Archive of Our Own

Bruce’s nose was broken.

Not bruised. Not slightly cracked. Broken. Swollen, throbbing, and making every breath a lesson in pain tolerance.

It had happened about three hours ago in a warehouse takedown that should have been routine. Should have--except the guy he’d been fighting had been stronger than expected. A lucky hit, a badly timed dodge, and crack--Bruce had barely stopped himself from slumping against the nearest crate.

It wasn’t the worst injury he’d had. Hell, it wasn’t even in his top twenty. But it was annoying. And worse, it meant he couldn’t wear the cowl without making it worse.

Which was how he ended up walking into the Justice League meeting wearing only a domino mask.

The reaction was immediate.

Hal Jordan, halfway through sitting down, missed his chair completely. Barry Allen audibly choked on his energy bar. Diana--bless her--managed to keep a straight face, but Bruce could feel her amusement.

Clark.

Clark had frozen completely, one hand resting on the table, eyes locked onto Bruce like he’d been hit over the head with a Kryptonite brick.

Bruce sighed and pulled out his chair. “We’re starting or what?”

There was a long, stunned silence.

Then--

“You have a face?” Barry finally said, voice borderline scandalized.

Bruce pinched the bridge of his nose--immediately regretting it when pain flared. “Of course I have a face.”

“Yeah, but like--” Barry waved his hands. “I just assumed you were, I don’t know. Scarred. Deformed. Some kind of Nosferatu situation under there.”

Hal shook his head, still looking baffled. “Nah, man. That’s not Nosferatu. That’s some leading man jawline bullshit. What the hell.”

Bruce exhaled sharply, already regretting this. “We have a meeting to get through--”

Diana, ever patient, gestured toward his face. “You’re injured.”

“It’s fine.”

“It’s broken,” Clark said. His voice was weirdly tight.

Bruce looked at him again. Clark still hadn’t moved. His eyes were a little wide, pupils blown in a way Bruce couldn’t quite place. He was staring like he was seeing Batman for the first time.

Bruce frowned. “Kent.”

Clark startled. “Yeah?”

“You okay?”

He frowned. “Yeah?”  

Bruce tilted his head slightly. Clark was still staring.  

“You sure?” Bruce pressed.  

Clark’s mouth opened. Then closed. Then opened again, like his brain had short-circuited. “I just--uh.” He blinked, visibly struggling to string words together. “Didn’t expect you to look like that.”  

Bruce narrowed his eyes. “Like what?”  

Clark immediately backpedaled. “Nothing. You just--you--uh--” He cut himself off and dragged a hand through his hair like that would somehow help.  

Diana, the absolute traitor, smirked. “Breathe, Superman.”  

Clark inhaled sharply, jaw clenching.  

Bruce arched a brow, unimpressed. “Are we actually going to have a meeting, or did you all just clear your schedules to be idiots?”  

“That depends,” Hal muttered, still squinting at him. “Is this a one-time thing, or are you just hot all the time?”  

Bruce exhaled through his nose. His very broken nose. “I will leave.”  

“No, you won’t,” Diana said, sounding entirely too amused.  

Bruce hated that she was right.  

Clark still hadn’t looked away. His expression was locked somewhere between processing and actively malfunctioning. Bruce wasn’t sure why that was so interesting to watch.  

He did know that Clark was acting weird. Weirder than everyone else, and that was saying something.  

Not that Bruce should be surprised. Things between him and Superman had always been…odd.  

For years, their dynamic had been a balancing act--rivalry wasn’t the right word, but neither was friendship. They worked well together, trusted each other in the field, but there had always been something lingering between them.  

Something sharp and charged and frustratingly unspoken.  

Bruce wasn’t even sure when it had started. Maybe from the beginning, back when they first met and immediately tested each other’s limits--Bruce, with his paranoia and careful contingencies; Clark, with his relentless optimism and refusal to be intimidated.  

They were opposites in too many ways, and yet, it had always felt inevitable that they’d end up orbiting each other.  

And Clark--Clark--had always looked at him differently.  

Bruce had caught it a few times before, in those rare, unguarded moments. A lingering glance, an almost-there smile, something nearly fond hidden behind exasperation. 

