Archive of Our Own

Tap, tap, tap

A sharp but gentle knock at the bedroom door.

"Master Wayne?" The butler's words carry through the door as though it isn't there. Where Bruce is laid down, he can hear them clearly. The room would be dark, if not for the thin line of sunrise beaming from beneath the window's blackout curtain, and for the young, muted flicker from the fireplace. 

"Mmh," Bruce hums affirmatively, unmoving from the bed.

"There's a gentleman downstairs, and he's rather persistent about seeing you. I've only let him out of the cold."

"Hm?"

"Mr. Clark Kent." He pauses, then: "And he's alluded to your... Exploits. I'd have otherwise declined outright."

There's a humorless chuckle, more of a puff of air than anything from Bruce. He shifts atop the blankets, limbs too heavy to yet indulge in much further movement.

"...can send him up, please."

"You're certain?"

"Mh."

He can sense the dip of Alfred's head, that second-nature nod of affirmation. "Very well, sir."

Then, he hears the glide of even steps from the door, towards the main staircase before the foyer. 

Bruce nestles further into the bed, which isn't difficult with the worn weight of his form. His upper body tenses, seeking briefly to sit upright, but he doesn't oblige it. Clark won't be there for long. There's no point in the unnecessary strain.

His eyes close again. This time, though, Bruce doesn't try to slip into sleep. His focus turns to the state of his body, the subtle bruises only now deepening from bright red to maroon, bone-deep aches and sparse, scabbed cuts peppering his sides. At the end of it all, his injuries are less severe than expected. It's rather the wear of an eventful week topped by an unusually extensive night which leaves him here, still and sore. But, Gotham is out of danger. Crane and Joker are deep in Arkham. Bruce Wayne is on a whimsical 4-day cruise to Bermuda to escape the snow. And he's here, freshly showered and settled, half-asleep, questioning Superman's rather cruel timing.

He's drifting despite himself by the time the pair of footsteps near the bedroom door. Another series of knocks.

"Mhm."

The door handle turns, and Alfred drags it open to make way for the figure beside him. Bruce's eyes are half-lidded when they open, taking in the silhouette highlighted by a gleam of fire. He feels the eyes before he sees them: Blue and softened by something he can't interpret. Not quite the bold, piercing shape he's more familiar with.

"...thank you, Alfred," Bruce murmurs.

"Shall I bring up some tea? Coffee?"

"No."

There's that nod. Then the flick of his eyes from Bruce, to Clark, then the door as he steps to close it behind him. "Very good, sir."

When it swishes closed, the room is nearly silent. Those eyes are watching him again.

"I thought this'd be more... More dramatic," Clark admits first, one hand making some abstract gesture between them.

"You vibrate when you get your picture taken," Bruce replies, the words falling flat of accusatory. "Doesn't hide that jawline in person."

"You're always so observant." Clark softens further, as though he'd been holding on to some unseen tension. "I covered the opening ceremony for your free clinic out of Crime Alley. That was it, wasn't it?"

"Mhm."

"I thought so. Uh... five-ish months ago?"

"Mhm. You?"

His eyes meet the floor. It's a sheepish gesture. "Longer than that. Last summer. Remember breaking me out of Luthor's prison?" His shoulders roll, "I peeked."

"Mhm."

"I didn't mean to."

"Yeah." His eyes slip closed, self-awareness swelling forward in recognition of his languid form. "Is that all? I'm busy."

"I can see that. But... No, that isn't all."

An eye draws open, lidded again, his arms crossing loosely to just drape over his exposed chest. "Hm?"

"I..." The words seem to dry. His fists curl, then relax. Bruce doesn't push.

"Can I help you?" Clark asks, the words dry.

His eyes open more completely now, brow furrowing as he studies the man before him. That expression is still abashed, eyes meeting, then averting his, frame self-aware beneath his neatly creased and buttoned white shirt. That the person in front of him now, capable of hurling skyscrapers, is brought to such nerves by mere minutes of talk is... Enlightening, Bruce finds.

"Help?"

"Yes! Not -- in a work way. In a... This, way," he replies, making that same abstract gesture from before.

Bruce's eyes maintain their hold. "I have no idea what you're asking me."

A faint flush rises to Clark's expression, marring his features with embarrassment, the color only accentuated by the firelight. It's startlingly genuine.

