The second time...

[moonshadows]

The second time was deliberate.

It was a robot, some monstrosity of LexCorp’s, and Bruce Wayne was in Metropolis on business. WayneTech and LexCorp had been collaborating on something – probably this – and so when the thing broke free late at night, Batman was there treating it like a macabre rodeo by the time Superman flew in. He’d almost gotten it down, too. Not really surprising, Clark thought as he scanned it for potential weaknesses. After all, Bruce Wayne probably knew the thing’s specs inside and out.

“Need a hand?” Superman called cheerfully as he dodged three of its six flexible limbs – the ones with with stinger-like spikes on the ends.

“No.”

One of the limbs seemed to be trying to strike Batman, balanced on the robot’s back. “You sure?”

“Yes,” came the terse reply. Batman dodged out of the way, and the spike embedded itself in the thing’s own exposed wiring. “Gotcha,” he muttered in satisfaction.

Then the robot went crazy. Every other one of its flexible limbs shot at the caped figure on its back while the little stumpy ones gave out. Batman dodged two, three, four, but the fifth one struck him in the side and slammed him into the three right-hand limbs, which had stabbed themselves into the thing’s innards. Above the screams of tortured metal and frying circuitry, super-hearing picked up a single, gasped word: “Help.”

Superman saw red.

Heat vision severed the limb pinning Batman to the now-still construct and carefully – carefully, gently, human lives are so fragile – he reached out to remove the-

No.

Superman left the spike where it was, and trimmed the end of the limb away. If he pulled that thing out, Batman would probably die of blood loss. Better to leave it there for the moment.

“Batman,” he called with quiet urgency. “Batman, can you hear me?”

He didn’t say anything, but that cowled head nodded once, jerkily.

Clark hesitated for a moment before asking, “What do you want me to do?”

Gloved fingers moved over some control panel on his belt. That creepily silent flying thing of his descended from the sky, hovering mere feet away from them.

“Emergency override blue,” Batman whispered.

Nothing happened.

Superman frowned. “Emergency override blue?”

A panel slid aside, revealing a familiar tube and nozzled bag of nutrient paste. With mingled relief and horror, Clark grabbed both. The panel slid shut, and the ominous-looking vehicle ascended with the same lack of sound it had displayed on the way down.

“I guess you’re coming home with me,” he tried to joke, but Batman didn’t answer.

It was a swift and silent flight back to his apartment. He laid the unconscious Dark Knight carefully on the bed, on his right side so the leaking wound had no pressure on it. The curtains were drawn. He removed his cape and rolled it up, since Batman was lying on his, and then he stopped. What was he doing? He wasn’t qualified for this! Bruce would need to be gagged, but he would need that nutrient paste inside him before the gel started working, and at the same time, he was pretty sure Bruce couldn’t afford that much of a delay. He’d start bleeding heavily once the spike was removed. Okay. Not a problem. Super-speed meant he could remove the spike, empty the tube of gel into the wound, and press a –

Superman dashed to the linen closet and came back with a bath towel folded into a thick pad.

– big wad of cloth onto the wound before the blood had a chance to touch his bed. Batman was still unconscious, which was not a comforting thing. Okay. Positioning. Spooning would be best, Clark thought. One leg on top of Bruce’s, one arm securing his close to the waist, the other around the upper chest. Cradle Batman’s head against his chest so he didn’t hurt himself headbutting a Kryptonian in the chin. Wait, then how would he hold the towel in place? And what about the nutrient paste?

A few moments of fiddling with Batman’s gear proved futile. The contents of his junk drawer, however, yielded a roll of duct tape. Good enough! Batman was still unconscious, and Clark was starting to panic.

Racing against his own fear, he forced Batman’s mouth open and tied the makeshift gag in place. Then he pulled out the spike, squeezed the entire tube of gel into the narrow but scarily deep wound – super-speed ensuring that it entered with enough velocity to penetrate as far down as the spike had gone – and tossed it aside with one hand while grabbing the towel with the other. That hand pressed the towel into place while the first fumbled for the end of the tape, and why hadn’t he thought to do this first? Clark resorted to holding the pad down with a knee and so he could use both hands to tape it down. Then he had just enough time to climb onto the bed and get into position before Batman went from ‘unconscious’ to ‘screaming in unimaginable pain’.

