable state.

“Tell me it means something,” Clark murmurs at him, but Bruce is already asleep, his furry little head resting on Clark’s chest. “Be this honest with me when you change back,” he whispers as he closes his own eyes. “Give me the chance to prove it means something to me too.”

Clark wakes slowly, sunlight trickling in through his cheap blinds, the weight on his chest and thighs warm and soothing. His eyes open to the sight of soft feline ears poking out of silver streaked hair at the hem of his blanket. Bruce, he realizes, has become human again.

He tries not to tense, but the slight movements of his body beneath Bruce’s must be enough to wake him because a jolt runs through his skin and he jerks upward, the covers falling off him as he stares down at Clark with suspicious blankness. He’s beautiful in the morning light, eyes dark and his hair rumpled, arms braced around Clark like they’re lovers and not whatever the hell this is.

“Mornin’,” Clark says weakly, listening to Bruce’s pulse jump wildly before it returns to resting rate.

“This isn’t the lake house,” Bruce says as he rolls off Clark, which is for the best, because Clark is quickly becoming extremely cognizant of the fact that Bruce has no clothes on.

Bruce was sleeping on him. Naked.

Clark quickly turns to stare resolutely at his wall as he replies, “No, we’re at mine. You reverted during the fight yesterday. Welcome back.”

“How long was I under?” Bruce asks, his tone all business but his voice deep and scratchy with sleep. God.

“About a day,” Clark says as he hops off the bed. There’s no way he can fall back asleep now. He strides over to his dresser to find Bruce some clothes. “Why don’t you take a shower first while I fix us some breakfast? I’ll leave clothes for you on the bed.”

“Alright.”

Clark waits until he hears Bruce behind him walking into the en-suite and then he rustles up an old t-shirt, boxers, and pair of sweats to put on the bed behind him. He hears the sound of the shower starting up and a gusty sigh escapes his throat. It’s been two minutes and everything is already more stilted than it was yesterday.

He has some regrets about not getting the chance to brush his teeth while he prepares an omelet. He also has some regrets about not being more sufficiently prepared for how to ask Bruce about his feelings without immediately causing him to shut down. But there’s no avoiding it. Bruce is a master at dodging things he doesn’t want to deal with, and Clark is pretty certain after yesterday that the distance between them has been quite intentionally maintained from both sides all this time.

Clark, because he feared what it would mean to open the floodgates to his feelings. And Bruce…well, if Clark could have it his way, for the same reason.

He finishes plating their omelets and pouring them each a mug of coffee right as Bruce pads into the room. For such a large man, he walks nigh silently, his footsteps kitten-quiet even on human feet. While Batman’s movements range from brutal efficiency to sleek, purposeful strikes, he usually carries himself with feline grace as Bruce.

“Thanks for the shirt,” he says gruffly.

“No problem,” Clark replies, even though it's definitely a problem.

Bruce isn't that much larger than Clark is, and yet somehow the stretch of Clark's t-shirt across his chest is obscene. The sleeves are tight around his arms, and his nipples tent the fabric just slightly; Clark has to look back at their mugs to resist doing something stupid.

“I made adjustments to the boxers and pants. I'll buy you new ones.” Bruce takes a seat next to Clark, his tail swishing from the holes he tore through Clark’s clothes. Clark has the urge to reach out and stroke it the same way he has for the last day, but now it feels like a very bad idea.

“Thanks, but that’s not really-”

“You’re getting new clothes.” His voice doesn’t leave much room for discussion, so Clark gestures at his utensils as a sign he can start eating. While Bruce picks up a fork to prod at his eggs, Clark zooms to the bathroom to speedily brush his morning breath away. He returns to see Bruce give a little nod at his plate before cutting himself another bite of omelet, which is flattering. Even if the rest of this blows up in Clark’s face, at least Bruce can tolerate his cooking.

Clark lets them eat in silence for a few minutes before trying for conversation.

“Do you remember anything about yesterday? I heard that with reversions, people usually aren’t fully aware unlike during a normal transformation.”

“It’s a blur,” Bruce says. “I remember finding Diana, and being brought to Alfred. I remember seeing you and thinking you were my best chance for survival.” His gaze flits away, tail stirring in unrest, but he doesn’t look annoyed, just a little embarrassed. The admission is startling, even despite Clark’s hopes.