His tongue wets his lower lip. "Bruce, you frankly need to relax," he starts, "I mean, more than this. Passing out like you're dead."

"Nice," Bruce says, "observant."

Clark shakes his head, "I didn't mean to insult you. Just that you... Can't be feeling well."

"No. I can't be. I'd like to fall asleep now."

His weight shifts from one leg to the other. "I can help you with that," he replies, voice quieter than before, as though to pacify some cornered animal. "Would you let me?"

A pause. "some... lullaby, or something?"

"A massage."

His eyes fall closed, that same puff of an airy chuckle leaving his chest. "Really?"

"Yeah. I mean, I've thought plenty about it. I think you might need one."

"I can't afford a masseuse?"

"No, I know you can," Clark objects, "but I think you'd have a hard time explaining..." His hand makes another gesture, this time directed at Bruce -- at his scarred chest flecked by terrible scars, by faded burn pocks, and by far younger bruises.

His head tips back, a slight stretch as he responds: "Yeah. That's right."

"So..."

"You came to Gotham," Bruce's voice is somehow smaller now.

"Yeah. Flew, actually. Maybe... four or five minutes. And don't -- Don't get mad about that."

"Will later," comes the promise. "You... chose to be late to work."

"Yeah. I called in."

"Missed work. 'Revealed' your identity after all of these years. To offer me a massage."

He wets his lower lip again, and repeats: "Yeah."

There's something real in the way the word lands, as though the thought had been waiting somewhere for a long time. Bruce's arms uncross from over his chest, joints stiff and reluctant. "Why today?"

Clark's head tilts in an almost unseen degree, as though he considers his words. "Because you're my best friend. And you could have died again. And if I don't... Do something today, I'm worried that I never will." Eyes are trying to meet his again, starved for approval. Just for an ounce.

"That's... Sweet," Bruce admits after a moment. "Very you."

"Do you think so?" More silence.

Clark doesn't push. There's a tension to his frame, as though he's poised to jump out of the room, or equally ready to lunge forth to be at Bruce's side. But his mannerisms betray no impatience, nor exasperation, just that same steady tide of patience they always do. Bruce has been in far more gravely injured and emotionally ruined states than this in the Kryptonian's presence, but this is different. The guise of the mask is dropped; They're in his own home. And Clark's staring at him as though any further hint of opposition would send him silently spiraling. Bruce's already wrecked resistance wavers.

"...alright."

"Really?" Clark asks, his voice immediately lighter than before.

"Mhm." Bruce's eyes are closed again. "This time. And I'm asleep in the next two minutes."

"That's... Fine. Good, even, to be... Be relaxed like that. That's good." His hands clasp together, but he still doesn't move. 

The corner of Bruce's lip twitches despite himself. "Well?"

"Yeah," comes the reply. A step forward, but hesitant still.

He offers, "you do know what you're doing?"

"I do." Another step, another broken degree of tension. He's so nervous.

Bruce throws him another bone. "Chest? Or back, Clark?"

Clark's close to the bed now, one hand twitching as though it wants to settle on the bedpost, but it doesn't. "Could you turn over? Would that be alright?"

An acknowledging sound, then stillness. "...one second."

A few minutes of lying in bed hasn't magically recovered his strength quite as Bruce hoped. The first movement, tucking his left elbow into the mattress, is easy until the time comes to press the rest of his weight into the limb. His legs and right arm work in tandem, shifting his center of mass, but it's a slow, shaking movement. He feels the gaze on him soften further at the display -- and he has to bite back the impulse to kick Clark out of the room that swells in his throat. He's tensed where he stands again, certainly out of a deep-seated urge to reach and help, but he does nothing.

When Bruce's weight finally crosses the brink of his core, the fall onto his chest, in the middle of the bed, comes easily. He crumples there, tensing and shifting in some tired movement to dignify himself again. 

Clark lets out a soft breath, finally closing in. "Good," he says, "that's... That's a good way to start."

He isn't looking, but he feels the mattress dip slightly, slowly, the pressure of a single knee testing the waters. It presses more firmly when Bruce doesn't move away. His arms do move, though, folding and tucking between his head and the pillow, overt awareness prickling along his spine under Clark's scrutiny. The impulse rises again -- swallowing it a second time takes more effort.

