In, around, through
December 1, 2003
Disclaimers: Not even close to mine.
Spoilers: Major ones for "Hereafter." References to "A Better World," and the New Adventures of Batman and Superman episode "Knight Time."
Ratings Note: NC-17.
Summary: Eventually, they were going to have to talk. One way or another.
Author's Note: Man, I'm in love. And with all my friends encouraging behavior like this... well.
Acknowledgments: To Jack, the Spike, Bas, Livia, and Molly for audiencing. Livia also came equipped with helpful suggestions.
Feedback: Always. email@example.com
Even with days to prepare, protecting Palmer's lab from Savage took days, and none of them had been in the best of shape to begin with.
It was heartening to think about, that he really was missed as much as he missed them, all of them.
And then it was just one more thing to keep in mind so that they all didn't wind up messily killed.
Clark has taken to sleeping on the roof, when he's on earth. Here, on the Tower, he tries to stay within sight of the sun.
He will never, ever let himself forget what it was like to be nothing but human, and what it was like to get the power back. A rush through every millimeter, every cell of his body. The difference between seeing a picture of yourself and being alive.
And Savage... had been himself.
Perhaps a function of the man's immortality.
There was no way to be sure how long he'd been alive, and chances are that after several hundred years or so, a man's basic personality was pretty much set in stone. And yet...
There was something disturbing about the way a part of him had warmed inside to see the man, even though the only recognition in Savage's eyes was of an enemy.
Clark suspects that things might have been... infinitely more difficult if he'd spent any more time in the future.
When he sleeps, his dreams suggest that he didn't make a difference at all.
He wants to talk to the man about it ("Damn you, how did you know?"), visit him in whatever hole the American legal system has buried him in. This, in his experience, never actually helps anything at all.
But there's a huge temptation in it just the same, the idea that he knows this man, and who he will be. Who he could be.
Would it have been so hard for the Savage of the future to give him some sort of code word, some way to reach his past self?
Had he honestly expected Clark to kill him?
"Probably just hope."
Clark blinks. Batman. "Was I thinking out loud?"
"You brood in entirely predictable ways." The barest hint of a smile.
Right. "So you've given it some time and effort."
Clark pastes on his best smirk. "The study of my thought processes."
"No more than anyone else's."
Clark would lay money on that pose being a technically perfect defense position for some obscure martial art. "Uh, hunh." Looks around to be sure they're alone. "You know, Bruce --"
"It wouldn't do any good." The first direct look. "Trying to turn Savage."
"I know. Tell me why, anyway."
Another smile. Clark wonders when he's going to get over thinking of every one as a personal victory. "Even if he believes you -- and I grant that a man who's spent that much time fiddling with the space-time continuum probably has a lower threshold for disbelief suspension than most --"
Clark doesn't bother to hide a snort.
"The Savage you knew was the result of many years of solitude, self-study, and... repentance?"
A grunt. "He'll use whatever you say to try to plan his next little global takeover scheme. And this time we might not be lucky enough to get you sent into the future."
"Think about it."
"I'd rather not."
"... all right."
And for a moment it's so quiet that he's sure Batman has gone back to whatever it is he was doing, but when he looks to his left, Bruce is still there.
Staring out the observation window, arms crossed over his chest. Mostly hidden by the cape.
"How much time did you spend up here before you told us all about it?"
"Bruce Wayne had a two-week rest in New Guinea a few years ago."
Clark nods. "Tim asked me to visit. I think he just wanted to watch me try and fail to be you in front of an audience again."
Definite smirk. "Probably. Robin's sense of humor is... unique."
"You had nothing to do with that, I'm sure."
"Nothing." Bruce's voice is surprisingly serious, and the old, familiar battle between wanting to push and wanting to give the man whatever room he needed to have genuine human feelings -- if that was, in fact, what he was doing -- is... itself. Old, familiar, and impossible to detangle.
"Just two weeks?"
"The launch didn't damage any of the important internal systems. All of the sensors are set to send whatever information they gather to the Cave."
"They still are."
"Trying to get rid of me, Clark?"
His own laugh surprises him, though he isn't sure why. "You're a difficult, contrary, mean-spirited, misanthropic, and all around painful sonofabitch, Bruce."
"True." And Bruce's smile is as brief as an hallucination, and sharp to the point of ferociousness. Real.
"I missed you."
And he doesn't really expect anything from that, or anything remotely good, but Bruce... slumps. Just a little. "How long was it. For you."
"Sixty-four and a half days."
"Like you wouldn't have known down to the second."
