Chapter Text
In the fortnight after Jason d—after Jason, Bruce ran on autopilot.
He didn’t think, couldn’t allow himself to think, or he would break.
Instead, he lived in a world of pure physicality and logistics. Everything reduced to the necessities. Identify the body. Call Alfred so he and Dick wouldn’t learn from the news. Tell the cops and press what they wanted to hear. Make arrangements to fly home. Go out on patrol. Study the Joker. Give Alfred instructions for the funeral and internment. Patrol. Study. Attend the funeral. Patrol. Study. Patrol.
He mechanically ate and drank whatever Alfred put in front of him, because that was easier than arguing about it. Realistically, he must have slept some time—no human could go two weeks without sleeping—but he had no recollection of it. Certainly, he didn’t go near a bed at any point. Anything that anyone said to him that didn’t pertain to the Mission, he ignored. He was vaguely aware of Dick yelling at him. Clark was there at one point, too, maybe? It wasn’t important. Eventually they went away. Alfred stopped coming into the Cave except to bring him food and tend his wounds. Patrol. Study. Patrol.
Then one night, after bandaging up yet another cracked rib and tending his bruises, Alfred started steering him toward the elevator, to the Manor, instead of letting him go back to the Batcomputer. He resisted. His struggles had no effect, his body still moving inexorably to the metal doors.
Wait. Not Alfred. Clark. Clark was crying?
“You have to get some real rest, Bruce. It’s been two weeks. You need to lie down.”
He was getting what little sleep he needed, clearly; he hadn’t fallen over yet. Further rest was irrelevant. He groped toward his belt for the kryptonite, but he wasn’t wearing the belt. They’d taken the suit off to treat his injuries. He couldn’t fight Clark without kryptonite. They were in the elevator now. He sagged against Clark, biding his time, letting him think he’d won.
When the doors opened, he feinted left, breaking Clark’s loosened grip, and then jerked right, leaping down the hall. He had another cache of kryptonite in the hidden safe in the library, if he could just get there…
Clark stopped him before he gotten more than a couple feet and lifted him up effortlessly into a fireman’s carry. Bruce’s head hung down, his stomach churning as Clark’s shoulder dug into it. “You never give up, do you?”
No. No, he couldn’t give up. He’d already failed his boy. He couldn’t fail the Mission.
Clark threw him down on the bed. Bruce used the bounce to propel himself toward the other side. Clark snorted and pulled him back, taking his wrists in an unbreakable grip, forcing him to lie down. Clark spooned up behind him, wrapping his arms around Bruce’s chest, tangling their legs together, Clark’s hands still holding Bruce’s wrists.
“Now,” Clark whispered in his ear. “I’m not going to let you up out of this bed until you’ve gotten at least eight hours of sleep. The longer you fight it, the more time you’re going to spend away from your work.”
Bruce pondered that, trying to find some way out of the ignominious situation. As he started to think, he felt everything he’d been repressing, everything he’d been fighting down, start to rise up again, touching the corners of his conscious mind. That wouldn’t do. He couldn’t lose it, not yet.
He closed his eyes and willed himself to sleep.
He woke alone, wrapped in crumpled black Egyptian cotton, late afternoon sunlight pouring warm and golden in through the open windows. The stale taste of his mouth and pressing demands of his bladder told him he’d been unconscious for at least twelve hours. Staggering to the bathroom, he wondered for a moment whether Clark had really been there, or if his presence had been only a hallucination generated by Bruce’s exhausted brain to convince him to sleep.
Well, it didn’t really matter one way or the other. He went back down to the Batcave. There had to be some way to find the damn clown, prove what he'd done. Alfred brought him coffee and oatmeal with some fruit. He choked it down. Studied some more. Then it was late enough to go on patrol. Study. Patrol. Study.
Three days later, Clark came back and made him sleep again. He didn’t fight it this time; he’d gotten more done in the last few days then he had in the week before. Patrol. Study. Patrol. Clark started coming by every second day, then every night, making him sleep for at least a few hours. He was always gone when Bruce woke up. It became part of the routine. Study. Patrol. Sleep. Study. Patrol. Sleep.