There were days when Bruce felt as though they danced around each other--no words, just glances and barely-there smiles. Moments where he’d catch Clark looking at him differently. A gaze that lingered too long, a flicker of something beneath that ever-present facade of calm. Almost fond.

He’d never been able to pinpoint it--too many years of trying to ignore the feeling, too many hours spent focused on the mission, on the next imminent threat. But Clark’s eyes had always been something different. Something that made his heart skip for a fraction of a second every time their paths crossed.

But now?  

Now, Clark wasn’t even trying to hide it.  

Bruce watched as Clark swallowed hard, eyes dragging over his features like he was trying to memorize them.  

Something about that made heat curl in Bruce’s stomach.  

“Oh my God,” Barry muttered suddenly, breaking the silence. “I just realized something.”  

Bruce dragged his gaze away from Clark. “What?”  

Barry pointed at him, then at Clark, then back again. “You guys flirt.”  

The room went dead silent.  

Clark immediately tensed. “What? No, we don’t.”  

Barry threw his hands up. “Oh, come on.” He looked around the table, like he was waiting for backup. “No one else sees it?”  

Hal snorted. “I see it. I’ve seen it for years.”  

Bruce kept his expression blank. “This conversation is over.”  

“Okay, but do you?” Barry pressed, eyes flicking between them. “Flirt, I mean?”  

Bruce’s jaw tightened. Clark looked seconds away from jumping out the nearest airlock.  

Which meant the answer was obvious.  

Barry gaped. “Holy shit.”  

Clark groaned, dropping his head into his hands.  

Bruce sighed. This was going to be a long meeting. 

Clark still hadn’t recovered.

Bruce could see him struggling--his shoulders tense, his hands flexing at his sides as if he didn’t know what to do with them. It was almost fascinating to watch, especially considering how composed Clark usually was. The Man of Steel, the epitome of calm and control, now looked flustered. Rattled.

Bruce had spent years analyzing Superman. Studying him from every angle--his movements, his subtle expressions, the tiny tells that Clark couldn’t hide even on his best days. Over time, Bruce had cataloged every little detail. He could read Superman like an open book, knowing the things that would make him tick, knowing what would get under his skin.

And in turn, Clark had learned the same about Bruce, though perhaps not as thoroughly. Still, the familiarity between them had always been undeniable. They had always been able to anticipate each other’s next move--whether on the battlefield or during a quiet conversation.

But now, in this moment, Clark was anything but predictable.

He was lost.

His mind was whirring, working overtime, trying to reconcile what he was seeing--what he was feeling--with everything he had known about Bruce Wayne up until this point. Bruce knew it, could see it in the tightness of his jaw, the way his eyes refused to leave him. His thoughts were a million miles away, but they were stuck in this moment--locked on Bruce in a way that made something inside him tighten.

Clark Kent, struggling to process something that wasn’t supposed to be a problem.

Bruce almost wanted to smirk. Almost.

But he knew better.

Diana cleared her throat, shaking her head in amusement. “If we could all focus--” 

Barry, still grinning like he’d just discovered the secrets of the universe, flopped into his chair. “Right, right. Important League business. Totally.”  

Hal snickered. “Yeah, totally not just waiting to see which one of them breaks first.”  

Bruce shot him a warning look.  

Clark made a strangled noise.  

Diana sighed. “Children, the lot of you.”  

Bruce turned his attention to the actual reason they were here--a debrief on recent League activity. It should have been a simple meeting. Easy.  

Except Clark still wasn’t looking at him.  

Or rather--he was trying very hard to make it seem like he wasn’t looking at him. 

Bruce could feel it. Every few minutes, Clark’s eyes would flick over, only for him to snap his attention back to whatever nonsense Barry was spewing.  

Bruce tilted his head slightly, watching him.  

Clark shifted uncomfortably.  

Interesting.  

He shouldn’t be entertained by this. He really shouldn’t. But there was something deeply satisfying about watching Superman squirm.  

Bruce let it go on for another ten minutes. Then, just to see what would happen, he caught Clark’s gaze and raised an eyebrow.  

