moonshadows

The fifth time was planned.

It was odd how nervous he felt as he checked the time and double-checked his preparations. Still, this would be the first time Batman came to spend the night without an injury, self-inflicted or otherwise, to explain his presence. The first time Bruce surrendered to Clark’s experience in taking an evening off and enjoying himself. So, really, it was just natural that he’d be nervous because Bruce was trusting him a lot, and he didn’t want to mess anything up.

To that end, he’d rented nearly a dozen DVDs.

Some of them were adult movies – classics and cheesy horror. Some were for kids, since he figured Bruce probably hadn’t seen any of them in a couple decades, although he’d tried to steer away from anything that involved absent or dead parents. And then there was the one he considered his ace in the hole: The Gray Ghost, Season 1, Volume 1. The entire show had been considered lost for a quarter of a century, and then suddenly the actor who’d played the main character had revealed his copies of the episodes. Now he was living in the lap of luxury thanks to DVD sales and a resurgence of the show’s former popularity. Clark hid that one at the bottom of the pile on the coffee table.

The microwave popcorn was in the microwave, ready to go. Water was simmering for hot cocoa, mugs all prepped and whipped cream in the fridge next to the root beer and chocolate syrup and milk. Vanilla ice cream sat in the freezer next to heavy glass tumblers. Bowls with spoons sat on the counter next to a shaker of rainbow sprinkles. The oven was pre-heated and a tray of ready-to-bake chocolate chip cookies sat on top of it. All the classics. Whatever kind of comfort food Bruce preferred while watching movies, he was ready to provide.

Of course, if he preferred real food, Clark had several take-out menus spread across the kitchen table and a hundred dollars of Bruce Wayne’s “consulting fee” by the phone. He didn’t doubt for a moment that snacks wouldn’t cut it; watching Bruce eat was a bewildering reminder of how much he’d have to eat if he didn’t mostly subsist on sunlight.

The quilt was folded and draped across one arm of the couch. On the other arm, the waterproof fleece. Bruce’s pajamas were laid out on the bed, and he was already wearing his. The curtains were all drawn, the balcony door unlocked. Everything was ready for Bruce…who was due any second. Assuming he kept his word and arrived on schedule. It had been like pulling teeth to get him to agree to this in the first place, even with Lois there to back him up on the importance of taking a night off before he needed it. But he hadn’t gotten a call from Alfred indicating that anything had come up, so there was no reason to think he wouldn’t be here. Not that that kept him from worrying. He was checking the time again and wondering if it would be out of place to call Wayne Manor when the curtains rustled almost imperceptibly and suddenly, Batman was glaring at him from halfway across the living room.

“I still don’t think this is necessary,” he growled, cape covering him from neck to floor, the surest sign of displeasure. “Penguin just went back to Arkham, and something like that always makes the scum of Gotham nervous enough to lay low for a while. Progress on the construction is going smoothly. Wayne Enterprises duties have been light, but there are half a dozen other things demanding my attention right now and I don’t need to waste time pandering to the notion that my inner child needs hugs.”

Anyone else would think Batman was truly upset. That he genuinely thought this was a waste of time. But anyone else would be wrong, because they’d never seen Batman give himself hypothermia to rationalize his need for simple human contact. Calmly, Clark stepped forward and slid his arms beneath the cape, hugging the rigid and seemingly hostile Dark Knight.

“I get that you don’t think you need to be here,” he said, head on the other man’s shoulder. “But do you want to be here?”

For a long moment, Batman just trembled slightly. It could have been rage, it could have been any emotion held in check so strongly that his muscles protested. Then he relented, the tension flowing out all at once, his cowled head on Clark’s shoulder, his gloved hands spread across Clark’s back as he returned the embrace. “Yes,” he whispered.

Clark hugged tighter, recognizing what it had cost Bruce to say that, reassuring him that it was okay. “I’ve got your PJs laid out on the bed all ready for you,” he said gently. “I can make popcorn, hot cocoa, root beer floats, ice cream sundaes, and chocolate chip cookies. There’s also take-out menus on the table if you want something else. What would you like to snack on while we watch movies?”