He finally tracked the Joker down, faced off with him at the UN general assembly. Thwarted his attempt to blow it up. Didn’t kill him. Leaving him in a crashing helicopter didn’t count. Bruce was still Batman.
Superman dragged him out of the sea afterward. After failing to find the Joker—of course—Clark flew Bruce back to the Manor. Steered him to the shower and then put him to bed again. Bruce relaxed into Clark’s sturdy arms. The Joker would lie low for a while. Bruce could let himself sleep, safe with Clark watching over him. It would probably be the last time. Clark would go back to his own life and bed and lover, now.
But to his dim surprise, nothing changed, even now that Bruce had shown that he was all right. Every night, when Bruce would come back from patrol, Clark would be waiting for him in the Cave. He would help Bruce out of the suit, patch his wounds if he needed it, and take him to bed. They would sleep, Clark’s body a warm, solid, reassuring presence against Bruce’s back. They never talked about it. Unless there was an emergency that required Superman, Clark always stayed the rest of the night and then left with the dawn. Sometimes Bruce would wake then, too, and return to work; other days he would sleep through the morning and wake as the sun passed its zenith, streaming in through his bedroom’s west-facing windows, which Clark always left open.
It wouldn’t have been true to say that Clark’s presence healed Bruce, or made anything okay again. Bruce recovered only slowly, if at all. He still went through life like a robot, doing the bare minimum he needed to function and stay true to the Mission. He continued to ignore Alfred’s occasional attempts to draw him back into the social whirl and financial machinations of Bruce Wayne’s life. Dick stopped coming around, and other than doing occasional sweeps through Bludhaven to make sure he was alright, Bruce didn’t try to reconnect. Dick was safer away from him. If he’d thought for a second that anything he could do would bring Alfred to leave him, he would have done that, too.
But during the day, when Bruce sat in the Cave, staring at crime statistics and watching the mob bosses and supervillains of Gotham continue to wreck people’s lives, the thought of getting to burrow into Clark’s arms that night and let everything go was sometimes all that kept him from pressing a batarang into his wrists. At night, when his rage and grief threatened to overpower him and he was tempted to just keep beating the criminals until they stopped moving, he would think of Clark’s reaction if Batman killed or maimed someone, and he would rein himself in. And then, as the weeks turned into months, those moments became rarer. One night, he was actually surprised when Clark showed up to tow him to bed, and he realized that he hadn’t once needed to think of Clark to get through the day. Bruce started really thinking again, beyond the problem or case of the moment.
As he let himself come back to life, he had to deal with the emotions that came up as well. Unsurprisingly, that didn’t go well. He knew his rage and grief were bleeding into his actions, no matter how much he tried to stop them; Batman was scarier, more violent, less forgiving. He found himself waking from violent dreams, screaming—or worse, crying. Clark never asked questions, didn’t utter reassuring meaningless comforts. He just brought water or hot towels as needed, and then wrapped Bruce up in strong arms and warm blankets to fall back asleep.
Perhaps Bruce would have said something earlier, questioned it more, if he hadn’t assumed that, of course, Clark’s presence was strictly temporary. A palliative, to make sure that Bruce survived his loss. After his facedown with the Joker, Bruce came back to the Cave every night bracing himself, figuring that this would probably be the day when Clark would congratulate him on his recovery and bid him a warm farewell; or just fail to show up, letting Alfred take his rightful place again. Every time Bruce did something that showed he’d made progress in his recovery—the first case that didn’t have to do with the Joker, the first time he went to a Justice League meeting, the first event he attended as Bruce Wayne—he waited for Clark to say something about things going back to normal. Surely Lois wasn’t content to have her fiancé leaving her for another man every night, even though they never did anything but sleep. Surely Clark himself wasn’t happy having to wake up in the wee hours every night, drag himself away from his warm bed with his beautiful lover, and fly to Gotham to comfort a broken man and let him sleep. But Clark just kept showing up.
Finally, about seven months after Ethiopia, Bruce nerved himself up to ask.
“It’s okay, Bruce,” Clark said quickly. “Lois understands. She cares about you, too.”