“Even over Alfred?”

“You were infinitely less likely to force me to eat awful health food.”

“I wouldn’t have thought that my leftovers were preferable.”

Bruce shrugs, casual, offhand, artifice written in the line of his shoulders. “You were a safe choice.”

“You trusted me,” Clark says, willing himself to say it as a statement and not a question.

Bruce lowers his fork to look at Clark, his expression slightly curious. “I always trust you.”

As reassuring as that sentiment is, it’s not what Clark is looking for.

“But you’re not open with me. You’re not open with many people, I know, but you’re especially distant with me. Except yesterday.”

Bruce’s expression closes up into steel as he undoubtedly begins spinning excuses to tell, so Clark pushes on first. It’s time to meet this face on.

“It was a nice change. Being able to hold you, talk to you. I’d like it if we could both allow ourselves to let our defenses down around each other, just like last night.”

“Clark,” Bruce says slowly, condescending, and god it’s like their first meeting all over again, but this time Clark has the foresight to look beneath all his infuriating, obfuscating layers to the well hidden vulnerability at his core. “You know I don’t remember any of that. I imagine I turned to you in search of safety, but the rest was just the feline instincts talking.”

“You’re not just saying that to avoid facing what it means that you didn’t want to leave my side?” Clark watches as a hint of fear flickers through Bruce’s eyes. “That you were ten times more eager to touch me than you normally allow yourself to be? You were pretty insistent about sitting in my lap and sleeping on my chest. Not that I minded.”

“You’re insinuating something that’s going to be hard to walk back-”

“Let me stop insinuating and cut to the chase then. I brought you home, made you dinner, and took you to bed. You know what that sounds like to me? It sounds a whole lot like a date.”

“You’re delusional. I was a fucking cat the entire time-”

“Well, next time you won’t be. That’ll fix the problem. Bruce,” and Clark drags his chair around the table so that they’re now seated almost uncomfortably close to each other, “I’m going to need you to meet me halfway here. I know you think I’m a soft touch, but I don’t let just anyone in like this. That fact that it’s you– I want to share so much with you, but I don’t know that I can handle it if you won’t open up with me in return.”

Bruce’s ears flatten as he asks, his voice strained, “And if I can’t?”

“Then I’ll learn to accept it. I’ll move on. It isn’t like I want to punish you for not returning my feelings. But yesterday meant something to me. And I was hoping it meant something to you too. Someone told me that, if anything, reversion made you more honest.”

“Alfred,” Bruce mutters. He runs a hand through his hair, looking at Clark in resignation. “Did I embarrass myself?”

“Not at all. You were sweet. Affectionate. It was a lovely surprise. It would be even better if I could experience it again.”

Bruce glances down at his hand, resting on the table centimeters away from him. His pulse is ever so slightly elevated as he meets Clark’s gaze again. “Are you asking me on a second date?”

“Would you agree to one if I did?”

“Yes.”

It takes Clark a moment to register Bruce’s answer, thrown off by his sincerity.

“Alfred wasn’t lying,” Bruce says as Clark tries to recover. His tail sways gently back and forth, the fur catching in the sunlight. His mood seems to have improved after catching Clark off guard; maybe it’s the assurance of knowing he’s not the only one on uneven footing here. “Yesterday was a haze. But I do remember one thing, because it always holds true, no matter my form. I remember that wherever you were, that’s where I wanted to be. And it seems that I didn’t have the self-control not to show it.”

“I didn’t have the self-control not to capitalize on your newfound transparency, so I suppose that leaves us in the same boat.” Clark wants to tread carefully, scared to corner Bruce and send him into hiding. “I want to give whatever this is a chance. I want to show you that it isn’t a mistake for us to let each other in. I know you might have hesitations about us-”

“You aren’t the half of the equation that I take issue with,” Bruce interrupts. “I’m difficult, Clark. I’m sure you’ve noticed. So it should be no surprise that I don’t have a great track record holding onto the people I…care about. We already lost you once.”

The unspoken I can’t lose you again strikes right at Clark’s heart.

“And then you brought me back. I can’t promise I won’t go anywhere, but I can tell you that I want to stay. As long as I can, for as long as you’ll have me.”

