stands_for_hope | for knightbynight: For now and hereafter...

Clark was too tired for masks. Bruce was still too emotional and too brittle to let his slip.

He knew exactly how easily Clark recognized them for what they were, and knew that Clark didn't want them and that they didn't belong here. Clark's touch communicated that truth as clearly as if he'd spoken the words outright.

Bruce couldn't do anything about them. Couldn't have if both their lives depended on it.

He could, and did love Clark, though. Clark had more than loving, he had being loved.

Bruce didn't answer Clark with words, but instead left his hand on Clark's neck, other resting sprawled against a scar on his side, leaned in and kissed him. It was gentle and warm, almost sweet, for a moment or two, before turning just a bit more aggressive. Not quite rough, definitely not punishing, but... fierce.

Bruce's ferocity was met with Clark's desperation, every edge rough, with lips and teeth and tongue that had spent too long under a red sun for gentleness. With too much need burning just under his skin.

This moment was the first, the most terrifying. Because in his time alone, in his traveling, this was what he'd dreamed of. He'd dreamed of bruised skin and scars, brittle rage and encompassing love. Of home. Of safety. Of Bruce.

"Tell me you're real," came out in the ebb and flow of the kiss, but it wasn't good enough. "Tell me you're real."

Tell me I'm not dying in the desert somewhere. Tell me I haven't expired under the snow. Tell me you aren't a hallucination caused by something I shouldn't have eaten but had to, because I won't survive waking to find myself alone.

There were so many things that Bruce still didn't know - about what Clark had endured and where he had been. One thing he knew, though, could read in every place their bodies touched and the taste of Clark's mouth.

He knew before Clark found his voice the first time, certainly before language changed and Bruce heard it a second.

He knew - could feel, could taste, could hear - the raw need.

That was his road map, now, when he didn't trust himself to stay together if he were simply himself. That he loved Clark and was the force that kept him moving.

He didn't flinch under the roughness, didn't turn it into anger on his end, just met it and held onto Clark. And when Clark needed evidence that Bruce was real he didn't answer. He didn't say a single word.

He twisted his fingers up into the too-long hair at Clark's neck and kissed him back just a bit harder. Hard enough to reopen a split at his own lip and fucking bleed into the kiss, without the slightest hint of reserve.

He didn't take anything from Clark, but he didn't hesitate for one instant in giving to him.

The hand in his hair dragged a moan out of him and the blood sent a full body shake through him, because he never would have imagined. He never would have thought. Words of comfort, hands on his skin... his dreams had done everything they could to convince him. He had tasted so many sweet lies. But they'd never bled for him. Bruce--

Get over that blood in your mouth thing. You're standing between yourself and a really good sex life.

Bruce's own words from what felt like a lifetime ago, delivered by a Bruce who had lived a lifetime with him. The past and the future, the future and the past, and Bruce's blood in his mouth, salt and metal, telling him he was home. Bruce's blood, telling him he was alive.

Bruce was gathered in his arms then, gathered and lifted and pressed against the stone of the wall and kissed, kissed enough to sting and hurt, kissed enough for bloodwater to drip hot down the skin and indents to darken where Clark's fingers held. His tears were hidden in the shower spray, washed away, but he knew Bruce could see them. Could feel the tremor of them in his muscles, the wetness of his eyes.

Bruce wondered if Clark was doing it on purpose. If Clark knew that the force, the pain of being kissed like that, of being bloodied and bruised by Clark's hands - was what he needed to get out of his head. If Clark remembered, even now, that conversation about touch in a Smallville hotel, when Bruce had been anything but guarded.

Or if Clark was going to come to his senses in the aftermath, see his fingerprints turning blue on Bruce's skin and be overcome with guilt.

Bruce couldn't answer that, and in the moment it mattered very little. It worked.

He grunted when he was pushed back against the wall, twisted in Clark's hands until he found the leverage he needed to wrap his legs around Clark to brace himself there. He could taste his own blood in the water, smell it rising in the steam from the shower, but that didn't come close to being as important to him as feeling every place they connected and feeling the heat and life coming back into Clark.

In knowing and believing that Clark was alive, and back with him, raw and battered and scarred but his and here. Crying. Trembling. Holding onto him. Hurting him but tearing down the walls and masks in doing so. Bringing back the memory of seeing Clark vanishing in vivid detail but imprinting himself over that memory with the force of will and personality and bright life that was still Clark.

He pulled out of the kiss only enough to breathe, and only for that when he had to. Otherwise he stayed in that kiss, snarled at the slightest suggestion Clark might pull away and bit at him, but he did all of it with emotion now, with anger and fear and relief and joy all tangled up into an indescribable mess. He didn't shake, didn't cry but he sure as hell loved and what he poured into that kiss was every bit as vital to him as the blood dripping on their skin and bruises blossoming on his.

"Just come back."

That was all. Just come back.

