Chapter Text
“Excellent timing, sir.”
Clark blinked, surprised by the warmer-than-normal welcome. The hours of battle had reduced his higher thinking ability to a trickle. The fact that he’d managed to fly to the Manor in a straight line was a small miracle. And he’d used the front door this time.
“I…thank you?” Clark asked awkwardly. “I’m sorry if I’m a little early for the debrief. I figured I could just shower here, if that was okay. You know…”
He trailed off, glancing at one shoulder. A piece of burnt rubble chose that moment to dislodge from his cape, plummeting to the front step. Clark stared at it for a moment, debating if bending down and picking it up would just cause the rest of the debris on his suit to scatter everywhere.
Probably.
“Please,” Alfred said, gesturing him into the foyer. “Come in. Master Wayne is downstairs, of course. You are more than welcome to the showers, and the clothing in the changing rooms.”
Clark stepped in, refusing to take the lead as they entered the Manor. He could tell that particular quirk bothered Alfred, but his Ma would never let him hear the end of it if he led someone else around in their own house.
With a tilt of his head, Alfred led him through the foyer and toward the stairs. When they reached the door, the butler stepped to the side, giving Clark a strangely purposeful look.
“Is there,” Clark cleared his throat, trying to stand up straighter. Alfred’s eyes were so sharp. Sharper than Bruce’s, even. “Is something wrong?”
“No, sir,” Alfred replied, still staring at him. “Please, let me know if you need anything. I will be downstairs in a few minutes with food.”
“Bruce needs to eat,” Clark said, nodding. “His stomach was growling the whole flight back. I barely saw him eat during the mission. Do you still make those beef roll-ups? He likes those, I saw him eat three once.”
Alfred’s expression didn’t change, but his eyes softened a little. “The beef carpaccio twists are very easy to assemble. Excellent idea.”
Clark stood up a little straighter at the praise, giving the older man a cautious smile. “Sounds great. I’ll try my best to get him to eat a few. Thank you -- you know, I can come up and help you with those once I’m all cleaned up.”
“That won’t be necessary, sir,” Alfred said, gaze settling on the door over Clark’s shoulder. “But very kind of you to offer.”
There was something he was missing here, something obvious, but Clark couldn’t see it for the life of him. And Alfred was clearly too wily to let him figure out what it was. The butler could run verbal circles around him right now, probably real circles too, that’s how tired he was.
“See you soon,” Clark said, reaching for the hidden keypad next to the door. He scanned his palm, waiting until the lock disengaged, then the floor locks, and finally the doorknob itself.
He stepped gingerly into the elevator, wary of shedding anymore metal shavings and random pieces of concrete on the floor. The platform began to descend, humming at such a low level, Clark wasn’t even sure humans could hear it. Bruce was particular about those things.
Bruce was particular about a lot of things. Like timetables, and clean floors. And post-mission debriefs.
The elevator settled at the bottom of the Cave. Clark waited for the doors to open, absently listening to the way the cables hummed and whined with the motion.
“--do that.”
Clark looked up, just catching the last fragment of whatever had been said. It wasn’t Bruce’s voice. Even when he put on Brucie, that awful, higher version of his actual speaking voice, it wasn’t quite that sharp.
“Please.”
Halfway out of the elevator, Clark went stock-still at the sound of Bruce’s voice -- Bruce’s this time, he was sure of it -- breathy and low in a way it never was. His hearing sharpened with his renewed attention, focusing on the source of the conversation.
They were in the locker room -- in the showers, actually. Three of the shower heads were cranked to maximum output and heat. The entire room was covered in steam, the humidity and scent of soap leaking out into the main Cave through the vents.
Clark stepped soundlessly into the center of the Cave, coming to a halt just behind Bruce’s computers. He stared at the monitors, pretending to watch the grainy surveillance footage as his remaining senses focused on the locker room.
“--like that--” the other man said, letting out an obscene noise. “Oh god. Fuck. That’s so good, yeah, just--”
There was an answering moan, another low noise pulled from Bruce’s chest. Clark’s cheeks burned, something twinging in his gut at the sound of -- his friend. It sounded like he was --
“I’m coming, I’m gonna--” the other man said, readjusting his hold on Bruce’s waist. Clark could hear the way his fingers were sliding on wet skin, losing purchase. “Can I? Baby, can I--”
Clark didn’t dare look up from the monitors. But he could imagine the way Bruce’s head must have hit the tile somehow, thrown back and colliding with the wall. Weight shifted, hands were readjusted, and oh god, the sound of his heart. It was wild. If he hadn’t been here already, he would’ve flown halfway across the globe just to figure out what could knock Bruce Wayne’s heart rate up.
“Yeah,” Bruce breathed, barely audible over the sound of the showerheads. “Yeah, Hal, please. Please.”
The warmth in his cheeks drained away, replaced with a cold wave of sensation. Clark dug his heels into the ground, jaw tightening as every single cell in his body seemed to stand on end, all at once.
Hal.
The sudden iciness in his veins brought a strange kind of focus with it. Clark reined his senses in one by one, staring hard at the video of Gotham Harbor in the bottom left corner of the monitors until he was alone again.
Other than the lingering humidity, there was no other sign of Hal’s presence. Of what was happening, assuredly, just a few dozen feet away behind a thick wall of concrete and tile.
Hal, of all people. Clark wasn’t even certain he and Bruce spoke, outside of official channels. They barely interacted up on the Watchtower, save for the semi-regular Founders meetings. They didn’t like each other -- hell, Clark was the one begging Bruce to be more lenient with the Lantern, most days. He and Hal got along fine. Not as fine as this, but --
“Sir?”