“You choose,” Bruce murmured. “I trust your judgment. I’ll probably eat all of it by the time we go to sleep.” That was mild apology; he didn’t want to intrude. Old habits die hard.

“We’ll start with cookies and cocoa, then.” Clark raised his head and kissed one cowled temple before releasing his guest. “Go change, and then you can pick out a movie while they bake.”

Batman nodded once, so seriously that Clark half expected him to leap over the wall instead of going up the stairs – but no, he stalked off silently and gracefully, leaving his host to smile and put the cookies in the oven.

When he emerged from the kitchen bearing two mugs of hot cocoa with whipped cream, Bruce was standing by the coffee table holding the stack of DVDs and discarding them one by one. Then he got to The Gray Ghost, and Clark thought he was going to cry.

“Bruce?”

“I used to watch this with my father,” he said, and his voice actually shook.

Clark felt like the biggest heel in the galaxy. “I’m sorry, Bruce, I didn’t know. We don’t have to-”

“We’re watching this.”

The words were hard, indisputable, and he blinked as Bruce opened the case, jaw clenched in determination. “Okay. Whatever you like.”

The DVD player sprang to life, dramatic brass fanfares backed by strings demanding attention as the menu appeared and a classic narrator announced the Gray Ghost, a ‘silent crusader’ who carried ‘the torch of justice’. Suddenly, Clark understood the other pressure that had led to Batman, and he thought he was going to cry. Bruce looked…happy. It was almost surreal. He wondered what Bruce had looked like as a child, if he’d sat on the couch or sprawled on the floor. If he’d worn that same expression, enraptured by the detective-crimefighter in the flowing cape. He wondered if Thomas Wayne had smiled at young Bruce’s enthusiasm, if Martha Wayne had watched from the doorway with tolerant amusement. He wondered if Bruce’s hero-worship would have faded if the Waynes had lived.

“The Gray Ghost was my hero,” Bruce murmured proudly, DVD case still clutched in his hands, admiration shining from his face as the opening sequence looped and played again. “It’s because of me that Simon Trent licensed his copies of the show for release.”

That was an opportunity, and Clark wasn’t going to waste it. He handed over one of the mugs and took the plastic case, placing it on the coffee table. “Yeah? Come into the kitchen and tell me about it; the cookies will be done in a few minutes.”

He followed like an overgrown duckling, both hands wrapped around his mug, and sat at the table while Clark checked the timer. “A toy collector got the idea to use the plot from the Mad Bomber episode to terrorize Gotham. I tracked Mr. Trent down as Batman and convinced him to help me solve the crime.” Cautiously, he sipped at the edge of his mug, slurping up the melted foam. “He was my hero, and I gave him hope. It’s not often that Batman can do that. But not just him – because of me, because of what we did, a piece of my childhood has been saved from obscurity. An entire generation can watch and enjoy The Gray Ghost, and I have some happy memories to relive for a change.”

Clark was grateful that the timer went off just then, because the matter-of-fact way Bruce had said that hurt. By the time he’d transferred the piping-hot cookies to a plate, he had his expression under control and could look at the other man without being afraid he’d ruin the mood with pity or tears. Bruce was happy, and that was too rare and precious a thing to risk spoiling.

“I never watched it, myself,” he said lightly. “Pa didn’t hold much with television when I was young.”

Bruce’s face lit up. “You mean I get to introduce you to my favorite television show, my hero, and the reason I became Batman rather than channeling my grief and rage into something even less productive and healthy?”

It would take a stronger man than Superman to not smile back. Clark didn’t even try. “Yup. Want any milk to go with these cookies before we settle in to watch?”

“I’m good with the cocoa.” He stood up, staring thoughtfully into his mug, then looked up at Clark. “Thank you for doing this. It really means a lot to me.”

He couldn’t hug with a plate of cookies in one hand and a mug of hot chocolate in the other, but he could and did lean in to kiss Bruce on the temple. “Thank you for letting me.”