“You should know better than to set such broad parameters,” Bruce says, but the excited flick of his ears betrays him. “Men like me always take advantage of offers like that.”

“Please do,” Clark says, smiling when Bruce’s lips curve upwards on his sigh. Clark moves his hand so that it rests delicately atop Bruce’s own. Bruce doesn’t pull away. “I’m serious. Let me take you out again. Properly, this time.”

“I haven’t even left your place, and you’re already thinking ahead?”

“I’m an optimist. Besides, you don’t even remember 95% of our first date. I deserve a do-over.”

After another few heartbeats, Bruce acquiesces. “Fine, but it’ll be on me. It’s the least I could do after yesterday.”

“Alright, not that it was any real burden. You’re a lot sweeter as a cat,” Clark teases, and Bruce raises an eyebrow.

“Were you expecting me to sit on your lap?”

“Eventually, sure.”

Bruce’s palms flatten against the tabletop as he stands, and then he’s walking over to Clark, those hands now pressing into Clark’s shoulders as he climbs onto Clark’s lap, his broad thighs straddling Clark’s own. His brown eyes stare down Clark’s in challenge, trying to read his sincerity. “Is this what you were hoping for?”

Clark stares, wide-eyed, as Bruce’s tail flicks teasingly against his bare arm. His hands come to settle naturally on Bruce’s hips, holding him in place so he doesn’t slip off. He struggles to keep his heart from racing as he soaks up the sensation of Bruce — bigger than Clark, heavier than him, warm and solid and so delightfully real — resting on his thighs.

“I’m certainly not disappointed,” he says after a moment of stunned silence. “But you don’t have to push yourself from 0 to 60. I’d be happy even if you just let me touch your arm or shoulder once in a while. Maybe build our way up to holding hands.” He can be patient for Bruce.

“Hm,” Bruce says, but his weight shifts as he relaxes slightly into Clark’s hold. “Noted.” Clark feels like he’s passed some kind of silent test, but crossed a new threshold of danger of his own creation. Bruce leverages himself by Clark’s shoulders to get back to his feet; Clark loosens his grip to let him go, expecting him to return to his seat.

But Bruce begins padding toward the hallway, breakfast forgotten. Without looking back, he calls, “But if you ever want to touch the tail, all you have to do is ask.” Said tail sways enticingly with each step Bruce takes, black and silver calling for Clark until Bruce is out of sight.

Clark scrambles to his feet quickly enough to topple his chair, and in the scant seconds it takes to fix it, he can already hear Bruce entering the bedroom. “Wait, Bruce, seriously-”

“Don’t keep me waiting.”

As Clark quite literally flies after Bruce, his mind now wholly fixated on that damn tail again, he spares a moment to acknowledge that Arthur was right all along.

Chapter Text

Clark doesn't think he's a terribly jealous person by nature, but he should be allowed this one moment of weakness seeing as his partner is

1) currently in heat

2) carrying another man whose face is tucked up in the crook of his neck.

The sick, simmering jealousy is tempered by the fact that the person in Bruce’s arms is a child, which was a not-so-fun fact they found out after the battle, when a hero they thought to be a grown man changed back into a skinny little teenager who they’re now bringing home. Billy was running a fever and looking green around the gills, and a Bruce in heat is a Bruce who feels twice as protective about his own, so he insisted on escorting Billy back. Clark would’ve been happy to carry Billy himself, but the boy had already nodded off in Batman’s arms and Bruce refused to hand him off. Clark isn't completely unreasonable, so he keeps his irritation to himself.

Billy’s siblings come to take him off Bruce’s hands with a promise to get in touch later, and then Clark is flying back to the Hall alongside Bruce’s little plane, letting the wind cool his thoughts before he does something decidedly unprofessional like claim Bruce on the meeting hall table. He would be less frustrated if Bruce hadn't been riding his cock at the moment the call for help came in from Victor. Getting themselves presentable at superspeed occupied Clark’s mind at that moment, but now that the danger has passed he keeps dwelling on how lovely Bruce had looked: cheeks flushed, teeth biting into his bottom lip as he took Clark all the way to the base, his rough hands clinging tight to Clark’s shoulders. Clark would have Bruce on his lap again already if they didn't have this post-battle meeting to get through.