Clark didn't know how long they kissed. Clark's perception of time had gone straight to hell and with everything going on in his head, the overarching fear ripped away with clawing hands and harsh yanks of hair and snarling growls. Unrestrained, unused to restraint anymore, he took and Bruce bled and they kissed and scrounged and clung to one another under the spray.

He was nowhere else but here. He never wanted to be anywhere else but here.

He'd never look at a mark on Bruce that he'd made as anything less than a gift, given to him by Bruce himself and the universe at large. He'd never miss the chance to pull Bruce out of his own head, hold him close and light him up inside.

Every time. Every time.

Bruce didn't know how long they kissed, either. He didn't particularly care. What they were doing here was more than just kissing, more even than 'sex', by more conventional definitions. By less conventional and more romantic ones, it was sex, or even making love (and no, the violence and roughness didn't change that).

Bruce eventually eased and gentled, and brought Clark down with him as best he could. Turned less desperate and more affectionate, and grateful. He started to breathe properly in the kiss, and unwrapped from Clark just enough to let his feet find the tiled floor of the shower.

He still couldn't bring himself to pull away, or even 'progress' things toward any sort of end. He could feel his pulse in every inch of his skin, in every bruised fingerprint and swollen lips, feel the sting of the water against him and he simply did not want to move out of this precious, timeless, private, space with Clark.

He didn't want to share Clark with the world, just yet.

So all he did was gentle and ease and take some of his own weight and keep kissing Clark. He'd... find the will to do more, he would, but he just couldn't yet. Not until he knew Clark was completely here, and was even more sure than that, that he'd given Clark everything he possibly could.

Clark eventually settled enough to pull back from the kiss, enough to rest his forehead to Bruce's and look past the black, wet curls to find Bruce's eyes. One hand slipped away from it's spot at Bruce's hip, already dotted with bruises the size of Clark's fingertips, to brace his jaw and cheek with hands that had managed to grow calluses over his time away. Clark's eyes glowed again, alive and aware and awake and full of light. Full of simple joy.

And in that moment, under the spray in the Batcave's shower, entwined with Bruce as closely as two beings could be, Clark made a decision.

"Bruce," he said quietly, "I want something. Can I have it?"

Bruce looked back, eyes sharp and clear and not even a little bit wary. "I don't know, but if you can then you will if it's in my power to give it to you."

He was not being a high school english teacher with that, just himself. He didn't know what Clark wanted, but if there was a way... Bruce had the will.

He breathed in deep and slow and nodded, accepting that, and tried to find the words to say things properly. Words had become less familiar the last few weeks, talking less automatic. He might be there, but he was still rough around the edges.

"Superman belongs in Metropolis. He'll always belong in Metropolis," he said with a deep breath in. "But I think... Clark Kent should move to Gotham. After whatever he was doing..." and he waved a hand because he'd been far too preoccupied between saving the world and everything else to come up with what in the living hell his alter ego would have been doing, "wherever-"

He swallowed and tipped his head up finally to look Bruce firmly in the face.

"I think Clark Kent realized what's important in life. So..." he lifted his chin further, just enough, "if you can stand to have me here, I'd happily take a room. It's not as if we can't avoid one another if we need to. If you can't, I'd... like some help in getting an apartment. I'll manage something with the Gotham Gazette even if I have to pander Pulitzer bait at them for weeks. I'm not too proud for it."

His hands ran along Bruce's shoulders, and his eyes flicked there, unsure.

"So... can I have that?"

Edited 2015-09-29 23:43 (UTC)

Not what Bruce had expected, at all.

In fact, it wasn't something Bruce ever anticipated being an issue. He never, ever, expected Clark to want to live with him in any capacity. Stay with him occasionally, visit for a few days the way Bruce had gone to the farm, yes, but move in? No. Not something he'd seen coming.

But.

"I'd rather have you close right now, anyway. If you want to move out, later, I'll help you find an apartment of your own. If you decide to go back to Metropolis to live as Clark, later, that's okay, too, but for now and as long as you want: of course you can stay here."

Was that cold? He didn't mean it to be, but he was a bit drained himself. Not bad, just a bit drained.

Clark leaned in and kissed him, sweet and sure and slow, his fingers finding their way into Bruce's hair and down onto his shoulders.

"Good. Good." A little nod. Solidifying things. Settling down. "That's what I want."

He breathed out, long and low, and glanced upwards through the cave. It was going to be just about dawn soon. Just about.

"The sun should be ready for me any minute now. If you wanted to head up."

Bruce returned the kiss, encouraged the settling and solidifying, then eased back. Nodded for Clark's remark, just once and turned the water off. He stepped out and reached for a towel and made sure Clark got the first one. "We'll go for the roof. Just wrap the towel around your waist. The more of you that's exposed to the sun, the better."

Jason wouldn't be up yet, but the towel would be an okay temporary measure. Besides, Clark had nothing here to wear. Bruce's clothes would fit, but that was a consideration for later.

He took the towel and did a quick job of drying off his hair and some of the beard. He started looking for a mirror to perhaps get that done with before glancing over at Bruce.