Clark runs a hand through his hair. He'll cut it when the length stops surprising him, he thinks. "It was. It was easier, at first. My communicator worked. I could connect to the Tower. Good job on that, by the way. It'll apparently stay in orbit for another several thousand years."
"You reported in."
"Every day. I thought... I thought we'd been transported to another planet, separated. I thought I'd find you all at the other end of things."
A twitch of movement, again nearly hidden by the cape.
"I think I would've started counting the seconds soon, after that."
"It's... it's better when we're here. When we all are." And that's about as close as he can get to anything like what he wants to say, so he stops. Goes back to staring out the window.
Wonders why Batman put windows in.
There's probably a vastly important tactical reason. It just seems like a vulnerability now. One the Lords would have corrected, if they'd been given the time to do so.
Another prison visit he won't be making.
"Want some coffee?"
"I'm not tired."
Clark shakes his head, sighs to himself. "Of course."
"I'm not. I didn't think you were dead."
"I know --"
"No, you don't. I didn't let myself think it."
He lets himself chew on that for a while, watching Bruce not-squirm out of the corner of his eye. "I'm tempted to hug you, you know."
Another threat in the guise of a smile. "Are you, now."
"Mm-hmm. But I figure I only get one or two of those a year. I should save them. Make them count."
Like leaving the ground for the sky. The first time. "What are you tempted to do, Bruce?"
"Would you like a list?"
"You can leave out the ones that involve that pocket of your belt."
"Mm. Are you sure about that?"
"You're never going to stop surprising --"
Especially not when he moves like that. With that fluidity that has, of course, nothing to do with superpowers and everything to do with all the things Bruce has done to his body over the years.
When he kisses like it isn't the first time, or that they've already been kissing for long enough today, right now, that there's no reason to be gentle or hesitant or anything...
Clark breaks the kiss with a moan. "What do you tell your lovers about the scars?"
"Bruce Wayne should never, ever ski."
On him again, gauntleted hand in Clark's hair holding him still, teeth in his lip, digging in hard on his tongue, and there's no question about kissing back.
Clark gives as good as he can, pushing Bruce back against the wall and sliding his hands under the cape, over the armor, down.
Bruce's turn to break the kiss, and hiss between his teeth.
Clark wants to see his eyes, and uses his powers to do so. Wild and blue for a heartbeat, another, and then steady.
"You always know when I'm looking."
"You're not subtle."
"Maybe you're just focused."
"Maybe one of us should point out what a bad idea this is."
"You did kiss me first."
"Hence the difficulty."
Clark kisses that knife-blade smile and deliberately closes his eyes. He's not going to give Bruce any excuse for control.
After a moment that couldn't be called hesitation for anyone but Bruce -- he never stops kissing Clark -- the hands in his hair start moving.
Stroking, yes, but also... carding and tugging and pulling. No pause, no warning. Just the vastly important difference between Bruce kissing him and Bruce having sex with him, and Clark wants to be naked right now.
Wants that cowl off and the armor elsewhere, and he doesn't care that the only reason Bruce would is because Clark already knows.
Teeth on the edge of his ear. "We should --"
"I was going to say, 'go elsewhere,' but go ahead, Clark, bitch a little more."
Tongue in his ear, and something like the fully-physical incarnation of that smile: hands on his ass and hard body moving against his own. "I -- fuck. Does it make a difference? The Tower's full. Someone will notice -- Christ -- us moving together."
"I can be subtle."
"I don't want you to be."
Growl in his ear and hand in his tights, gloved-smooth and nothing like gentle and one finger in --
"God, I want to fuck you right here, Bruce --"
"Settle for taking the edge off."
Not a question, not a request, and Bruce's other hand slides more of the suit fastenings apart. Hand around his cock and pumping and Clark braces his hands on the wall and bites Bruce's jaw as lightly as he can, trying not to leave a mark and nearly failing when Bruce starts fucking him with his finger.
Clark nudges his head back into position, spreads his legs, and yells into Bruce's mouth, reveling in the way it makes the man jump before he starts fucking faster, stroking harder.
And then Bruce crooks his finger and it's just one continuous shout into the kiss, rising every time Clark inhales through his nose, and he can't stop working his hips into it. It doesn't feel like begging, not here. Not with Bruce.
He wouldn't care if it did.
Breaks the kiss. "I want to make you scream."
"I'm sure you'll try." Hard squeeze.
Clark's laugh just falls into another groan. "Now you're just -- fuck, harder -- daring me --"
"I knew you'd be a talker."
"Yeah? Been listening in?"
Two fingers and another smile. "What do you think?"
And Bruce doesn't give him any time to respond to that, just licks his way back into Clark's mouth and --
Jesus, he must be using all his strength, and it's enough, it's enough and it's so fucking good.