At least the debrief is short, though Clark almost leaves a crack in his chair when Bruce lets Barry fluff up his tail like usual, as if his temperature isn't up and his body isn’t aching to be pinned down and fucked to exhaustion.

Barry's actions are completely innocent, his hands using Bruce’s tail as a fidget toy. He has no idea that less than two hours ago Clark was using that tail as a handhold as he tugged Bruce back onto his cock from behind. He has no idea that, when handled the right way, that tail turns its owner into putty in Clark’s hands. He’s never seen how Bruce melts against Clark’s chest when it’s stroked from base to tip, leaving him pliant and wanton. 

Bruce stares at Clark once Victor starts speaking, his ears flat against his hair in an obvious warning to be normal about this. Clark would love to, but he can’t stop watching the way Barry mindlessly smooths Bruce’s tail in long strokes as he listens to Victor talk. At least Clark can’t sense any signs of arousal from Bruce, which is a relief. It isn't like he thinks Bruce wants anybody else, but he's so insanely attractive to Clark that it's hard to imagine that there's anybody who would turn down a chance with him.

Maybe Clark is just losing his mind.

The debrief finally ends, and luckily Barry and Victor have plans together that they’re eager to get to, so Clark is spared the torture of waiting any longer to get his hands on Bruce. After the guys bid them goodbye, Clark immediately moves to Bruce’s side and wraps his arms around him from behind.

“Clark, there are cameras in this room,” Bruce says, amused.

“No interest in making a sex tape?” Clark says against the nape of his neck. His skin is heated under Clark’s lips.

“Not like this, in any case. Bring me to the lake house.”

Clark obeys immediately, lifting Bruce into his arms and flying them away. It isn’t often that Bruce allows himself to be flown, but Clark loves it. Loves it when Bruce is human and when he’s a cat; loves holding him close and feeling his pulse thrumming so close to Clark’s own chest.

He brings them straight to Bruce’s room, and Bruce immediately begins stripping out of the Batsuit, leaving it in a heap in his chair.

“I was stewing in there,” he mutters as he frees himself, tail swishing as he peels himself out of everything but his underwear. Clark trails after him like a man possessed, just waiting for the moment they can touch again. Bruce, finally stripped almost bare, gestures for Clark to come join him on the bed. Clark sits beside him, his grip on his own knees tightening when Bruce's tail curls around his arm. 

“Should we pick up where we left off?” Clark asks, leaning in to leave a kiss on Bruce’s neck. His body heat is intoxicating, his natural scent thicker than usual. Clark wants to soak him up, drown in him. He glances up at Bruce through his lashes to see an expression he's become very familiar with since they started dating. Fondness creases the corner of his eyes, curves his soft lips, lights his dark eyes.

“In a moment. Should we talk about it?”

“About what?”

Bruce smirks. “Your one-sided competition with a teenager who idolizes you.”

Clark can feel his face starting to burn. “It isn’t like that. I just- I was a little frustrated that we got interrupted. That’s all.”

“So the pouting during our flight back to the Hall…”

“It was a pensive frown. Superman doesn’t pout.”

“But he does get jealous.”

Bruce doesn’t sound mad. In fact, he seems to enjoy Clark’s stupid possessive streak.

“Anyone would get jealous seeing their partner cuddling someone else,” Clark says, knowing that it’s a complete misrepresentation of the situation.

“He’s fifteen, Clark,” Bruce says, kneading his fingers into Clark’s thigh as if to make biscuits. He’s really testing Clark’s restraint here. “Not exactly in the running for my heart.”

“You never had any hopeless infatuations at fifteen?” Clark grumbles as he pulls Bruce onto his lap. His hands can't seem to stop wandering, running over Bruce's scars, his bare skin heated under Clark's touch.

“I was too busy getting in fights and reading through my parents’ library.”

“Billy isn't the only one,” Clark says, changing tack. “Barry can't keep his hands off you.”

This causes Bruce to laugh outright. “You know for a fact that he doesn't mean anything by it. Barry only has eyes for Iris.” A fact that they’re all very aware of, thanks to his tendency to ramble.

“Barry’s in love with Iris, but that doesn’t mean he doesn’t have a little crush on you.” Clark tugs Bruce even closer, so he’s seated basically on top of Clark’s slowly hardening cock. He’s very aware, if the way he grinds down is any indication.