Clark's reaching for something in his back pocket. When he hears the tack of a plastic bottle being flicked open, Bruce's head twists and his eyes snap toward those hands to see what they have. The Kryptonian freezes at the movement, fingers of his right hand wrapped around a small bottle, those of his left held below the bared tip. 

"It's oil," Clark reassures, his voice softened by their nearness. "That alright, Bruce?"

His head turns back into the nest of his forearms, eyes lidded and locked on the headboard. He has to resist the swell of air that tries to escape as another small laugh, then suppress the thread of thought regarding what he, at first, mistakenly recognized the bottle to be. 

"It's fine," he replies after a subtle shift on the bed. Another hint of Clark's uncertainty slips away, and in a few seconds, the bottle's flipped closed again, deposited on the nightstand. Clark's hands are rubbing together -- Palms first, judging by the deeper sound, before the friction spreads further along his fingers. The mattress dips even more when his weight settles with conviction.

"Tell me to stop," Clark leans closer, both knees together now, "if you aren't okay with this. I'll be gone. I won't bring it up again. No questions asked."

Bruce is stone-still where he lays. "You're so nervous," he manages, voice rougher with fatigue than before and dulled by his position. "First time?"

His hands are still working together when Clark replies: "No, I've..." before the tease settles. He's certain Clark's eyes widen. "Bruce. No," he croaks, "you're supposed to be too tired to make fun of me."

He's emboldened by an ounce, and those hands slow their movements as he hovers another degree closer. The rasp of rubbing hands ceases. There's a ghost of warmth over the lower nape of Bruce's neck, and his body tightens in response. It feels like a threat: Hands over him in this state, and the jolt of vulnerability makes him tense even more. His back is turned, and he's on the verge of sleep, only now laying down after a frankly hellish night. If Clark does have any intent to hurt, there would truly be no fight left in him, and a single movement could...

The hands settle on his skin, searing and plush. Bruce stiffens impossibly more at the sensation, despite the heavy heat now sinking into his flesh. They're still, first, just resting there. It's as though Clark can read his thoughts. In a way, Bruce supposes that he can: His pulse is racing, his breaths have stilled, his body is wound tight. It's an extended touch. Ten or fifteen seconds of blissful, heedful touch. 

"Comfortable?" Clark asks after a beat of time passes, the word thick with gentleness.

"Mhm," is how Bruce responds. He hadn't noticed it before, that pressing chill of the bedroom even despite the fire. The bed creaks with a shift of Clark's weight, and the coordinated spread of his palms that follows is divine. He makes a wide circle first. Warmth sinks into the skin of Bruce's upper shoulders, then stays there, palms sliding along with fluid ease given the oil. It's thoroughly heated by friction now, and the spread allows its scent to finally reach him: Subtle ginger, then something earthy, sweet, almost spicy. Patchouli?

His eyes slip closed. The steady, certain pressure of Clark's hands soften him by a small amount, gliding from the lower nape of his neck to the outer clavicles, then back together again. A few rounds pass like this, each stroke working to ease them both. Then, the touch moves upward, spreading from the base of the neck towards the low crown of the skull. It's a vulnerable spot, and it's almost too soon, but Bruce doesn't let himself resist any further than the slight, instinctual tensing of his upper body. Palms settle on the scalene muscles of his rear neck. The warmth deepens, Clark's fingers curled into his palms, thumbs reaching up to press at the muscles directly before skull. They're steady, and the pressure of gentle rounds slowly increases until it's just short of uncomfortable.

Then they move, stroking from top to bottom in a confident movement. It repeats, each pass consistent and widening ever so slightly, moving from beside Bruce's vertebrae toward the fleshier neck, where the pressure lightens. They still, lifted slightly, besides a bump of spine after a few rounds. 

"Breathe," Clark urges. Bruce only now recognizes the consistent falter of his own inhales, clipped by the tight tension in his core. Even with the caring touch, it's too innately wrong for him to be able to ease into the bed yet. He obliges with a conscious, deep sigh, but it doesn't quell his instinct. The hands only move after a handful of controlled in-and-exhales. "Good," comes his next word, warm with approval.