The fact that their positions were more physically comfortable this time didn’t help. Emotionally, psychologically, Clark was uncomfortably conflicted. He was spooning Batman, and this should have felt awkward…but it didn’t. Aside from Batman screaming continuously into a gag. Clark found himself murmuring the same meaningless reassurances, singing lullabies badly, humming off-key. He still found himself weeping silently into the pillow while the man in his arms tried to thrash in mindless agony.

Halfway through the third hour, the muffled (and increasingly-hoarse) screams changed. There had been a rhythm to them, one that mercifully let Clark tune out the sound itself, and now that had gone to something choppier, more broken. Fear flooded him again, and he focused all his attention on Batman.

“Bruce?” he called softly. “Bruce, can you hear me?”

The broken cries didn’t change, but the head cradled against his chest held still and then nodded once.

“What’s wrong? Wait – is it safe to take the gag off?”

The sounds that Clark now recognized as sobbing grew quieter, and while that muscular frame was still tense, it was no longer fighting against him. Again, Bruce nodded.

“Alright, just give me a minute.”

Gingerly, he freed his arms and fumbled with stiff fingers at the knot. As the cloth fell out of Bruce’s mouth, a quiet keening sound escaped in the moment before he clamped his lips shut, trapping the whine in his throat. Two short, labored breaths followed.

“Hungry,” Batman whispered.

“Of course.” Relief chased the fear away, and Superman floated himself off the bed and over to where he’d left the bag of nutrient paste.

The nozzle’s cap was easy to get off, and Batman practically snatched it out of his hands to suck the paste down desperately, breathy little whimpers marking every exhalation. When about a third of the bag was empty, he released the nozzle with a hoarse groan. Superman caught it before it slipped entirely from his grasp.

“Talk to me,” Clark urged quietly. “What do you need?”

“Air,” came the whispered response, gloved fingers groping weakly at the cloth bundled on his side.

“Expose the wound to the air. Got it.”

Carefully, Superman peeled back the duct tape and lifted the terrycloth – not as bloodstained as he’d feared – from what was now a still-raw but no longer bleeding puncture wound. Bruce groaned again, clawing at his face, and sighed as he managed to pull the cowl back away from his face. His hair was sweaty and tousled. Panting, he rolled over onto his back. Then, surprisingly, his breathing evened out as he dropped into unconsciousness.

“Good idea,” Clark said quietly.

He tucked the bag into the crook of Batman’s arm in case he woke up again and then changed into his pajamas. This time, he was awake enough to be cognizant of the fact that while his bed was roomy for one big man, neither he nor Bruce were slight of build and Bruce was pretty well sprawled out. If Clark was going to get any sleep without forfeiting the bed, he was going to have to do some snuggling.

He wondered if he should feel guilty that he didn’t even hesitate.

It only made sense, he told himself as he wrapped one arm around Bruce’s outflung arm and draped the other over Batman’s chest. Not only did this position allow him to get his entire frame onto the bed without being in danger of falling off, but if Bruce woke up it would wake him up as well. And really, after the last four hours, it was incredibly comforting to feel the rise and fall of Batman’s chest as he slept.

 

What had to be a few hours later, Bruce shifted awkwardly and Clark came instantly awake.

“Bruce? What…?” Clark levered himself up and saw the other man wrestling with the bag of paste. “Right. Here, let me help.”

One arm behind Bruce’s shoulders, Clark lifted the other man up and scooted around to let him lean back against his chest while he held the bag and Bruce sucked down protein and glucose. He tried not to think about the dark hair pressed against his cheek or the way Batman wasn’t protesting the physical contact. This wasn’t…anything…it was just trust. One friend trusting the other to protect him in a time of weakness. He admired Bruce, respected him, drew strength from his determination and indomitable will. What he was doing now, that was a demonstration of respect. Bruce trusted him; he was acting in a way consistent with being worthy of that trust.

He realized that Bruce had once again dropped into sleep and sighed, grabbing the pillow he wasn’t sitting on and stuffing it between head and headboard. Compared with three hours of screaming torment, a few hours of sleep sitting up was nothing.

 

When Clark woke up next, the clock read 6:59 and Bruce was climbing out of bed, sucking the last mouthfuls of paste from the bag. He lunged for the clock before the alarm could go off.

“Bruce,” he said hesitantly, clock held in both hands, not looking at the other man. “I’ve got to grab a shower and go to work. I know it’s a little…bright…for your usual escape tactics, but you’re welcome to stay here until it gets dark. There’s food in the kitchen, towels in the linen closet, and my clothes should fit you pretty well. If you want.”

