Two Words

It's Friday, a few minutes before one a.m. and Clark is in his awful plaid shirt and glasses, flight bag bristling with luggage tags still slung over his shoulder as he pins Bruce against one of the massive lakehouse windows.

"I missed you," he says against Bruce's neck, his hands on Bruce's hips, pulling him in tight. For all his gentle romance Clark is firm against Bruce's thigh and god, Bruce missed him too even if he could never say it so easily, but it's been a long, heavy week. Superman may be able to jaunt across the planet in the blink of an eye, but Clark Kent had an international story to chase, and halfway around the world, he was the middle of his working day while Bruce was in the dead of Gotham's night. It's nothing he couldn't handle on his own, of course—and he's certainly not become reliant on Superman's abilities—but he's not as young as he used to be, either.

When it comes down to it, the spirit is willing, as they say, but the flesh is utterly beat.

So Bruce cups Clark's jaw and kisses him lightly, just a soft press of lips because it wouldn't be fair to drink him in the way Bruce wants to, not when he's just going to send him home to his own bed.

Clark's forehead worries into a frown, then smooths out as he takes in Bruce's face, obviously inventorying the dark shadows under his eyes, the stress lines and the concealed bruises. "You're exhausted," he says.

Bruce lifts one shoulder and valiantly stifles a yawn.

"Then go to bed, idiot," Clark says fondly.

I was waiting up for you, Bruce doesn't say. "I was on my way when you barged in."

"Uh huh, sure." Clark tugs Bruce's tie off, and his jacket, shepherds him into the bedroom with alarming ease. It's not as hard to resist Clark's hand on the fly of his slacks, but only because he can't bear to disappoint him.

"It's okay," Clark says, hand stilling under Bruce's. "I just want—"

"Come by tomorrow, I'll be more—"

"I just wanted to see you—"

"—capable, I'm just, right now, I—"

"—I guess I hoped you missed me too, and—"

"I did," Bruce says, surprise knocking the words out of him. "Clark."

"Then let me stay!" Clark says, laughing. "God, Bruce. You're so bad at this."

Like Clark is any better—but he isn't wrong. Bruce falls back against the mattress and sighs inwardly, lets Clark pull his shirt away, lift his hips and tug off his slacks. He remains resolutely limp, despite how much his lizard brain is clamoring. Years of training and meditation and razor-edged discipline, and apparently all it takes is this insufferable ray of sunshine to set his nerves buzzing, even when he's physically incapable of acting on it.

"This is new," Clark says, finger tracing the outline of a bruise on Bruce's ribs.

"Tuesday," Bruce offers by way of explanation. Clark leans in and kisses the edge of it, then tumbles Bruce against the sheets, that terrible shirt filling Bruce's vision. "Get this off," he says, tugging at the top button, "or I will actually kick you out."

"Gosh. Well, if you insist."

The next thing Bruce knows there is nothing but flagrant nudity going on; Clark is pressed against his bared skin, his natural warmth like a balm against Bruce's aching muscles. He manages to stifle a groan, but there's no way Clark missed the deep inhale, the hitch in his breath.

"I thought about you all the time," Clark murmurs into Bruce's shoulder. "It seemed a lot longer than a week."

"Mm."

Here is where he'd consider rolling Clark onto his stomach and bracing his hands in the small of his back, edging inside him by increments until he's babbling pleas and curses, endearments and indictments. But that's not happening tonight. Even turning over seems far too laborious.

So instead he presses his face into Clark's shoulder, nuzzles into his familiar scent and sighs, deep and complacent as Clark buries his fingers in his hair.

"I just wanted," Clark murmurs. "This." He drops a series of kisses on Bruce's forehead and cheek. Another on his chin, followed by a brush of his thumb. "Just, you."

Bruce is never sure how to handle this unselfconscious intimacy—Clark is the strongest weak point he could have, but he still amounts to a vulnerability and that's not something he countenances easily—but he is saved from having to formulate a response by Clark's mouth covering his, gently testing his guard.

(Sometimes the dissonance threatens to wreck him; the compulsion to push Clark away even as Bruce willingly pulls him into his confidence.)

But nobody else is here to listen to his groan of need, so he lets it happen and dives into the kiss, easing Clark's mouth open, teasing him with the edge of his teeth, light enough that it wouldn't hurt him even if it could, but enough to make Clark inhale sharply and hook his calf over Bruce's, entwining them closer.

"I could do this forever," Clark says against his mouth.

"I don't have that long," Bruce says, pulling himself flush against Clark's body, pressing into the firmness of his youth. "But feel free to try."

"Bruce," Clark breathes, "don't say that."

It's not something they talk about, how Bruce has a head-start to begin with, even without taking Clark's theoretical longevity into account. The invulnerability is gulf enough.

Bruce kisses him harder, apology and confession all at once: I would too, if I could.

Clark's hand is on his shoulder, stroking down over his arm and waist and stomach, fingertips pressing and relaxing as they kiss, seeking the most tender spots of his body only to brush over them in circles or curl against his skin into a fist. Bruce can feel how hard he is and how unconcerned he is about it, no needy jerk of the hips demanding attention, only a sincere indulgence in Bruce's pleasure and the occasional gentle roll against Bruce's thigh, incidental to the attention he's lavishing with his mouth and his hands.

It seems to last for hours; Bruce slides toward and is tugged from the edge of sleep again and again by Clark's slow mouth, the leisurely turn of his tongue against his lips, aphrodisiac and soporific and all idle affection until he eventually draws back to rest his head on Bruce's chest. He exhales in a long, contented sigh.

It's Saturday, five a.m., and the bright summer dawn is pushing through the glass of the lake house, blooming over the walls and the sheets and the curve of Clark's shoulder. It's hard on Bruce's tired eyes so he closes them, shuts the morning down into something softer and more manageable.

He doesn't open them even when he feels Clark move down his body, not even when he feels the press of his lips against the inside of his thigh, nor the molten heat of the inside of his mouth.

"Morning," he gasps, as Clark twists his tongue around him, teases him into a hard-earned half-hardness.

Clark pulls off him with a wet noise, takes his hand and kisses the inside of his wrist. "Morning," he says, low and resonant against Bruce's skin. "Up for much?"

"Don't know," Bruce says, smiling down at him, easy and genuine. "Want to find out?"