The next strokes, along the same muscle, are more firm than before. The pressure widens to extend against either rear side again, sweeping back up toward the now more tender region below the skull, then back down. Thumbs meet on the left flank, perhaps an inch away from vertebrae, sinking against a particularly tender spot. A knot, Bruce thinks. The pressure of flat thumbs work small circles in tandem, each slow round deepening into muscle. The sigh that follows isn't controlled, this time: It's a soft breath, a small part of uncertainty melting away when the tender ache fades into a kind of release. The subtle flush of looseness blossoming beneath Clark's hands is foreign to Bruce. But it's very welcome.

The weight shifts again, and he can feel that most of Clark's hesitation has long since slipped away. "Good?" he asks, voice in the same quiet register as before.

"Mhm." And the hum is something lower now, and it's almost lost in the soft bed. 

Those thumbs continue exploring along oil-slick skin, pressing into the warmed flesh which he had petted to slackness just before. They're searching, Bruce realizes, moving intentionally before they pause again below the crest of the skull. Another series of deliberate kneads press there, before a slow spread of warmth and inexplicable relief. Another quiet sigh. Bruce had expected himself to be asleep at this point. Instead, he finds himself pulling through, longing to stay awake just to cling to such gentle care for longer. Openness to touch is rare, even under Alfred's healing work, at certain times. But for this morning, for this moment, he's holding each stroke and press of heat tightly to himself. And the movement is skilled, and it's knowing. And it's indulgent.

"...done this before..." Bruce mumbles into his arms. Any normal person likely wouldn't have caught it. Clark does.

"Yeah," he affirms. The hands sweep along skin, gliding into the freshly massaged flesh on a hunt for more tension. The array of unknown knots which, before tightened Bruce's suboccipital muscles, twitch under pressure, softening and occasionally releasing over minutes of care before Clark's focus breaks long enough to reply. "I took a class, actually." He moves lower, stroking warmth and life into the flesh over the lower splenius. Thumbs on either side roll down, stopping at times for points of focus.

"Oh?" Bruce probes, melting an inch further. A small hum draws from where the Kryptonian is knelt beside him, palms working silky rounds in the muscle above his clavicle. His knuckle curls, replacing his flat thumb with a more precise point at the next stop, now at the right crook between shoulder and neck. 

The hands still, briefly. "A couple of classes," before they continue. His left hand flattens, cupping the swell over his cervical spine, while two knuckles dig away at a point in his upper trapezius beside it, working the tender area with care.

"Oh," comes the sound again, then a thoughtful exhale. "You thought about this." 

The knuckles stroke there, gently first, seeping in as Bruce relaxes against it. "Yeah," he says again, thighs shifting as he settles in. He presses firmly now, deepening at a steady rate, left hand stroking along skin in a comforting motion. "I have."

Pressure ramps in steady pulses, shifting from the sharp point to the flat of his knuckles to treat this spot with extra persistence. "You're doing great," Clark murmurs, the words seeming like an unconscious thought more than steered praise. Something in Bruce's chest ripples.

"How long?" He asks, before recognizing the ambiguity of his question, "...have you wanted this?" The flattened pressure kneads again, finding less resistance.

Clark doesn't reply immediately, focusing instead on the point of tension under his fingers. But, his left hand slows and stops, resting over the fleshy curve of Bruce's neck. "Years," comes the quiet admission, "a couple of years." The push grows, insistent and almost painful. His palm resumes its gradual strokes, as though to ground him. "Well, I'd wanted to do... Something, ever since we started working together. So, longer than that."

The words hang there, raw, but are pushed past when the knot at the bottom of Bruce's neck finally gives, a guttural sigh leaving him at the slow sensation. Knuckles move away, replaced by slow, extended brushes of Clark's thumb, evening the looseness out along more of the wide muscle.

His hands press onto either of his inner clavicles again, heavily warm, like before. They brush up toward skull, then down, then up again, rubbing along the loosened neck in a motion almost reverent. The warmth struggles to fade even after his hands lift, and the worked muscles twitch several times when touch is finally relinquished.

"Still okay?" Clark asks. He leans away, giving Bruce the space to breathe and lightly stretch his neck. 

A breathy "yeah," responds, and his weight is settled more comfortably on his chest than it had been before. The scrutiny of Clark's eyes still make his skin crawl, but it's far from the near-distress of earlier. 

"Do you need a break?" His weight pulls back further. "I could work your back next."