Clark turned around, startled. Alfred didn’t flinch away from him, holding a covered metal tray between two hands Clark was certain had never faltered, not for a second.
“Sorry,” Clark said, pasting on a smile he didn’t feel. “I got a little distracted. Did you know they’re building a new pier in the Gotham Harbor? There was a great article about it in the paper this morning.”
Alfred followed his gaze to the monitors, eyebrows raising slightly. “I never thought I’d see the day cruise ships would dock in Gotham. Not in this lifetime, at least.”
“Yeah, it is a little unexpected,” Clark said, reaching up to scrub a hand down the back of his neck. Bad idea, that only dislodged more rubble into his cape. “But the tourism dollars will help improve the Harbor district. They’ll actually have to dredge the rivers, finally.”
“I shudder at the thought of what they’ll find down there,” Alfred said, putting a neat, verbal bow on the end of that conversation. He lifted the tray slightly. “Where would you like this?”
“Oh!” Clark reached out, sliding Bruce’s fancy all-metal keyboard to the side. He shuffled around some notepads and tablets to make room, wincing the entire time. “Sorry. Like I said, I’m a little…”
The door to the inner locker room clicked open. Clark frowned, inadvertently dipping back into his superhearing as a pair of footsteps headed their way.
“Oh hey,” Hal Jordan said, wrapping a towel around his waist. His ring was glowing on one hand, pulsing with an unusual amount of energy. “Didn’t hear you come in, man. And you brought food with you -- fuck yeah. Alfred, you’re the best.”
Clark turned back to Alfred, for lack of anything coherent to say. The butler seemed to tense up fractionally, lips pressing together and eyebrows lowered. “Of course, sir. And Master Wayne?”
Hal reached out for the tray, slipping the metal cover off. Water rolled down his back as he bent down. There were several marks on his lower back, just above the edge of the towel around his waist.
“He’s finishing up in there. Can’t say I blame him, that water pressure is better than anything in this sector.” Hal shook his head. “Hey, what is this?”
Hal held up a beef roll to the light, hand still dripping wet. Alfred raised both eyebrows a full half-centimeter this time.
“Beef carpaccio, sir. Around a creme fraiche and caviar filling.”
“Very keto,” Hal said, making a face. He set the roll back down on the tray, wiping his hand on the towel. The bright white towel. “I’ll pass for now, but thanks.”
“Of course, sir.”
Hal leaned back against the desk, crossing his arms. He held himself like he knew exactly how attractive that pose made him, all lean and tan and still dripping all over Bruce’s desk. “Hey, Clark. What’s up with the…” he waved at his eyes. “...those?”
“Those?” Clark asked, confused. Hal gestured at his face again. “My eyes?”
“Yeah, they’re all red still,” Hal said. The Lantern gave him an odd look. “You doing okay? Maybe Bruce should check you out.”
“Check what?”
Clark didn’t flinch, but it was a close thing. In the doorway to the locker rooms, Bruce cocked his head slightly, drying his hair with one of the pristine towels.
There were no visible marks on Bruce, not with fresh clothes on. He was too smart for that. But there was a looseness to his posture, a fluidness to his stance, that Clark would’ve been loath to overlook, even on a different day.
He’d never seen Bruce post-sex before. That much was obvious. He would’ve recognized the strange pounding of his heart, the particular tang of pheromones lingering in the air around him, the slight reddening of his mouth, the too-calm set of his jaw.
He was so much softer, this way. Suddenly, Clark could see the man he’d been ten, twenty years previously. Even with grey in his hair, with crows’ feet around his eyes, he was startlingly beautiful. Softer, in his rumpled sweatpants and t-shirt, than he’d been in several weeks, if not months.
And all that, because of Hal Jordan.
“I’m fine,” Clark said, looking away before Bruce could see the red pinpoints in his eyes. “Just a little amped up from the fighting still. I figured you wanted to debrief, and…”
“Oh yeah, the debrief,” Hal said, tossing a look toward Bruce. “Let’s do that. I had a couple thoughts about the civilian exfil, actually.”
Clark took an unneeded breath, unmoored. He couldn’t look at Bruce still, so his eyes settled on Alfred. Alfred, who had darted out to the tray and deftly removed the roll Hal had picked up with a napkin, disappearing it into a pocket.
In another world, Clark would’ve called the expression on the butler’s face disgust. But Alfred was above emotions like that. He liked putting things to order, and Hal had -- inadvertently -- thrown them out of it.
“Get dressed,” Bruce muttered to Hal, sounding more and more like the Bat as he continued speaking. “We’ll debrief in the other room.”
Hal tossed them both a cheeky salute, pushing up off the desk. He trailed water and pheromones all the way back to the locker room, closing the door behind him just a tad too hard.
A hand slipped under his jaw, tilting his head back. Clark held perfectly still as Bruce’s face came close to his, examining his eyes.
Maybe a year ago, the fact that he hadn’t even noticed Bruce move would have been unsettling. Now, even in the midst of exhaustion and something that felt a lot like jealousy, simmering in his gut, his touch was relieving. Slightly cool, where his skin was burnt and overheated.
Bruce pulled away with a grunt, apparently satisfied. Clark cleared his throat, awkwardly searching for something to say.
“Alfred made…” Clark waved at the rolls on the desk, “Food. If you’re hungry.”
Bruce’s eyes shifted to Alfred, still standing behind Clark, and then back to the desk. After a long, drawn-out moment, he reached for the tray, pulling a roll from the stack.
Something about it felt like a victory. Clark gave him a genuine smile this time, a part of him wishing that Hal had been present to see it.