Clark inhaled sharply.  

Bruce blinked, startled by the reaction. Clark had looked at him in a lot of different ways before--annoyed, frustrated, exasperated beyond all mortal comprehension--but this?  

This was different.  

Clark’s eyes were dark. Heated in a way that made something uncoiling and restless settle in Bruce’s chest.  

Clark clenched his jaw and tore his gaze away.  

Bruce smirked. Gotcha.  

“Okay,” Barry said loudly, his voice cutting through the thick tension in the room like a brick through glass. “I literally cannot focus on this meeting anymore. Can we just--can you guys just make out already?”  

Bruce froze. His muscles tensed, and for a brief, heart-stopping moment, he almost wished he had stayed in the shadows of the Batcave instead of walking into this... circus.  

Clark choked on nothing, a strangled noise escaping him as he stumbled to form words, his eyes wide, looking like someone had just doused him with cold water.  

Diana, ever the composed warrior, pressed her fingers to her temple, rubbing small circles as if trying to ease the migraine that was surely forming. “Barry--” she began, her tone already exhausted.  

But Barry was relentless, completely undeterred by the chaos he’d just unleashed. “No, seriously,” he pressed, grinning like a kid in a candy store. “I have literally been watching this slow-burn disaster for years, and I swear to God, if you two don’t do something about it soon, I’m going to lose my mind.”  

The room seemed to hold its breath for a beat, the awkward silence lingering like a thick fog that no one knew how to clear. Bruce could feel it, the eyes of everyone on him, and though he was usually impervious to scrutiny, this was different. This was... Barry.  

Hal, standing off to the side, nodded sagely, a smirk dancing at the corner of his lips. “He’s not wrong,” he said with a shrug, clearly enjoying the show.  

Bruce could feel his heart rate pick up, his face starting to burn, but he refused to let it show. This was a tactic--one of Barry’s ridiculous, impulsive ways of cutting through the tension. But Bruce wasn’t sure what was worse: the fact that Barry had said it so loudly or the fact that, deep down, he wasn’t entirely wrong.  

Clark, however, was not having any of it. Another strangled noise escaped him, his face quickly flushing a shade of red that could rival the brightest supernova. “We are not--” he started, but Bruce could hear the uncertainty in his voice, the confusion over how to handle the situation. He hadn’t expected this.  

“I hate all of you,” Bruce muttered, his voice low and full of the frustration that had been building for weeks, months, maybe even longer.  

He should have known. He should have known that this was the moment it would all come out. And he hated that Barry had to be the one to drag it out of him.  

But as Bruce leaned back in his chair, trying to reclaim some semblance of composure, he couldn’t help but feel the weight of everyone’s gaze. It was one thing to deal with the unspoken tension between himself and Clark. It was another to have every single member of the Justice League practically waiting for him to make the first move.  

Barry, with his usual lack of any filter, turned to Diana as if this were the most casual conversation in the world. “Can we vote on it? League consensus?” he asked, clearly not expecting anything but full support.  

Diana, who was nothing if not pragmatic, shot him a flat look. “This is not a democracy, Barry,” she said, her voice dripping with the kind of exhaustion that only dealing with Barry Allen could bring.  

But Barry wasn’t giving up that easily. His grin only widened, his energy almost bouncing off the walls. “It should be,” he said, his words laced with a mischievous sort of glee that made Bruce want to sink into the floor and disappear entirely.  

Bruce pinched the bridge of his nose--then immediately regretted it when pain flared. He exhaled sharply, forcing himself to ignore the throbbing in his face.  

Clark, despite his obvious distress, was watching him again. His brows knit together, concern flickering across his features.  

Bruce met his gaze. “I’m fine.”  

Clark frowned, unconvinced.  

Bruce just stared back, waiting.  

For a long moment, neither of them looked away.  

The rest of the League went silent.  

Barry’s gaze darted between them, eyes narrowing. “Oh my God, they’re doing the intense eye contact thing.”  

Bruce ignored him.  