"Opinions on the beard?" he asked suddenly with a lift of his chin. The hair he was reasonably certain he'd be cutting, but he wasn't sure on the beard. Especially if he'd soon be stinking up a bathroom that someone else had to attend to.

All the same, the towel was wrapped around his waist accordingly. The scars looked... less terrible on his water-soaked skin. Just a little less like he'd been badgered, foxed, and lightly grizzlybeared.

"I couldn't care less." He really, really, couldn't. Those marks on Clark's skin bothered him, but Clark's hair? It didn't matter to him at all. "Let's worry about it after you've had your time in the sun."

He dried himself off in a very, very perfunctory way and went to grab a pair of exercise pants and dragged them on on to cling slightly to damp skin. "Please." He held his hand out to Clark. "Later."

He slipped his hand around to take Bruce's for a moment.

"All right."

Then he looked down at one of the scars, the particularly nasty one on that very hand.

"They don't hurt. So you know. They haven't since I got back."

But he didn't wait to start walking out of the bathroom and made a point to float up the stairs towards the indoor entrance at a decent pace. The floating was mostly to ensure that the towel didn't move too much.

"I know scars don't hurt, Clark. At least not the person who's wearing them." He also knew that his scars bothered people who weren't him, because of what they were testament, to.

Save one very specific scar, left by CLark's mouth, which was statement to a very different thing.

He led Clark out of the bathroom to the lift that would take them upstairs. Was there a faster was up and out? Yes, but this was the most direct.

Clark got into the lift as directed and took Bruce's hand again with a soft, quick squeeze before letting go. He would be all right.

He was home. That meant he'd be all right. He knew that, down to his bones. He was with Bruce and Bruce loved him and the world would keep turning and he'd punched Vandal Savage in the face repeatedly.

...he really hadn't deserved it since ultimately, the man had seen the error of his ways and had helped him to return to his own time, but it had been somewhat cathartic. And given what he'd been planning, he'd deserved it. Now, anyway. His future self probably would approve.

As they rode the lift up, Clark glanced around thoughtfully, considering some of the logistics since Bruce had said yes.

"Is everyone else here going to be all right with things?"

He was mostly thinking of Jason.

"After everything that's happened, he'll be fine." He knew damned good and well Clark wasn't asking about Alfred. "I'll show you to your room once you've had a chance to soak up some sun and finish healing."

Because Bruce had priorities, and Alfred had foresight that was, while far from psychic, actually pretty damned aware of who Bruce was and what was happening.

Jason would just suck it up because he was a jealous, possessive, kind of angry jerk but he'd just had to deal with Bruce falling apart -badly- with Clark gone.

Not to mention Kara.

"Have you mentioned--" he breathed in deep before looking out of the lift and out into the manor. "Have they heard I'm alive again? I'd... rather no one think I'm a ghost."

He tugged on the beard again.

"A scruffy ghost."

"When would I have mentioned anything to them?" Bruce asked, dryly. "I left you, I came to the cave, and you followed. I've been with you since. They'll figure it out when I tell them or when they see it on the news. We're getting you into the sun, first."

He didn't care if they thought Clark was a ghost. Which meant that, at least, the moment those lift doors rolled back Bruce was walking out and headed straight for yet another set of stairs, to get them out and up.

"I never question what you're capable of, Bruce," and his words were completely earnest. Clark wasn't arguing. He just followed along, walking carefully to keep the towel in place. He could stand being a scruffy ghost, but a scruffy ghost flasher was a little past where he wanted to go with people he was going to live with for at least a while.

"Any idea where you're going to be putting me?"

Edited 2015-09-30 05:03 (UTC)

"Alfred's had a room across the hall from mine made up for weeks." Which was where he was putting Clark. Not that he wouldn't welcome Clark into his bed and his room but Alfred knew Bruce well enough to know that he had limits to togetherness, no matter how much he loved someone. "And not far from Jason's."

Basically, it was the family wing.

He kept walking, keeping an eye on Clark and just narrowly not keeping a hand on him as they went up, and up, and up, toward being able to open that final door and into the dawn.

He couldn't help a smile at that.

"One day we'll figure out how to tap into whatever strange psychic power Alfred and my mother use. Thankfully, they use their powers for good."

But his eyes, to be fair, were on the door in front of them. Clark wouldn't hesitate once they reached it, more for Bruce's sake than for his. As soon as the door was open, he'd be in the sunlight.

"I've... got a couple of spots on my hips. Will it be a problem to, er--"

Remove the towel once they're outside?

"You're on the roof on private property. If Anyone spots you naked up here, they deserve what they get. " That included Jason. Mostly, Bruce didn't think anyone was going to bother him. They weren't even going to see him: Wayne Manor was very private property, even when it wasn't the crack of dawn.

He went outside, himself, hand touching Clark lightly between the shoulder blades. "Just heal."

for knightbynight: For now and hereafter...

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