“I promise,” Bruce says, reaching up to thumb at Clark's lower lip, “that I won't leave you for Barry.” He rocks against Clark with deliberate intent, his tail flicking back and forth. Although he’s more open with his affection for Clark these days, he’s only ever this overt while in heat, and it drives Clark to the absolute edge of his sanity.

“I really hope not. I think it would tear the league apart.”

“That’s your first concern? Huh. Noted.”

“Wait, c’mon,” Clark protests when Bruce tries to escape his lap. He’s clearly having a laugh, and Clark, who’s been worked up for what feels like hours now, can't stand it anymore. He reaches down and grips Bruce’s tail at the base, smirking when Bruce goes rigid under his touch, his cock jumping to strain against his underwear.

“Low blow, Kent,” Bruce grits out as Clark starts stroking that luxurious fur, using just the right amount of pressure to make Bruce squirm in his lap. He loves to take his time with this, bringing Bruce to the edge by touching just his tail, or stroking all those feline sweet spots along Bruce’s spine and hips until he presents. There’s literally nothing sexier in this world than Bruce glancing back at Clark over his shoulder while his hips are lifted, tail pulled to the side to give Clark easy access. But today he isn’t going to drag this out.

“Not lower than you teasing me.” Clark lets his fingers dip beneath the waistband of Bruce’s boxers, trailing down to the cleft of Bruce’s ass, going lower and lower until Bruce shakes his grip off.

“Strip,” Bruce orders, escaping Clark’s orbit. Clark knows better than to disobey.

He places his suit on Bruce’s chair while Bruce just tosses his boxers aside, and suddenly he has his arms full of Bruce, his warmth, his scent, his pleasant rumble of a purr vibrating against Clark's chest. Clark pulls him up, pulls him close, carries him back to the bed as his nails drag down Clark's back. Holding Bruce is grounding. He would spend all his free time embracing Bruce, in either form, if he could.

He lowers Bruce to the mattress, hovering above him, smiling against Bruce's lips when he pulls Clark into a slow, sweet kiss. His hands go wandering, but Bruce doesn't let him go too far, seemingly content to just keep kissing even when Clark settles gently between his spread legs.

“Bruce…”

Bruce smiles into Clark’s mouth and he reaches down to grasp his prize, laughing when Clark’s voice cracks open on a moan.

“I’m the one in heat yet I’m only half as insatiable as you. How badly do you need me?” Bruce asks, his hand stroking Clark firmly, thumb smearing Clark’s precum all over the head of his cock. Clark hisses but lets Bruce continue working him however he likes. 

“So much, Bruce. All the time. I can’t- I can barely concentrate when you’re too close, but I hate it even more when you, fuck-”

“Finish your sentence, Kal.” He sounds so damn smug. It’s only a matter of minutes before Clark flips him onto his stomach and pounds him until he passes out.

“I hate it even more when we’re apart-”

“Then let’s fix that.”

With one last squeeze, he releases Clark, and turns over, back arching into lordosis in perfect invitation. His tail flicks against Clark, who surges down to meet him. He wraps his hand firmly around the base of Bruce's tail and presses forward, the head of his cock pushing in. Bruce is still slick and open for him from earlier, his walls eagerly drawing Clark in.

Bruce releases a long, satisfied purr when Clark fully hilts himself, pressing as deep as he can inside. Clark runs a hand down the line of his broad back, causing Bruce to shiver and ripple around him as he begins a slow but steady pace.

“You can go faster than that.”

“I could, but what’s the hurry?”

“The hurry is that I’m three days into my heat and you haven’t fucked me stupid yet.”

“Well, we could be further along in the process if you hadn’t insisted on tormenting me earlier,” Clark says, nailing Bruce’s prostate on the next thrust in and earning him a very delightful noise.

“It isn’t my fault that you’re so cute when you’re embarrassed,” Bruce pants out. His ears are pointed up high, his posture strung tight with pleasure. Clark loves seeing how openly he enjoys himself, a flush overtaking his scarred back, his whole body rocking back to meet each cant of Clark’s hips.

“Remember that justification the next time you refuse to let me carry you.”