He kept his eyes locked on Clark, deliberately keeping his expression unreadable. But Clark... Clark was watching him too, and Bruce could feel the change in the air. The tension shifted, and where there had once been only confusion or concern, something else began to take shape. It was subtle at first, like a shadow creeping across Clark’s face.  

But then Bruce saw it.  

It wasn’t concern anymore.  

It wasn’t confusion.  

It was something else entirely. Something quiet. Something heavy. Something intensely focused, like Clark had finally figured out exactly what he wanted. Or, more likely, what he needed.  

Bruce’s pulse picked up. It wasn’t supposed to feel like this. He wasn’t supposed to feel this--this awareness--when everything between them had always been so carefully balanced. But now? Now, it was all too much.  

Clark swallowed hard, and Bruce’s gaze flickered to the motion. That slight change in Clark’s throat, the way his eyes stayed locked on him, told Bruce more than words ever could.  

Barry couldn’t take it anymore. His chair squealed as he shot upright, bouncing on his heels, the words spilling out in an excited rush. “I knew it.”  

Bruce clenched his jaw. His face felt hot, but he didn’t move. He couldn’t--because if he did, if he even flinched, it would only make this whole thing worse.  

“This meeting is over,” Bruce muttered, his voice a low growl. He made it sound like it was a decision made for the benefit of the League. But it was for him. For them.  

Clark didn’t hesitate. Without missing a beat, he stood. “Agreed.”

Barry’s excited muttering grew louder. “I knew it!”  

But Bruce didn’t hear him anymore. He was already walking out the door, the heavy sound of his boots against the floor a steady rhythm in the tense silence.  

He didn’t walk quickly. He didn’t run. There was no sense of escape in his movement, no frantic need to get away. It was deliberate. Measured. Every step taken with purpose.  

But Clark... Clark was right behind him.  

He was still there, that presence, close enough that Bruce could feel it. That damn intensity Clark always carried with him, like a force of nature. Bruce could hear the slight shift in Clark’s movements, the way his footsteps didn’t falter, didn’t hesitate. Clark was with him--just behind him, just there. And Bruce could feel the weight of that, pressing on him, making the air feel impossibly heavy.  

It wasn’t uncomfortable.  

It wasn’t unwanted.  

But it was dangerous.  

For years, Bruce had avoided it. He’d buried it, tucked it away, keeping it locked up in the back of his mind. But now? Now it was impossible to ignore. And it was too late to pretend it didn’t matter anymore.  

Clark was still there.  

And Bruce had no idea how to fix this. How to undo the years of nothing between them.  

He didn’t even know if he wanted to fix it.  

They didn’t speak. Not as they moved through the Watchtower halls, not as they turned down the quieter corridors, away from the others. There was nothing but the sound of footsteps and the dull hum of the station around them.  

It wasn’t tense, exactly. But it wasn’t not tense either.  

Bruce wasn’t even sure where he was going--just that he needed to move.  

Clark followed.  

Eventually, Bruce reached a quiet observation deck. A wide, reinforced window stretched across the wall, revealing the Earth below, spinning in the dark.  

He stopped.  

Clark did too.  

Silence stretched between them.  

Then--  

“Bruce.”  

It wasn’t the first time Clark had said his name. He’d said it plenty of times before, in briefings, in battles, in low conversations at 3 a.m. when neither of them could sleep.  

But this--this was different.  

Bruce turned.  

Clark’s expression was unreadable. “That was--” He exhaled. “That was a lot.”  

Bruce arched a brow. “You think?”  

Clark huffed a laugh, but there was a tightness to it. He glanced away, then back again, jaw clenching like he was trying to hold something in.  

Bruce watched him carefully. “You’ve been acting strange all day.”  

Clark made a face. “Not my fault.”  

Bruce tilted his head. “No?”  

“No.” Clark took a tentative step closer, his gaze locked on Bruce’s, searching him with an intensity that made Bruce's stomach tighten in a way he didn’t quite understand. His hands were slightly trembling, his shoulders tense, but his eyes--those eyes--seemed to be trying to convey something more. Something that Bruce was very reluctant to acknowledge.

“You just--” Clark faltered, swallowing hard as he took another half-step forward. “You caught me off guard.”