“But—I’m sure she’d rather have you at home…”
“Bruce,” Clark stopped him, looking anxious, “Do you want me to stop coming? Do you need more alone time? It’s fine if—”
“No, no,” Bruce said quickly, surprising himself. “I just don’t want to keep imposing on you.”
“It’s no imposition,” Clark assured him, and that seemed to be the end of the conversation.
Some months later, Bruce and Dick reconciled, albeit only after being captured together. When Dick and Alfred urged him to take on their rescuer as a new Robin, he resisted strenuously, and while what had happened with Jason was the main reason, it wasn’t the only one. Surely, when Clark saw Bruce welcoming others back into his dual lives, he would conclude that he wasn’t needed any longer. But in the end, Bruce realized that, like Dick, this new boy would keep fighting crime whether Bruce accepted him or not. Bruce wouldn’t be able to forgive himself if another boy died when his guidance and training might have saved him.
That night, Clark smiled and said he was happy to see Batman with a Robin again. Bruce nerved himself… but Clark said nothing else, just walked up to Bruce’s bedroom like usual.
A week later, Bruce had finally had enough of waiting for the other shoe to drop. He turned on Clark as they finished putting up the Batsuit and Clark moved toward the elevator.
“Clark, you can’t keep doing this,” he declared. “I’ll never be able to thank you enough for what you’ve done for me, but I’m better now. I have Tim and Alfred, and you have Lois waiting for you at home. I can’t keep asking you to be here with me when I don’t truly need you anymore.”
“Bruce, you’ve never asked me to,” Clark said, looking at him with a sad puppy face. “I’m happy to do it—as long as you want me here. And Lois understands. Anyway, she’s usually asleep when I leave and I’m home before she wakes up. It’s no sacrifice for her.”
“But…” Bruce shook his head uncomprehendingly. “This isn’t fair to you; you’re giving me so much and getting nothing in return. Surely, you’d be happier home in bed with Lois, even if she’s asleep.”
Unaccountably, Clark blushed, looking down at the floor. “Bruce… I—that’s not exactly... true.”
“What isn’t true?” Bruce demanded, perplexed.
“That I’d rather be home with Lois. I mean, of course, I love Lois, but I—Bruce, I—um. I mean, you’re my best friend, I … I enjoy being here with you, too.”
Clark was now red enough that he was practically glowing in the dim light of the Batcave. Which meant one of two things: either Clark had bought into toxic masculinity enough to be that embarrassed to admit he enjoyed snuggling with his male friend—unlikely—or… there was more to his “enjoyment” than he was letting on.
“Clark… are you… do you…” Bruce groped for words. Clark abruptly paled, the flush draining from his face.
“Bruce, I wouldn’t—I know you’re not attracted to me, that you’re straight, and that’s totally fine. I would never impose or… or expect anything from you. And I’m not, like… being creepy, or anything. I just couldn’t—it’s not fair to let you think I’m not getting anything out of being here with you.”
Bruce considered that for a long moment. It was true that he’d never been attracted to Clark, although he certainly recognized and aesthetically appreciated his best friend’s handsome features and glorious body. But he didn’t know if he could call himself straight, either. He’d honestly never really given much thought to defining his orientation. Although he had an active sex drive and enjoyed getting off, Bruce had rarely, if ever, felt attracted to specific people. When needed, he triggered his own physical arousal mechanically, by touch or a few practiced, impersonal fantasies. He didn’t particularly enjoy having sex with other people, most of the time, beyond the brief physical pleasure of reaching orgasm—which rarely seemed worth the bother when he could achieve it much more easily on his own. The few times he’d found himself getting into having sex at all had been when Bruce Wayne was doing something kinky; usually BDSM-related or the occasional threesome. Given that his first priority had always been to his mission, and his second to his family, he’d never felt inclined to devote himself to sexual pursuits or analyze the rhyme and reason behind his confusing sexuality.
He’d been quiet too long. Clark was looking tearful and determined, and backing up toward the outside cave entrance.
“I—I’m so sorry, Bruce… I’ll go—”
“No,” Bruce interrupted quickly, advancing to grab Clark’s hands and keep him from leaving. “No, please, I—Clark, don’t be ridiculous, I don’t care about that. You’re my best friend, and obviously I enjoy being with you too, even if not—not exactly the same way.”