Bruce grunts in disapproval, but his tail keeps brushing against Clark's skin, clearly just to tease. Clark ignores it as long as he can, fucking Bruce slow and easy, savoring every slight hitch of breath. Bruce is so hot around him, burning for relief. Felines all go through heat, regardless of gender, and though it's a mild inconvenience at most to pass one alone, Bruce has told Clark before that he enjoys spending his together. His senses are all heightened, leaving him almost needy in the way he rubs himself against Clark, tacitly begging for his touch. It's the most open he ever gets with his physical affection, and Clark loves every second of it. 

Clark indulges him, petting gently down Bruce’s spine as he increases the pace. He’s so sensitive to Clark’s touch now that it makes him moan as Clark’s fingers trail down toward his hips. Sometimes Clark likes to just run his hands and lips and tongue over Bruce’s skin, bringing him to the brink of desperation just by touching his back, his chest, his thighs. Kissing down that wondrous body until Bruce is squirming under his hands, demanding his cock. But they’re both too eager today to draw things out. If Clark doesn’t get the chance to come inside Bruce he might actually have to go dunk himself in the lake.

Bruce is also starting to lose composure, his tail flicking restlessly back and forth as Clark pumps in and out of him. It’s too enticing to resist anymore. He takes hold right above the base and uses it to tug Bruce back on his next thrust forward.

“Clark,” Bruce groans, going limp. His forehead falls forward to meet the bed, mindless mewls of sound slipping out as Clark fucks into him more vigorously, using his tail for leverage. Clark’s other hand reaches down to grip Bruce’s cock, wrenching another sweet cry out of him when he does.

“Come on, Bruce. I’ll get you through this.” 

He releases Bruce's tail to run a hand through Bruce’s soft, tousled hair, scratching around his ears, and Bruce melts further into the mattress. He's begun to purr, his dark eyes glazed over in pleasure, his tail quivering and erect; Clark makes sure to burn the sight into his memory for those lonely nights when they're apart. Still thrusting steadily, Clark works Bruce's cock until he finally shudders, back arching as he comes all over the sheets. Bruce collapses bonelessly into his own mess right afterwards, and Clark pauses with his dick halfway inside, unsure if he should continue.

“Don't stop now,” Bruce mumbles. “You know the heat passes quicker when you finish inside.”

Clark is pretty sure that's actually just an urban legend, but he'll take any excuse. “Alright, hold onto your hat.”

“What kind of warning-”

He cuts off his words as Clark lets go of his self-restraint, driving hard and fast into Bruce’s pliant body. One hand braces him above Bruce while the other strokes Bruce’s tail; Clark can’t stop watching the way it vibrates in his hand just a few inches above where his cock pounds in and out of Bruce’s clinging hole. The purring starts again, Bruce lying in a daze as Clark chases his own release. Knowing that he’s the one who made Bruce so relaxed is a little ego boost, and soon Clark’s rhythm turns erratic.

“That's it, fill me up until it takes,” Bruce urges, and Clark falls apart at the thought. He's mindlessly chanting Bruce's name as he comes, draping himself over Bruce's back to rut in deep for each pulse of his release. “Mm. Good boy.” Bruce hums smugly when Clark groans against his shoulder.

“Don't say that or you'll get me going again.”

After taking a few moments to get his brain back online, Clark pulls out of Bruce, only to find that he’s still hard. Great.

“Looks like the praise really did it for you,” Bruce says when he turns over to see why Clark made a dismayed sound. He peers at Clark’s dick like it’s a mildly interesting diversion, and then chuckles. “See? Insatiable.”

“Sorry, it’s hard to resist when you’re so…” Clark gestures helplessly at Bruce’s everything. It’s something of a marvel he hasn’t gotten an erection in the middle of a league debrief yet; he’ll have to knock on wood later to keep up his record.

Bruce's tongue pokes out to lick at his lips, a habit he uses to terrorize Clark because he’s a mean bastard. Now all Clark can think about is pushing his cock into Bruce’s mouth, damnit. 

“Well, I’m not up for more yet, but you can keep me company until I am.” Bruce rolls onto his side and Clark lies down to spoon him from behind. His dick is poking kind of intrusively at Bruce, but he doesn’t really seem to mind, so Clark settles in to enjoy a short cuddle session before Bruce needs his assistance again.