Bruce narrowed his eyes, his usual sharpness in full force. “By existing?” he quipped, his voice dry.

Clark’s gaze softened for the briefest of moments, the edges of his usual confidence cracking. “By looking like that,” he finally said, his voice low, almost... sheepish.

Bruce blinked, unable to fully process what had just been said. His mind raced, but it stalled at the edges of Clark's words. That? What did he mean by that? He was about to say something--maybe snarky, maybe cutting--but before he could open his mouth, Clark ran a frustrated hand through his messy hair, eyes widening in disbelief, as if the words had slipped out before he could stop them.

“I mean--God.” Clark’s voice came out in a breathless rush, clearly flustered. He exhaled sharply, like he was trying to regain control of a situation that was now spiraling beyond him. “I don’t even know how to explain it.”

Bruce tilted his head, his lips quirking into something that bordered on a smirk, but it didn’t quite reach his eyes. He crossed his arms over his chest, the steady, almost mocking demeanor never wavering. “Explain it then. I’m listening.”

Clark let out a heavy sigh, shoulders slumping as if the weight of the world had just settled on them. His gaze dropped to the floor, not meeting Bruce’s anymore, and when he spoke again, his voice was quieter, almost like a confession. “Look,” he started, his words slow and deliberate, “I-- I’ve been trying to ignore it for years.”

Bruce raised an eyebrow. Years? The statement hung between them, confusing and far too significant to ignore, but he remained silent, waiting for Clark to finish. To say whatever it was he was so clearly holding back.

Clark exhaled sharply, his chest rising with the effort. His face was a mix of exasperation and something softer--a vulnerability Bruce rarely saw. “But today… just, today, it made me realize I can’t,” he continued, voice tightening with emotion. “I can’t keep pretending it’s nothing. Pretending it’s just--” He broke off, and his hands flexed at his sides, like he was trying to contain something bigger than him. “I can’t keep ignoring you, Bruce.”

Bruce stilled at the words, his heartbeat suddenly thundering in his ears. Something shifted in the air, thick and charged, and it was hard to breathe with it pressing in around them. He had been so focused on controlling the situation, maintaining that perfect, calm façade, but now? Now the truth hung between them, naked and undeniable.

His mouth felt dry as he swallowed, words stuck somewhere in his chest. His usual sharp wit failed him. He wasn’t sure what he was even supposed to say to that. 

Clark wasn’t looking at him now, eyes staring at the floor like he was bracing for the inevitable rejection. Bruce’s mind raced, spinning with confusion and curiosity, his thoughts jumbled. How long had Clark been feeling this way? Had he always been this aware of it, or had it only just clicked for him? 

He’d always known there was something there--a spark of tension between them that had never quite dissipated. But hearing Clark admit it, saying it out loud? That was something else entirely. Something that Bruce hadn’t been prepared for.

Slowly, Bruce let out a breath, his mind scrambling to make sense of the confession. His voice came out rougher than he’d intended. “You’re not making sense,” he murmured, his heart hammering uncomfortably in his chest.  

Clark’s head shot up, eyes wide, and in that moment, Bruce realized Clark had expected him to be angry. Or maybe even to pull back entirely. To deflect it, dismiss it, like he usually did with everything else. But Bruce wasn’t sure he could do that now. Not with the way Clark was looking at him--like he was more open than Bruce had ever seen.

“I--I know I’m not,” Clark admitted, his voice barely a whisper, but there was something raw in it, something vulnerable. “I just… I needed to say it, Bruce. I can’t keep pretending like it doesn’t matter.” He let out a frustrated noise, the tension thick in the air as he struggled to make his feelings clear, but it was like the words just kept slipping through his fingers.

Bruce stood there, unmoving, processing what had just been said. What it meant. He wanted to argue, to shove this feeling back down where it had been hidden for years. But something about Clark’s open, vulnerable honesty struck a chord in him, a chord Bruce didn’t know he had.

For a long moment, neither of them spoke, the weight of the air between them almost unbearable. 

Suddenly Clark dragged a hand down his face, looking both tired and deeply, deeply frustrated. “Do you have any idea how unfair you are?”  

