A wee bit of Super-Bat fanfic…

Inspired by a meme someone posted on FB:

Superman saw the graffiti and sighed. Really? How many of these damned buildings had he crapped up?  Okay, a little laser vision, some cooling breath to keep the building from melting, and on to the next one.

Five.

Five buildings where he’d tried to expose Superman’s secret identity.  Well, not that it really would have worked. People were so blind sometimes. On the off chance Lois or anyone from the office had actually seen the graffiti, they would have wondered who Clark Kent had pissed off–which story had he written that had made someone mad enough to have him killed? Clark was a busy guy–he’d written a lot of stories, the graffiti guy could have been anyone.

But it wasn’t.

That afternoon, Superman flew under the falls and into the Bat Cave, appreciating the cool, humid air and the smell of earth around him.  Okay, up, into the house–Alfred pretended not to notice the blue and red blur–and into his bedroom.  He was just waking up, the sheet falling off his bare chest and exposing the bruises, the cuts and slashes–some of which were bandaged and seeping–and the abrasions on his his chest from his heroics the night before.

His heavy muscles elongated, clenched, bunching together as Bruce worked each muscle group in his morning stretch.  When he’d sat up completely and opened his eyes, he looked annoyed to find Superman there, sitting on the chair next to his bed like any other human being.

“Look who wanted to come to bed,” he snapped.

Clark grimaced. “Pain doesn’t bring out your grown up side, does it?”

“If you wanted grown up maybe you should have f–“

Oh God.  Clark blushed and held out his hand, wishing he was a bigger boy than this, but seriously. The F-word– he just couldn’t do it.  Bruce Wayne could–he could swear like a frickin’ sailor, but Clark had just never learned the knack.

“You needed medical attention,” Clark said, feeling sententious, but dammit? He did. The man wasn’t… well, Clark. His body armor only stood so much!

“I needed a good lay,” Bruce snapped. “But maybe next time, I should take one of those vapid debutantes up on her offer, because God knows–“

Clark wasn’t aware of moving, but suddenly he was stretched, full length, over Bruce, hovering two feet off the covers, forehead to forehead with the maddening ass– uh, a-hole who had made his life nothing but a misery and a wonder since they’d first clashed.

“You take one of those girls to bed, and I’ll cook your real name into the side of the Daily Fucking Planet,” he growled.

Mindless of his injuries, Bruce Wayne sat back in bed and locked his hands behind his head.  “I get hurt all the time,” he said with a glare.  “If you ever want this thing between us to work, you’d better stop treating me like I’m made of glass.”

Clark let out a long slow breath through his nose.  Carefully, he extended one finger and stroked it down the side of Bruce’s neck and across his naked clavicle.  Bruce flexed his chest and shuddered. Just as gently, Clark moved his finger through the mine field of flesh wounds until he managed to circle Bruce’s bare, pebbling nipple.

Bruce Wayne sucked in a tortured breath.

“There are advantages,” Clark said, as though instructing his lover, “to going very slow.”

Bruce groaned and buried his hands in Clark’s hair, and Clark allowed his body to settle delicately over Bruce’s.  He regretted that he hadn’t taken off his uniform. As he settled in, he could feel that Bruce was very naked under the comforter.

“Show me,” Bruce rasped. “We have work to do tonight.”

“Later.”  Clark settled his mouth over Bruce’s, liking how hard he was, how much he pushed back.  The kiss deepened, but Clark was still careful to check his strength.  Bruce Wayne was strong through training, through exertion, through will.  But Clark had seen his heart broken again and again and again as they’d fought together, and he was Superman, after all.  He was damned if Bruce would get hurt one more time on his watch.