That is, until Bruce’s tail starts swaying after a few minutes. At first, Clark thinks it’s a reflexive motion, just reflecting his happy mood, but after the third time it rubs against his groin, it’s hard to deny that Bruce is taunting him.

“You keep doing that, and I’m going to think you’re offering something,” he murmurs into Bruce’s neck.

He can feel Bruce vibrating with brief laughter as he replies, “Maybe I am.”

“Oh, god. Really?”

“Really. Whether you take me up on it is your choice. I’ll need your cock again within the next hour anyway.”

“Don’t worry, I’ll be available for you by then. I just need to-”

Clark bites his lip and shifts up to begin grinding against the downy fur of Bruce’s tail, now lying flat and docile against his back. He’s making a mess, but he can just help wash Bruce’s fur in the shower later. Right now all he can think about is painting Bruce’s tail with his seed. Marking it as his, so that Bruce never forgets, even when he lets others play with it. 

Bruce’s soft fluff is impossible to resist, and Clark grinds harder, rocking down against Bruce’s ass, rubbing his shaft all along the tail muscles obscured by fur.

“Is this what you think about when you see Barry touching me?” Bruce asks slyly, nailing the problem right on the head. His tail twines around Clark’s dick, eliciting a choked off moan.

“No, but now I will, so t-thanks for that.”

He can’t believe he’s cascading toward another orgasm so fast but he's a sucker for how pleased Bruce looks with himself. He knows the power he has over Clark, and he enjoys exercising it in bed. It’s adorably cat-like how imperiously he conducts himself when he knows he can get what he wants out of Clark. It’s a cute juxtaposition with the more reserved way he treats Clark when they’re with others. Only Clark gets this selfish, smug side of him. Only Clark gets to touch him like this.

Clark ruts against Bruce’s ass, and with the tail still stroking feathery soft along his cock, he finally goes over the edge. His release spills all over Bruce’s fur and skin, marking him just like Clark wanted. The sight makes his dick twitch, even though he finally isn't erect anymore.

Bruce untwines his tail from Clark, reaching back to pull Clark back against him; Clark curls an arm over his chest so his hand can rest over Bruce's heart.

“Got it out of your system?”

“For now. I can't promise I won't do it again if you keep teasing me like you do, though.”

Bruce just hums in acknowledgement, though Clark can feel his heartbeat skip ever so slightly. Interesting.

“Would you like that?" he asks innocently as he gives Bruce's nipple a little pinch. The rumble coming from Bruce is on the aggressive side, but he doesn't try to escape as Clark begins massaging his chest. “Can I play with you during League meetings too?”

“I get the feeling your definition of 'play' isn't appropriate for polite company.”

“You don't want them to see me mounting you on the Hall floors?” Bruce's warning sounds have gotten louder, his pulse faster, his ears pointing high and tense. “You're right, that might be hard on your knees. Better to have you riding me. We have those nice big chairs around the roundtable for a reason. I'll sit on yours, you sit on me, and you can still give your presentation while I fuck you good and deep just the way you like it.”

Just like that, Clark's refractory period is over. He rubs the tip of his cock between Bruce's thighs, nudging at his hole. Maybe Bruce isn't the only one in heat.

He only intends to toy with Bruce for a few minutes, just to amuse himself, but as he keeps playfully dragging the head of his cock along Bruce’s sensitive rim, Bruce suddenly jerks his hips backwards, sinking Clark several inches into his tight warmth. They both groan, Clark's arm tightening around Bruce as he instinctively draws him closer.

“Thought you needed an hour,” he mumbles while shallowly thrusting in.

“Blame it on the heat,” Bruce sighs. “We might as well seize the opportunity before some other emergency interrupts us again. I can't have you trying to trying to breed me in the middle of a debrief.”

Clark starts moving faster. “Well, now I’m never going to stop thinking about it.”

Bruce rewards him with a laugh, warm and indulgent. His hand laces with Clark’s own, his head tilting back to nuzzle against Clark’s cheek. “If you find a way to explain to the others why we need the Hall all to ourselves for a day, I'll reconsider the sex tape.”

“I’ve already got an excuse. Clear your schedule next Saturday.”

Bruce's satisfied purr is all the answer he needs.