Bruce frowned. “Unfair how?”  

Clark gestured vaguely in his direction. “This. You.” His voice was fraying at the edges. “You drive me insane, Bruce. You always have. You’re--” He cut himself off, shaking his head. “I don’t know when it started. I just know I can’t stop it.”  

Bruce’s heart was pounding. 

It was the kind of pulse that ran through him like the frantic beat of a war drum, louder with every passing second. His chest felt tight, constricted, like he couldn’t take a full breath even if he tried. There was a strange, unnerving stillness in the air around them, as if time itself had stopped--holding its breath along with him.

He hadn’t moved. Hadn’t breathed. Hadn’t let himself hope.

But Clark... Clark was different. He wasn’t hiding anything. Every inch of him was out there, raw and unguarded, and it made Bruce’s thoughts scatter like debris in a storm. It made him forget what he’d been planning to say, the carefully constructed walls he’d built to protect himself from... from this.

Clark clenched his fists, the tension radiating off him in waves. “And then today, you walk in looking like that, and I--” His words stumbled out, tangled in frustration, his shoulders tight, like he was at war with himself. He exhaled deeply, dragging a hand over his face as if trying to clear his thoughts. “I broke.”

The confession hung in the air between them, heavy with meaning. Bruce’s throat tightened, dry, like he’d forgotten how to speak. He should say something. He should respond, but the words wouldn’t come. His chest felt like it was full of bricks, his usual control slipping through his fingers like sand.

He could hear the thud of his pulse in his ears, the desperate need to do something--to answer, to make the world make sense again. But his mind kept returning to Clark’s words: I broke. 

Clark wasn’t done, though. Of course he wasn’t. Clark never was. He was too honest, too open, too real to just let this go. And Bruce? Bruce had spent so long running from what was right in front of him that he didn’t know how to handle it when it hit him like this--so raw, so exposed.

Clark’s eyes flickered up, that intense gaze locking onto Bruce’s, sharp and unbearably open, like Clark was daring him to see the truth. Daring him to look deeper. “Tell me I’m wrong.”

Bruce inhaled sharply, his lungs seizing at the simple command. 

Because he couldn’t. 

Because Clark was right.

Because that thing between them--the thing Bruce had been avoiding, the thing they’d both been dancing around for so long--wasn’t some fleeting moment or passing tension. It was real. It had always been there, lurking beneath the surface, unspoken but undeniable. And now, standing so close to Clark, feeling the weight of his gaze, the quiet desperation in his voice, Bruce realized that the truth had never been clearer.

He’d spent so long pretending it wasn’t there--burying it, rationalizing it, hiding from it. But Clark was making him face it. And he couldn’t hide anymore.

Clark’s jaw clenched, his expression hardening with frustration. He took another step forward, closing the distance between them until the air between them felt impossibly thick. “Tell me I’m wrong,” he repeated, his voice lower this time, rougher around the edges. The words were a plea, desperate, but there was a hardness to it--like he was daring Bruce to deny what they both knew.

“Tell me I’m the only one feeling this, and I’ll drop it. I swear.”

Bruce didn’t move. Not even an inch.

Clark’s gaze didn’t falter. It was heavy. Unshakable. It felt like it was pulling Bruce in, making the whole world shrink down to just the two of them, standing there in the thick silence. Bruce could hear every breath, feel every inch of his own body trembling with the weight of the moment.

Bruce still didn’t move. He couldn’t. He was caught in a web of his own making, tangled in the threads of his own denial. And no matter how hard he tried to fight it, he knew, deep down, that Clark was right.

His breath was uneven now, sharp and ragged in the quiet.

Clark’s breath was too.

The space between them felt thin. Fraying at the edges.  

And Bruce--Bruce-- 

Bruce reached up.  

Slow. Measured. No hesitation.  

And touched Clark’s face. 

Clark inhaled sharply, eyes going wide.  

Bruce didn’t pull away.  

Clark didn’t pull away. 

Instead--slowly, carefully--Clark’s hand came up, covering Bruce’s, pressing it against his cheek like he needed it.  

And that--that--was the moment Bruce gave in.  

The moment he let himself give in.  