Thumb-tip pressing hard against the head of his cock and he can't decide if it would be better without the glove.
Tickling stroke of Bruce's tongue over the roof of his mouth.
Fingers into the second knuckle.
And when he opens his eyes and focuses, Bruce is watching him, hungry and alert and just a little cruel.
More when he can tell Clark is looking.
He comes with a shout all over Bruce's fist and probably his own suit, knees shaking and hips working him through it, pushing him higher and higher until it's nearly pain.
Bruce releases his cock and catches him by the hip before he can drop.
"My rooms. Now."
Bruce licks the edges of his own teeth. Slowly.
Pulls his fingers out.
Leaves in what Clark would think was the entirely wrong direction, if he hadn't had all that horrific free time to explore the ruins of the Tower.
Of course Bruce knows the place backwards and forwards.
There's no doubt in his mind that he still doesn't.
Flash catches him in the hall before he's gone more than a hundred yards, clearly on the way to the observation deck.
"Hey, Supes, join me for some chocolate?" He waggles a large bottle of Hershey's syrup in his face.
"Maybe later," his mouth says without checking on his brain, but Flash, thank God, just grins at him and zips off.
He's not going to deal with those images at any point in his future, if he can possibly help it.
Bruce is already in the bedroom when he gets there, stepping out of convenient shadow, fully-clothed and utterly blank.
It almost gives Clark pause.
But he's known the man long enough to know that 'blank' rarely meant anything you thought it would, and, given tonight, could mean exactly what he wants it to.
He pushes at the edges of the cowl and gets a smirk, but Bruce pulls it off without a word, hair mussed and damp with sweat.
And Clark... he knows what they all look like, without their masks. There was no telling when it would be important, though he respected their boundaries. But it's still always a surprise to see Bruce's face, the clean, simple lines of it.
Always a moment to search for Batman behind the bland handsomeness, to find him in the cut of his eyes.
He should be worried by that; it's too much like buying into the man's issues, but it's not important right now.
Or maybe it should be important, more important than ever, but Clark can't bring himself to care.
"I always thought we would," he says, brushing his thumb over the red welt the cowl has left behind.
Bruce catches his wrist. "The thought had occurred to me." And then he sucks Clark's thumb into his mouth and it doesn't matter at all that he came five minutes ago.
You make me want to dive into the sun, he doesn't say, and pushes Bruce back to the bed, onto the bed.
Crawls over him and hunts for the catches on the armor, and Bruce isn't so much passive as... watchful.
"You're trying to figure out how much thought I've given this, aren't you?"
"Maybe I just feel like giving you your head."
"Yeah, and maybe you'll paint the Javelin pink."
Slow, sly grin, and that's definitely not a look he's used to, and he doesn't know if he's jealous of Bruce's lovers or terrified. He settles for kissing it off his face and... continuing to hunt. Five, six, seven catches for the chest. It's not off.
"Are you really this fucked up or do the criminals in Gotham have a habit of trying to get into your pants?"
"You haven't met Selina yet, have you?"
"No, but I have met the Joker, and don't even think about finishing that thought."
Low chuckle and Bruce takes pity, or maybe just the initiative, stripping down in a handful of practiced, easy movements and dragging Clark's hands back to his skin. "What are you going to do, Clark?"
Scars and muscle and skin and scars. "Why don't I show you?"
Kissing the scars doesn't get a reaction, but he didn't really expect it would. He bites them instead, using just enough of his strength to hold Bruce down while he does it. It's a slow build of motion, slow enough to be easy to miss if Clark wasn't looking for it:
A shift when he attacks the ominous pucker beneath Bruce's ribs, brief tension when he goes for the obvious knife wound over his right nipple, open availability when he claws at whatever happened to Bruce's left thigh, and it still feels sudden when Bruce starts...
It's not a writhe so much as a roll, muscle control something almost frightening in the man, maybe more than almost if, right now, it hadn't all been for him.
Clark slips his hands between Bruce's legs, cups his balls and just enjoys the feel of them, heavy and hot in his palm.
And takes Bruce in his mouth, teasing and tasting the head until Bruce lets out a small sigh and spreads wider. Until those hands are back in his hair and urging him on with firm, precise motions.
Clark smiles, careful of his teeth, and swallows.
That forces a groan out of the man, sharp and cut-off as a scream, and oh, yes, he'd thought about this. Almost exactly this: Bruce in his mouth, carefully failing to fuck his throat.
Bruce holding on.
And one day he's going to do just this, just hold on and lick and tease and suck nothing like hard enough until Bruce does lets go.
But he wants more than that now.