An eye slips open, hazed by a mesh of warmth and still-present tension. "You want to keep going?" 

"I do," then a beat, before: "...could I?"

Only Clark could seem so nervous about offering something inherently selfless. It's sweet.

"Mmh," comes that same noncommittal, affirming hum from earlier, and a "please," -- certainly there for Clark's reassurance.

The Kryptonian brightens, and it's the last Bruce sees of him before his head turns down again, eyes closed, the faintest tug of his lips disguised by his arms at the sight. He partially wonders whether Clark can see through to the expression anyway, but he doesn't say anything if he does.

The oil bottle flicks open again, and fluid trickles into the skin of his palm. The bottle's returned to the nightstand. A longer, deeper rasp of rubbing skin tells Bruce that he's spreading it along more than just his hands. His arm, maybe? -- Before it lightens, rounding slick heat back into his palms. The skin of Bruce's back prickles with anticipation.

A searing weight returns to his flesh, far more confident this time. Wide, light strokes run from the base of his neck down the skin beside his spine, outward along the rest of his trapezii. They're cupping around the rare softness there, catching along stony ridges of muscle, persistent along every inch. The warmth is holy, and unlike the comfort of any fireplace: Alive, purposeful, aware. The hands lift, eliciting a slight arch of Bruce's back upwards where they had been, before the pressure is replaced by the flat of Clark's muscular forearm. In extensive, broad sweeps, the warmed oil spreads across planes of skin with ease. There isn't yet much pressure -- but he exhales and eases into the sensation, all the same.

The slide works further: Below shoulder blades, down his spine, rubbing frictional warmth into the tense meat of his spinal erectors, of his lats, pressuring into the lower back before slowing a few comfortable inches above the waistband of Bruce's sweatpants. It raises from there, working up in careful rolls towards his shoulders, then drawing downward again. There's little force, just the gentle draw of oiled skin-on-skin as that forearm works up, then down, until Bruce's entire back shudders unexpectedly. Heat sinks more thoroughly than he can anticipate, as though it weighs on his bones. It draws out an extended, chest-sinking sigh.

"Good?" Clark near-whispers. Bruce figures he knows the answer, but the forearm slows to a stop, stilling, while he waits.

"...good," he murmurs weakly. His body is at its heaviest yet, dead-still aside from thickened breaths and occasional twitches at the sensation. There's an affirming sound, then the length of forearm draws up past his shoulder blades again, where the pressure increases, pace slowing down on the following downward skim. This move has greater intention behind it, arm rocking to avoid placing pressure against splotches of bruise while kneading perfect slackness down his entire back.

And Bruce is melting. The oil, the warmth of the bed, the loosening of his back, the confident motion, and the scant whisper of exhales that, at times, reach his skin all work with impossible togetherness. If it's possible, he sinks even further. Fatigue claws at his consciousness like before, but he pushes it away with floundering willpower to keep this moment. Clark's forearm pauses, then sweeps again, again, spreading far and wide a gentle kind of touch he files away with lazy cupidity.

There's a familiar mass of uncertainty still present in Bruce's chest, unyielding even to the kind touch working him apart. It sends a flinch through his nerves the first time a real tug of sleep threatens to take him further, and that forearm pauses halfway down his lumbar spine. But Clark doesn't comment on it. He completes the round, instead, this time lightening pressure at the end, sliding the limb away until just his hand rests between Bruce's shoulder blades. The other nestles beside it.

"Relax for me," he murmurs, fingers closing together to draw up a lax pull, before releasing the skin. His other hand follows suit, pulling swells of muscle upward before allowing it to relax. This motion, as others, works slowly, with space between each beat to sense for any discomfort. It works at the tender spot between shoulder blades, then slowly spreads down the left side, both hands in tandem as they soften the tension there further. When the sensation reaches the base of his lumborum muscle, just above the round of his pelvis, it begins to glide back up again, slowly, until the touch pauses and lightens between shoulder blades again.