Because God help him, he wanted this.  

He wanted this.  

And so, finally--finally--  

He kissed him.  

Clark made a sound--half surprise, half something else--and then he was kissing back, all warmth and intensity and God, why did we wait this long?  

Bruce exhaled sharply against his lips, and Clark pressed closer, one hand settling at Bruce’s waist, the other sliding up to cup his jaw.  

Bruce let himself lean into it. Let himself take.  

Let himself have.  

Because for once--for once--he wasn’t going to fight it.  

Not when Clark was right here, breathing against his skin, holding him like something precious.  

Not when it had always--always--been inevitable.  

And Bruce?  

Bruce had never been good at fighting fate.  

Clark kissed like he meant it. Like he felt it. Like he'd been waiting for years and had no idea how to pace himself now that it was finally happening.  

Bruce understood the feeling.  

Clark’s lips were warm, pressing firm and insistent against his. The hand at his waist tightened, just enough to make Bruce feel it, like Clark needed proof that this was real, that Bruce wasn’t going to disappear the second he let go.  

Bruce wasn’t going anywhere.  

He curled his fingers into the front of Clark’s suit and pulled him closer.  

Clark made a low sound against his mouth--almost a growl, almost a sigh--and Bruce shivered, because he’d never heard that from him before. It sent something molten curling through his chest, heating him from the inside out.  

Clark must have felt it too, because suddenly Bruce was the one being pushed back, pressed against the reinforced glass of the observation deck. The cold shock of it grounded him for exactly half a second before Clark’s hands--big, warm, steadying--settled at his hips.  

Bruce exhaled sharply through his nose, tilting his head just enough to deepen the kiss. Clark groaned quietly, fingers flexing against his waist. His other hand drifted up, brushing against Bruce’s jaw, careful and deliberate.  

Bruce felt the way Clark hesitated slightly when his fingertips skimmed over his bruised face--like some part of him was still worried, even now, even as Bruce was kissing him like he needed it.  

So Bruce made a point to bite his lip, just to make Clark stop hesitating.  

Clark’s breath hitched. His grip tightened.  

And then--then--Clark stopped holding back.  

Bruce barely had a second to react before he was being kissed like Clark wanted to devour him.  

Like Clark owned him.  

Bruce made a noise--sharp, surprised, wrecked--and Clark swallowed it, mouth hot and insistent against his, all warmth and pressure and weight.  

Bruce dug his fingers into Clark’s suit, desperate for something to hold onto. His back pressed harder against the glass, and Clark slotted himself between his legs, bracing him against the window.  

Bruce should have been annoyed by the manhandling.  

He wasn’t.  

Clark was holding him like he was something worth holding onto. Like Bruce was something he couldn’t bear to lose.  

Bruce had never been kissed like this before.  

Not ever.  

It was intoxicating. Overwhelming.  

And he wanted more.  

Clark must have felt the same, because his hands were everywhere--skimming up Bruce’s sides, down his back, fingers pressing into his hips like he was trying to memorize the shape of him.  

Bruce was dizzy. 

Clark pulled back just enough to rest their foreheads together, breathing hard.  

Bruce’s pulse was pounding.  

Clark let out a shaky breath. “Jesus, Bruce.”  

Bruce swallowed, trying to get his brain to work. “If you’re about to say that was a mistake--”  

Clark huffed out a breathless laugh, fingers curling against his waist. “No.” He shook his head, brushing his forehead lightly against Bruce’s before pulling back enough to look at him. “Not a mistake.”  

Bruce met his gaze.  

Clark’s eyes were burning.  

There was no uncertainty there. No doubt.  

Bruce exhaled, tilting his head. “Good.”  

Clark made a sound low in his throat, a mix of frustration and something Bruce couldn’t quite place. His hands tightened briefly at Bruce’s waist, pulling him in just a little bit closer, the heat of his touch making Bruce’s breath hitch. But then, slowly--reluctantly--Clark forced himself to step back, his hands falling away, leaving nothing but the space between them.  

Bruce felt the absence immediately. The sudden chill where Clark’s warmth had been, like an invisible tether snapping taut in the air. It was disorienting, how empty it felt.  