“I might just take you up on that,” Batman said grimly from behind him. “That gel takes a lot out of me, even with the nutrient paste. My main concern is that I don’t have an explanation for where Bruce Wayne was last night.”

Grinning, Clark glanced over his shoulder at him. “You could always tell the truth: Bruce Wayne spent the night at Clark Kent’s place.” The expression on Bruce’s face made the grin waver and fade. “What?”

“Clark…do you have any idea what you’re implying there?”

“That we’re good friends? You’re a multi-million-dollar CEO and I’m a reporter, but we have met before and it’s not entirely out of the realm of possibility…”

Bruce covered his face briefly. “Clark, are you serious about Lois?”

He frowned. “Of course. Why?”

“If word gets out that Bruce Wayne spent the night with you, she’s going to think you’re serious about me.”

“Oh.” The word hung between them. Clark had the feeling that Bruce was trying to hint at something more than ruining his chances with Lois, but whatever it was, he wasn’t getting the hint. “Well, I won’t say anything, but if it will keep your secret…I won’t hesitate.”

Batman scowled, and it was creepy to see that expression on Bruce’s naked face. “You’re willing to suffer that kind of gossip? I’ve already got a history of being overly-friendly with the ladies; it will hardly make a ripple if I expand my interests to men. But your reputation is somewhat cleaner than mine.”

Okay, now the implication was crystal-clear, and Clark felt like his face was on fire. Still, he was a man of his word and Bruce was a friend. “It’s better than both of our secrets getting out,” he insisted stubbornly.

“Go shower,” Bruce sighed.

 

Early in the evening, after a thankfully-quiet day reporting on the LexCorp-WayneTech robot found partially dismantled and inoperable, Clark entered his apartment with a bag of chinese take-out in one hand and a two-liter of root beer balanced in the crook of his arm while he wrestled the key out of the lock. Once he was inside, he kicked the door shut and left his burdens on the kitchen table before cautiously checking to see if he still had a guest. It wasn’t quite sundown yet, after all. The curtains were still drawn in the bedroom, and Bruce was curled up in his bed, dead to the world. There was a towel drying on the back of the chair, Batman’s costume was nowhere in sight, and Bruce was wearing powder-blue pajamas. A quick check of the kitchen showed that he’d eaten, at least: bologna and cheese sandwiches and a glass or two of milk. Not the stuff he was used to, no doubt, but better than nothing. The bathroom confirmed that Bruce had availed himself of the shower and scrubbed the bloodstains out of the Batsuit, which was hung on the shower rod to dry. Clark went back to the bedroom and sat on the bed.

“Hey, Bruce,” he said softly, one hand on his shoulder because it was better than the fleeting urge to run his fingers through that dark, messy hair. “Wake up, I brought chinese.”

Under the blanket, Bruce suddenly tensed. After a moment, he opened his eyes and half-glared up at Clark. “You didn’t have to do that.”

“Don’t care. I don’t keep much in the way of food, and I know you’re going to need some. C’mon, before it gets cold.” He stood up and started walking towards the kitchen. “I didn’t know what you liked, so I got a few things. Ginger beef, sweet and sour chicken, vegetable lo mein, pork fried rice, wonton soup, egg rolls, and an order of crab rangoons. Oh, and some root beer. They throw in a bottle for free if you spend over thirty dollars.”

Cheerfully, he unpacked the bag and opened all the containers before rummaging for paper plates, forks, and a pair of glasses. When he turned around with everything, Bruce was sitting at the table single-mindedly eating ginger beef with some of the disposable chopsticks they always threw in along with duck sauce, soy sauce, hot mustard, and a handful of fortune cookies. Wordlessly, he poured a glass of root beer and offered it to Bruce. Equally silent, Bruce took it, swallowed, and gulped down a third of the glass before returning to his meal. Clark sat and picked up an egg roll, more to have something to do with his hands than out of a need to eat, and watched in quiet admiration while Bruce made chopsticks look as effortless as everything else Batman did.

“What are you looking at?” Bruce demanded crankily the next time he stopped to drink.

“You,” Clark answered. “You look…” Cute. Adorable. Harmless. “…domestic. Also, I’m in awe that you can actually use those things.”

He grunted and put the ginger beef – or what was left of it – aside in favor of the lo mein. “I spent time in Japan,” he said shortly.