A moment passes for Bruce to settle before the movement begins anew. This time, to the right of his spine. The sluggish realization finally presses into him, thoughts swaying to the earlier response: That Clark had been working toward this for years. Not idly, either, but intentionally, with a deep kind of consideration. There's a twinge of something in the back of his mind he doesn't dare to name, and it graciously works to rouse him further from near-sleep. He should feel smothered, as terrified of this exposure as he normally is, but he isn't. Rising guilt is staunched away by warmth, by exhaustion, by those hands nearing his waist before climbing all over again. Clark breaks away to flex his hands once, twice, before they join, one over another, one foot planted into the ground as his knee shifts closer toward the back of the bed for leverage.

Sleep slinks forward again with time, with the pressure of those wide fingers stroking deep, slow motions along the left erector spinae. The slides are brief, lifting and drawing up by an inch before pressing, stroking down again. He's losing count of the kneads working from top to bottom, and a quieter recognition falls over Bruce, that each stroke moves in time with his exhales, in another layer that threatens to smother his awareness further. Another, sharper full-body jolt yanks him away from the space between consciousness and rest, and the purposeful kneads turn to light, soothing strokes in unspoken recognition. Clark doesn't continue this time, lifting his hands instead to give the area a break. Fingertips brush against the skin over Bruce's left clavicle, before lifting altogether with uncertainty.

"Still alright?" Clark checks again, one hand holding his other, thumb working a palm while he waits. 

"Mm," he answers. It's hardly a sound, just some low, rumbling acknowledgement, and certainly not a negative one. The fingers settle on his shoulder again, tracing the area with abstract intent. 

The other hand comes to rest over the flesh between the upper bicep and deltoid muscles of Bruce's left side. "Arms?" comes the next ask, tone hopeful.

Bruce doesn't need convincing. It's an almost unconscious choice to slide his left arm free from the nest on the pillow, right forearm still cradling his forehead. When it's liberated, Clark takes the limb in hand with that same slight reverence, wrapping his right forearm around it in a slack hold to support the thing. He leans away in a now familiar motion to reach for oil, a small stream dribbling into his palm before it's returned to the table. Arm still cradling Bruce's, his palms rasp damply together, and back muscles twitch idly at the phantom memory of skilled pressure.

Bruce's arm is lowered onto the sheets, starting with his hand. Fingertips skim from his wrist as it's placed down, up his forearm, his elbow, then ceasing before the crook of shoulder. Clark's left hand joins there, heated and confident, wrapping around the bulk of the limb along with the other hand. They shimmy together down crests of muscle, down scarred and aching tissue, over his elbow, to his wrist -- before rising all over again, warming the flesh, mapping the tension as much as exploring for it. A soft, focused sigh slips from Clark's lips when he squeezes slightly over the particularly rigid swell of his mid-bicep. "Oh, Bruce..." he murmurs, voice almost lost in the haze.

The hold shifts, turning inward, thumbs now rounding side-by-side while his hands work long, efflueraging strokes up and down the limb. A few extra passes ensue before the arm slackens more willingly in Clark's hands, and Bruce almost senses the slight, approving nod that follows. The fingers of Clark's left hand, when the touch slows at the end of his forearm, wrap carefully over his wrist, thumb kneading his palm. Carefully, it pulls his arm upward, drawing with care until the bicep is taut with a light stretch. His right hand cups underneath the wrist, gliding past elbow, turning over to the surface when pressure spreads out over his shoulder, further still before catching his shoulder blade. It's firm all the way, rounding that curve of bone before pulling back toward the end of his shoulder, turning underneath the arm, dragging over the skin once again.

Another pause. An added tightness to the backwards stretch, before the motion repeats once, twice. When it returns from his back and begins to descend another time, however, Clark's hand slows, opting to trace over the troublesome muscle of his upper arm. He moves, hips closer, knee extended as his hold lowers, gently guiding Bruce's arm to lay over his thigh. There's no resistance, now, not when the thumbs wrap together around the outward curve over Bruce's elbow. They work slow, scrutinizing circles -- softening the base of muscle there.

It's a longer process. Palms cup the joint, fingers cradling the lower tricep while thumbs work away. Several minutes pass this way before the hold drags lower, now steadily running down the forearm, leaving the muscles behind it considerably softened and warm. The limb twitches when Clark does this, elbow tensed even as the muscle surrounding it falters. At the movement, Clark retreats by an inch, pausing -- before resuming the slow, purposeful ministrations. He only slows again when his fingers cup around Bruce's hand, lifting away for a brief respite. His hands stretch, clench, rub together, before he leans in, this time to cradle around the lower deltoid at the crook of his shoulder. When Bruce doesn't flinch, he squeezes lightly, continuing the same movement from before.