Clark scrubbed a hand through his hair, looking wrecked. His usual perfect composure was gone, leaving behind something more raw, something Bruce found far too appealing. The way Clark’s shoulders were slumped, the way his chest rose and fell with deep, uneven breaths--it was almost like he was unraveling before Bruce’s eyes.  

"We just made out on the Watchtower," Clark said, his voice almost incredulous, as if the words were still sinking in, like he hadn’t quite processed it yet.  

Bruce arched an eyebrow, amused. “You needed a different location?”  

Clark gave him a look--a mix of exasperation and amusement--and then shook his head with a breathless laugh, as if trying to keep the situation from spiraling into something too serious. “No, I just... I can’t believe that actually happened.”  

Bruce’s smirk deepened, his lips still tingling with the warmth of Clark’s kiss. “You should have done it years ago.”  

Clark groaned, rubbing both of his hands over his face in an exaggerated motion, like he was trying to hide from the overwhelming mix of emotions that was clearly flooding through him. “Don’t say that, I already have regrets.”  

Bruce’s tone was playful but laced with something deeper. “I don’t.”  

Clark stilled at that, his hands slowly lowering from his face, the weight of Bruce’s words hanging in the air between them. His expression softened, and for the first time, Clark’s gaze wasn’t filled with uncertainty or hesitation. It was just soft. It was like the mask Clark always wore had cracked, just a little.  

Something warm curled in Bruce’s chest.  

Clark stepped forward again, close enough that Bruce could feel the heat of him, but not touching. “I really, really want to kiss you again,” Clark admitted, voice quiet.  

Bruce felt his lips twitch. “Then do it.”  

Clark let out a breath--then did exactly that.

Bruce wasn’t sure how long they stayed there, wrapped up in each other, pressed against the reinforced glass with Earth spinning behind them. Time felt strange--stretched thin and heavy all at once.  

Eventually, Clark pulled back just enough to rest his forehead against Bruce’s again, their breathing still uneven. “This is gonna change things,” he murmured.  

Bruce huffed, fingers still curled in the front of Clark’s suit. “You think?”  

Clark let out a breathless laugh, but there was something real behind it--something unshakable.  

Bruce knew what this meant.  

This wasn’t some heat-of-the-moment thing. It wasn’t impulsive. It wasn’t just about attraction.  

They knew each other too well for that.  

Clark searched his face. “You okay?”  

Bruce let himself feel it--the weight of Clark’s hands on him, the warmth lingering between them, the way Clark was looking at him, like Bruce was something worth keeping.  

Like he wasn’t going to let this slip through his fingers.  

Bruce exhaled, then nodded. “Yeah.”  

Clark studied him for a moment longer, as if making sure--then smiled.  

And God, that smile.  

Bruce was so screwed.  

Clark took a slow step back, like it physically pained him to move away, and Bruce immediately felt the absence of him.  

There was a beat of silence, filled with nothing but the hum of the station and the distant sound of the League still in the main conference hall.  

Then--  

“We should probably go back before they think I murdered you,” Bruce said dryly.  

Clark grinned. “Oh, they definitely think something happened.”  

Bruce tilted his head. “You sure you want to walk in together?”  

Clark raised an eyebrow. “Bruce, I literally hear your heartbeat. You think anyone in that room doesn’t already know?”  

Bruce scowled. “I hate you.”  

Clark just smirked. “No, you don’t.”  

Bruce rolled his eyes, but Clark was right, and they both knew it.  

With a final glance at each other, they turned back toward the meeting hall, walking side by side.  

Bruce could already feel the League’s eyes on them before they even stepped through the doors.  

Diana had her arms crossed, looking far too knowing. Hal’s mouth was slightly open, like he wasn’t sure if he should ask or just accept the inevitable.  

Barry looked like he was dying to say something.  

Bruce didn’t give them the satisfaction.  

He just took his seat, straightened his shoulders, and said, “Let’s continue.”  

The meeting went on.  

But Clark kept sneaking glances at him.  

And Bruce?  

Bruce let himself smirk.  

Because this--this was just the beginning.