Licks his way up and off and... remembers that he hasn't, actually, stocked his rooms in the Tower with anything as useful as lubricant.
The smirk is nowhere near as sharp as it could be, not with Bruce hard and flushed and panting, just a little. He pulls a tube out of his belt and tosses it to Clark.
Clark refrains from commenting with something like the vast majority of his will. Slicks his fingers and slides in two, because he knows Bruce wouldn't expect it, and because it just feels good.
Tight and hot and tight, and every thrust forces out a wordless gasp.
Bruce's eyes are closed, and that hits him, maybe more than anything else. Whatever else the man is thinking about, his body is here, right here.
And all his own, for now.
Clark's tights feel as binding as a straitjacket.
He slips out just long enough to get them off and looks down to find Bruce eyeing him with something like lazy challenge, stroking his own cock and waiting.
Clark has an entirely new appreciation for pornography.
"Bruce. Do you need... should I?"
"Fuck me, Clark --"
And it feels like there's something unsaid there, he knows there's something unsaid, but right now the frustration of it just adds to everything else. He wants to crawl out of his skin. He wants to hold Bruce down and just use him, rub himself against all those scars until the itch is gone.
He kneels between Bruce's thighs and touches him again, traces circles around the slick little hole and dreams of the kind of control he'd need to just play, because he wants...
Fuck, he wants Bruce on him, surrounding his fingers and fighting against every noise Clark fucks out of him.
"God, I want you..."
Slicks his cock, and the first push makes him shiver, but when Bruce effortlessly, casually throws one leg over his shoulder he knows he'd only thought he was losing control.
One hand around Bruce's hard, bony and muscular ankle and the other around his own cock. And the first slow push makes parts of his mind burn away, makes him cry out, let go, and just thrust.
One slow, tight slide and he's balls-deep and Bruce's eyes are squeezed shut.
"Does it -- should --"
"Do it." Gritted out and nothing but an order.
"God , Bruce, you feel..."
And the words are gone. There's nothing but the hot slide and friction, the way his hips need to move and his spine to arch.
And he can manage slow, but he can't manage easy.
Not when a half-accidental shift in angle makes Bruce wrap his other leg around his waist.
Not when he starts fisting his own cock with brutal, efficient strokes that Clark thinks he can feel.
He knows what that's like on his own cock, and he wants more, more of exactly this. Buried deep and drowning in it, like the air has gone liquid and oxygen is something to swallow.
And then he can't manage slow at all, because Bruce is all tension and fight, and it looks like resistance, but Clark knows it isn't.
Knows sex is always a battle for this man, and he doesn't know whose side he wants to be on.
Slides his free hand over Bruce's abdomen and pushes for the gasp, for the feel of muscle jumping and flexing because of what he's doing, because he's fucking Bruce, fast and hard and grinding, and now the man's teeth are gritted into a snarl and Clark is...
Melted everywhere but his cock, lost and breathless and moving with no help from his mind, because yes, he always thought they would, but he never thought...
A groan somewhere between pain and lust.
"Bruce, open your eyes, I want... God, I have to see this --"
And he does, and it's... lust and hunger and anger, and something wide and wet and open as a kiss.
"Bruce, I --"
"Don't say it."
And the laugh is just another ripple of feeling, something to ride. "I don't have to, Bruce, you --"
And when Bruce comes all over both of them, it's like the ground falling out from under him. It's like being fifteen, and leaping into the sky.
No words, no thoughts. He tightens his hand on Bruce's ankle and gives in, gives up, slamming and grinding his way in. He has to show Bruce, he has to make him --
And he's groaning so loud he almost misses it, almost can't believe the look of it: Bruce grabbing at the headboard and arching and bucking into every thrust, coughing out a moan for every grind.
Messy with sweat and his own come and watching him.
Eyes open and steady and hungry as anything Clark had ever thought he wanted.
And Clark thinks: this is what it means to make love to Batman.
And comes yelling.
Eases Bruce's ankle off his shoulder and half-collapses forward, bracing himself on his hands and slipping out as gently as he can.
He didn't think there was a good way to feel shattered.
He lets himself fall to the side and wraps an arm around Bruce, not at all surprised by the immediate stiffening. He squeezes against it.
Struggles for language. "I don't expect you to stay the night. I just..."
He closes his eyes, reaching out with those nameless parts of his self for the direction of the sun. Relaxing when he finds it.
More when Bruce relaxes.
And sleeps to the feel of fingers curling in his hair, light as a breeze.
He does wake up when Bruce eventually slips out of bed, but not for long.
He'll know where to find the man when he needs him.
And Bruce won't ever let him get far.
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