Clark sighed deeply and smiled wanly, his shoulders slumping in relief.
“I—this still doesn’t feel fair to you, though…” Bruce mused, thinking out loud. “Maybe—what if you brought Lois here whenever you would normally go to bed?”
Clark cocked his head to the side with a confused expression.
“I mean… if you want to be with us both, physically—you should get to do that. My bed is certainly big enough for the three of us, and it’s got to be more comfortable than that piece of crap you got from Ikea.”
“How do you know what we—never mind. I don’t want to know. Bruce, I—that’s very generous but… um… Lois and I do tend to do more in our bed than just sleep.”
Bruce rocked back a bit, having not thought of that. But as he considered the idea of Clark and Lois having sex in his bed… he was stunned to find himself getting aroused. Clark clearly became aware of it almost as soon as Bruce did—he must have scented or seen something that gave it away—because his eyebrows shot up, and he flushed red again.
Now it was Bruce’s turn to apologize. Here he’d been trying to avoid imposing on Clark, and instead he’d inserted himself in the most inappropriate way possible. “I—I’m sorry, obviously that wouldn’t—”
“Bruce,” Clark interrupted. “Let me ask Lois.”
“I—really?”
A smile tugged up the corners of Clark’s mouth. “Yeah. But for right now, can we go to sleep?”
“Uh… sure. Yes.”
Walking with Clark to his bedroom, Bruce expected things to be awkward, but somehow, they weren’t. They used the bathroom for nightly hygiene in turn, got in bed, and then Clark pulled Bruce in to him, just like normal, and they were both almost instantly asleep.
The next night, Clark met Bruce as he came back to the Cave, as usual. He waited patiently for Bruce to send Robin off with the usual mix of praise and constructive criticism, and then assisted with suit removal, like always.
“Lois is asleep upstairs,” Clark said as he knelt to help Bruce get his boots off.
“Oh? I mean—good. That’s—I’m glad.” Bruce stammered.
Clark smiled and led him toward the elevator.
Lois grumbled a little, adorably, as they came in and navigated their bedtime routine. She picked her head up, blinking against the light, as the two men approached, then smiled lazily at Bruce and cuddled into her fiancé’s side as Clark slid into the middle of the warm, welcomingly rumpled bed. Bruce paused a bit at the edge of the mattress, unsure of how this would work—clearly Clark couldn’t spoon Bruce’s back as usual, with Lois weighing down his other side. Clark patted the sheets next to him, and Bruce turned off the bedside light and sat down, facing the couple. Clark pulled Bruce in to mirror Lois’ position, Clark’s arms around them both, all their legs entwined. Bruce shifted a bit to get comfortable, nestling in to Clark’s side, his hand settling on Clark’s chest just centimeters from where Lois’ hand was positioned similarly. Clark sighed—a sleepy, contented sound—and leaned down to kiss the top of Bruce’s head where it rested on his shoulder. Bruce smiled, pleased to have given Clark something to pay him back for his months of care. A few minutes later, they were all asleep.
That started a new routine. Clark and Lois usually flew in from Metropolis around midnight and settled into Bruce’s bed. They would wake up a bit after dawn and use Bruce’s well-appointed bathroom for their morning ablutions before flying off to Metropolis to start their workday at the Planet. As Tim built up his skills and got used to his duties as Robin, Bruce told Clark to stay in bed with Lois unless one of them was injured and needed patching up. Batman and Robin could help each other with their gear, and Tim clearly appreciated the increased responsibilities and one-on-one time with Bruce. Clark, now confident that Bruce wasn’t trying to be rid of him, was content with this as well.
Bruce would never again be the same person he had been before losing his son, but he found it possible to find joy and meaning in his life again. Nonetheless, the best part of his day was always at the end; anticipatorily riding the elevator up to the Manor and walking soft-footed into the dark room, seeing the two beloved bodies curled up in his bed, waiting for him. He would crawl wearily between the sheets and snuggle up to Clark or—most often when Bruce had had a bad day—feel Clark turn and spoon into him. Sometimes, the welcoming bed would smell of sex when he reached it; on those nights, he would always fall asleep savoring his unusual, low thrum of arousal.