Ma Kent’s quilt tucked around them, they sat close enough to touch and ate hot chocolate chip cookies while watching Have A Heart and Red Ghost Run. A brief pause while Clark scooped ice cream into tall glasses of root beer, and they sipped through The Claw and Take A Hike. Popcorn and more root beer for One On One and Dr. Death, and then the rest of the ice cream went into bowls to be slathered in chocolate syrup, whipped cream, and sprinkles. The look of sheer, childlike delight on Bruce’s face when he saw the sundaes warmed Clark more than the quilt did while they watched Jimmy’s Homecoming and The Doll Maker.

“I’m going to eat all your food at this rate,” Bruce murmured as the ending credits played.

Clark kissed his hair – easy to do, as he was nestled rather comfortably against the Man of Steel, and showing no inclination to move or even object to the arm around his shoulders. “I can order some. What would you like?”

“Something with grease and salt to balance out all the sugar.”

A comment leaped to mind, but Clark swallowed it. “I’m going to have to stand up, you know. To fetch the menus, at the minimum.”

Bruce groaned reluctantly as he sat up and freed himself from the quilt. “You’ve waited on me enough tonight.”

“And I’ll keep doing it,” he protested as they both stood. “You spend your days and nights doing things for other people. You deserve a night where you don’t have to do anything for anyone but yourself.”

He looked ready to argue for a moment, but it subsided.

“Come on,” Clark said, sliding one arm around Bruce’s waist and draping his over his shoulders. “Let’s go look at the menus.”

It was less awkward than he’d expected, walking hip to hip with Bruce. They separated in the kitchen, Clark going for the hundred-dollar bill he’d set by the phone while Bruce glanced over the choices and made thoughtful noises.

“This one,” he said decisively, and Clark dialed while he stared intently at the appetizer section.

“Hi, yes,” he said when Pizza Palace picked up. “Do you deliver appetizers and sides, or just pizza?”

“Just pizza,” came the apologetic voice on the other end. “Wait, your number – is this Clark Kent?”

He blinked. “Yes, this is Clark Kent.”

“For you, Mr. Kent, we deliver anything.”

“Great!” Was this what it was like to be rich? “I’d like to place an order for…” Eyebrows raised, he looked expectantly at Bruce, who pointed to items one by one. “…an order of cheese fries, three orders of chicken tenders, an order of mozzarella sticks, an order of fried mushrooms, and two orders of fried ravioli.”

“The ravioli and mozza sticks come with marinara sauce, you want anything else for dipping?”

“Do I want anything else besides marinara sauce for dipping…” he said, and Bruce nodded. “…what are my choices?”

“We got barbeque sauce, buffalo sauce, herbed butter, honey mustard, and ranch.”

Clark repeated the choices, watching Bruce for reactions. “Herbed butter and ranch, please.”

“You got it, Mr. Kent. Give us twenty minutes.”

“I think they like you,” Clark said after he agreed to the total and hung up.

“Me?” Bruce smiled innocently. “You’re the heavy tipper.”

“Yeah, but I only order when I’m feeding you,” Clark teased back, prodding the other man’s chest lightly and stopping just short of swooping in for a quick kiss. An electric shock of What am I doing? jolted up his spine. “Uh…have you done any thinking about what you want for yourself?” he asked lamely.

“Don’t rush me,” Batman growled, but there was no anger in it. “Knowing what I want and feeling like I deserve to have it are two very different things.”

It sounded like an invitation, it really did, but Clark knew this evening was already pushing boundaries. Slowly, deliberately, he put his arms around Bruce and pulled him close. This time, it took only a few breaths before he felt the hug being returned, and warm breath on his neck.

They stood like that, drifting in comfortable warmth, until a knock at the door sent them both into startled battle stances. Then they laughed sheepishly at themselves and Clark handed over the hundred-dollar bill in exchange for a stack of styrofoam containers.

“You go get settled,” he ordered cheerfully. “I’ll handle this. What would you like to drink?”

Bruce grinned. “The tears of my enemies. Failing that, I’ll settle for ice water.”

“Brat,” he shot back. “Go sit. I’ll be right there.”

Laughing, Bruce left the kitchen.

For Gray Ghost Returns, Bruce munched happily on cheese fries and mozzarella sticks. By the end of Missing Link, he was back to leaning comfortably against Clark while dunking fried ravioli in the marinara sauce. The Card Shark saw Clark holding a small tub of ranch dressing while Bruce devoured chicken tenders, and during Spy Smashers, Bruce held the butter while Clark dipped fried mushrooms in it and popped them into his guest’s mouth.