“I don’t think I’ve ever seen you eat.” Clark idly took a bite of his egg roll.

Bruce leveled a flat, unhappy look at him.

“It’s okay. I won’t tell anyone. It’s just…comforting, seeing you do normal human things like eat and sleep. It’s seeing the person behind the mask. You’re always so strong and invulnerable, and I just…” Clark shook his head. “You inspire me, but you also scare me a little.”

“So it’s reassuring, seeing that I’m a fragile human after all, is that it?”

The dark, angry tone made Clark sit up straight. “No, that’s not it at all! Bruce, you’re…” He sighed. “Before I chose to become Superman, I heard about the mysterious Batman in Gotham City. I thought I’d found someone else like me, who wasn’t entirely human, and who was putting his powers to use keeping innocents safe. I saw that I could do the same thing. When I found out you didn’t have powers…I didn’t believe it at first. It seems impossible for you to do the things Batman does and still be just a human. Knowing that you are, and how much work you put into it, just makes it more impressive. You’re usually so aloof, so untouchable, like if you got cut you’d bleed shadow or your circuits would be exposed or something. Seeing you like this…” Clark shook his head. “It’s not like seeing the curtain pulled back and having the Great and Mysterious Wizard of Oz revealed as a charlatan. It’s like being permitted to go behind the curtain and entrusted with the secret that the Great and Mysterious Wizard of Oz is just a man with a machine.”

Bruce drained his glass; Clark refilled it. “And now that you’ve seen behind the curtain?”

“I’m not scared of you anymore,” he answered softly. Then his eyes widened. “Wait, I didn’t mean it like that! You’re still scary and intimidating!”

“Digging yourself deeper, Kent,” Bruce growled around soft noodles.

Clark rubbed his eyes for a moment. “Okay. There’s two kinds of scaring. There’s when someone tries to be scary, and there’s when someone’s not trying to be scary but is anyway. Like when little kids are afraid of Santa. When you want to be scary, you’re damn scary. But you don’t accidentally scare me anymore when you’re not trying.”

“I’ll take that as a compliment,” Bruce said dryly.

“Good. I meant it as one.” Clark smiled at him and poured himself a glass of root beer. “So what are you going to say Bruce Wayne was up to last night? If anyone asks, of course.”

Bruce took a drink and put on a self-congratulatory expression. “I ran into a real knockout who swept me off my feet and took me home. Tall, dark hair, blue eyes, and…” He made vague, suggestive gestures over his chest then shook his head, grinning. “I’ve got to say – I’m not usually a screamer, but I was pretty hoarse by the time either of us got any sleep. We spooned for a while, and I wound up sleeping half the day, but I needed the rest after all that!”

He made it sound so…dirty, Clark thought, trying not to choke on his egg roll. He knew what had happened, knew every fact Bruce was referring to and what was being omitted, and it still sounded like he’d had several hours of sex with a well-endowed woman. “That’s…very convincing,” he muttered, aware that his face was quite red.

“I’ve had lots of practice,” Batman growled as he opened the container of wonton soup. Clark watched him pluck the wontons out and devour them whole before drinking half of the broth in one go. Then, amazingly, he laid down the chopsticks.

“Done already?” he joked.

Bruce eyed the nearly-empty container of ginger beef. “For the moment. I burn a lot of calories on a normal night; the gel accelerates that, too.”

“I guess you would, huh? Well, you’re welcome to it.” Clark grinned and took a drink of his root beer. “I mostly like just smelling it; that and sunlight are enough for me.”

“I’ll pay you back,” Bruce said shortly, reaching for the ginger beef and picking up the chopsticks again.

“You don’t have to do that.”

Batman’s glare was just as effective without the cowl. “I’ll. Pay. You. Back.”

“…right. Not arguing. You win. How do you do that?” he asked incredulously.

“Do what?” Bruce mumbled, mouth full.

Clark gestured with the half-eaten egg roll. “You’re sitting in my kitchen, wearing my pajamas, eating chinese take-out, and you’re still intimidating as hell when you want to be.”

Bruce half-choked, swallowed, and then threw his head back and laughed. It was the first time Clark had ever heard him laugh with genuine amusement, and he decided he liked the sound. By the time the other man’s mirth wound down, he was grinning.

“Only you, Clark,” Bruce said, shaking his head. “Only you.”

He didn’t give an answer or explanation, but Clark found that he didn’t care.