And then one night, after they’d been doing this for a few months, Bruce got back early from patrol and walked in on Lois and Clark, very clearly not yet asleep. He backed up hastily, groping for the door, unable to take his eyes off the hypnotizing acres of moonlit, naked, writhing flesh.
“You don’t have to leave, Bruce,” Clark called, flat on his back, not ceasing his movements. Their eyes locked from across the room. Bruce felt his heart race even harder. “Unless you want to.”
“I—uh… don’t… um. Should I—uh.”
“You can join us, if you want, or watch,” Lois purred, still moving sinuously on top of her lover. “Whatever feels right.”
Bruce took a deep breath. So, this was happening. After debating his options for a fraught minute, he walked over to the bed and turned on the bedside lamp, angling it to best illuminate the entire bed. Then he walked back to the side of the room, where two armchairs bracketed a low table. Sitting down, he loosened his drawstring pajama bottoms.
“You two just keep on,” he said in a husky voice, pulling his dick out of his pants, “exactly like that.”
Clark and Lois were nothing loath, turning their attention back to each other. Bruce stroked himself slowly in time with Clark’s thrusts, watching the two lovers raptly as they moved in perfect harmony with each other. Lois leaned down to ardently kiss her fiancé, tossing her hair back and angling her body to the side so that Bruce could still see her breasts and navel, straight down to where she and Clark were joined. Clark ran his hands sensuously up Lois’ gleaming thighs, lifting her effortlessly up and down to maintain their rhythm. Bruce gasped at the display of strength and moved his hand faster. Clark sped his thrusts to match, and Lois arched up again, throwing her head back. Clark lifted his hands up to stroke her breasts, and Bruce slid his unoccupied hand up his own naked chest, rubbing his unwontedly sensitive nipples.
“Oh god, yes,” Lois panted. “Wanted this for so long.”
Clark sped up again, skimming a caressing hand down toward Lois’ bush. “I love you both so much,” he moaned.
Bruce groaned, his fist whipping up and down on his weeping cock. Moving his other hand down as well, he took his balls in a tight grasp, not wanting to come before them. He let his head loll back to rest on the chairback, hand still moving on his dick but slower now, enjoying the ache. Clark continued to roll his hips endlessly, his hand moving unceasingly on Lois’ clit, their pants and cries echoing in the hushed room.
Suddenly Clark spun, rolling Lois below him without so much as breaking stride, pulling her legs up so they wrapped around his hips. Bruce hissed and released his balls as Lois arched into the pillows and fisted the sheets, crying out in passion. He and Clark shouted exultantly in unison, and Bruce felt himself come and come and come, harder than he ever had before. He collapsed back against the chair, his eyes closed, every limb weighed down in lassitude. A minute later, the world rocked around him and he opened his eyes in bewilderment to find himself now laying on his back on the bed, between Clark and Lois, the bedside light off, curtains drawn, his skin tingling and washed clean.
“Is this okay?” Lois murmured, curling onto her side and pulling his arm over her waist.
“It’s perfect,” he whispered, aligning his body snugly against hers.
Clark spooned up on Bruce’s other side, pulling a blanket over the three of them. He slid a hand around Bruce’s jaw, pulling his head back flat against the pillow. “Can I kiss you?” he asked roughly. “Please tell me I can kiss you at least once.”
Bruce nodded dumbly, and Clark bent down, kissing him gently, sliding his tongue caressingly along his lips. Bruce welcomed him in wonderingly, feeling something other than indifference during a kiss for the first time in his life. Clark drew back after a minute and stroked his jaw and neck, gazing into his eyes.
“I love you,” Bruce whispered.
Clark’s eyes brightened, and he kissed Bruce again, lingeringly. “Love you, too.” Lois made a happy cooing sound, and Clark chuckled, laying his head down next to Bruce’s and sliding his arm across both Bruce and Lois’ torsos, entwining his fingers with Bruce’s where they rested against Lois’ stomach.
Bruce slipped gradually into a peaceful slumber, savoring the feel of his lovers on either side.
And a few miles away, a hand broke through the earth and groped the air above Jason Todd’s grave.