When the credits ended and the DVD returned to the main menu, Bruce hit eject on the remote and sighed.

“Something wrong?” Clark asked quietly, cheek nestled against the top of other man’s head.

“Yeah. I have to use your bathroom, but I don’t want to move.”

Clark laughed into Bruce’s hair. “You can always come back.”

“It won’t be the same,” he grumped. “Besides, it’s getting late for you.”

“Bed, then,” Clark said firmly. He didn’t exactly want to move, either – Bruce was a warm, comfortable weight in his arms and against his chest, and a part of him was afraid the walls would go back up as soon as they were out of physical contact. Still, he hugged the other man and then released him, tugging the quilt away and sneaking a kiss onto the back of his neck as they reluctantly sat up.

Bruce stood and stretched, then strode for the bathroom without a backwards glance. Clark sighed and returned the DVD to its case before gathering up the remnants of dinner and snacks and throwing them out or putting them in the dishwasher. By the time he had the lights off and was heading into the bedroom to set the alarm for five, Bruce was already under the blanket. Just as Clark feared, he was facing the window. After a moment, though, the fear faded. Tonight had been a repeated lesson in how Bruce dealt with relaxation and – if he dared think the words – physical intimacy. His pride, or maybe his issues, wouldn’t allow him to boldly take what he wanted. He wouldn’t look Clark in the eye and initiate a hug, for example. But he would allow Clark to make the first move, and he would ease himself backwards into a position of less than unassailable dignity. Turning his back like this wasn’t an attempt to wall himself away; it was simultaneously a concession to his conviction that he didn’t deserve what he wanted, and an invitation to Clark.

The realization that Bruce was saying yes by omission shook him enough that he nearly forgot to set the alarm.

Feeling much more optimistic about things, Clark slid into bed and pulled Bruce back against his chest. That they both sighed as their bodies fit neatly together wasn’t lost on him, and neither was the hand that covered his almost instantly. Contented silence billowed around them, settled like snow on Christmas Eve.

“Clark.”

The word was quiet, more so than a whisper, a subvocalization meant to only attract attention if he wasn’t asleep.

“Mm?”

Tension spread across the muscles that had been relaxed against his. “Are we…?”

Were they?

“Is that what you want?” he murmured into the other man’s ear.

“Not...entirely. Lois…”

Clark felt the same way, and it confused him. Wasn’t love supposed to be just two people? Was something wrong with him that he could lie here with Bruce in his arms and enjoy it, but wish at the same time that the evening they’d just spent together could be replicated with her instead? If she and Bruce spent an evening watching movies and cuddling, feeding each other and sleeping together, would he have a right to feel the jealousy that surged up at that thought? No, he realized. Not jealous. Afraid. He was afraid that any of them would choose one of the others, leaving the third heartbroken and alone, and his arms tightened around Bruce.

“I don’t mind sharing you,” he said slowly, terrified of each word but even more scared of what would happen if he weren’t absolutely clear about this. “I only hope you and she feel the same way.”

“If she doesn’t, I won’t stand in your way.”

“If she doesn’t,” he countered firmly, “she has the right to choose.”

“And if she only choses one of us?” The words were bitter, old blood flaking from wounds sustained during a lifetime of loss and denial.

Clark threw caution to the wind. “I won’t abandon you,” he promised, lips worrying gently at the shell of Bruce’s ear. “You came to me bleeding. I couldn’t turn you away then, and I won’t turn you away ever. No matter who else…for either of us…I want this.”

“Don’t rush me.” The words were clipped, but not angry.

“Alright,” Clark breathed, settling back down with a bit of effort.

Bruce sighed again, tension melting away everywhere but the hand still tight around his. “You’ve got it,” he half-pled quietly. “For as long as you want it, you’ve got it.”

He couldn’t resist a little teasing. “Now who’s the pushover?”

The laughter that was sweeter than sunlight washed gently over him. “Goodnight, Clark.”

“Goodnight, Bruce.”