When the muscle there melts, just some, he begins that gliding motion again. Those hands reach the center of bicep once more, and this time, pause entirely. They shift, and the resulting hold is a compressed, steady one, hands sandwiched around the warmed bulk with a level of attention that draws a sigh from them both. There's no keeping track of how long it lasts. Just that it does, patient, quiet. Knowing.

Eventually, with another squeeze, the hands draw away from the twitching, soothed bicep. Down again, following the swell of forearm, the cords over the back of his hand. Clark turns on the bed, now angled moreso toward the footboard. His left fingers take Bruce's wrist carefully, encouraging the length off of his lap and back onto the bed, then the entire arm into repositioning so that his underarm and palm face comfortably upward. Both of Clark's hands now hold it, thumbs kneading the swell of muscle below Bruce's thumb. They work familiar circles there, pinching loosely every few rounds before resuming. The strokes lengthen, easing from the round there towards the flat muscle on the opposing side of the hand, softening that area next.

They draw toward the center hand again, the heel of one thumb easing long draws from the fleshier area toward Bruce's small finger, working over each knuckle with utmost restraint. The hand is limp now, utterly given to the touch working it over. His thumb and forefinger work back down the digit, returning to the fleshy palm before repeating the motion, working over his ring finger. He does this again, again, again, free hand cradling Bruce's throughout. Finally, Clark's fingers round his hand, cupping it with a light squeeze before returning Bruce's arm to its earlier position. Gently, it's laid out over the sheets, and his hand is settled over the plush pillow, nestled comfortably while Clark's hands linger, then retreat. 

Neither of them realize that Bruce had been asleep for some time until Clark moves again, pulling away from his twisted pose. The shift of the mattress is enough to make him gasp and jump awake, eyes flicking wide when instinct finds him before awareness does. The hands that cover him move with an instinct of Clark's own, spreading along the left flank of his back, steady there.

"Shh," Clark soothes, pressing with enough presence to remind Bruce where he is. "Breathe for me, B." A grounding stroke along his skin, then: "You're alright."

Bruce mutters something unintelligible in response -- he isn't even sure what, and his left hand, slack and warm, twitches where it's laid out over the pillow. The punch of adrenaline fades almost as quickly as it had arrived, muffled by Clark's presence. The motions turn more purposeful, mirroring his earlier strokes. "A little more?" he offers. Bruce recalls the unfinished work of his back, and especially that of his other arm, pulse slowly settling, chest eventually evening.

"Mm," he rumbles a second time, this sound quite similar to the last one but now heavier with sleep. Those hands press into him, acknowledging.

"You're doing really well." Clark's touch raises, ghosting up, then settling between Bruce's shoulder blades and pulling down in recognizable strokes. The muscles are still loose from his earlier work, shivering and readily drinking in the warmth of his hands. He focuses on the right side, which hadn't yet received the slower, deeper focus the left had. Clark shifts once again, one hand settling over the other, cupping over the softened muscle to begin the series of slow kneads starting below the shoulder blade.

"You know, there were a couple times I..." He begins, hesitant. His hands draw back an inch, pressing forward again, before retreating once more, the rhythm timing with Bruce's sighs as before. "Couple of times I came real close to asking for this."

Another sound leaves Bruce, an indistinct acknowledgement. Clark's hands slow for a moment, halfway through, as he weighs his words, before pressing again.

"Yeah. There was this one time, you'd been like this." He sighs, "No -- A few times. You hide it, you really do." The hands slow and lift at a twitch of the muscle, retreating in a familiar motion before drifting back down. "But, for example, that League meeting in November? Barry was going on about..." he strokes down again, drawing a soft sigh from Bruce at the pressure. "He was really set on..."

"...Leagues-giving..." Bruce mumbles, a ghost of humor strayed in his sleepy tone.

Clark chuckles lightly. "Mhm, that first time he brought up a 'Leaguesgiving.'" His hands knead a final time just above the swell of pelvis, then hold the muscle there, resting. "Gosh, he hadn't even done any planning, but he was so excited. And I still think he only brought it up for the free food."

Another agreeing sound. The weight lifts from his skin, leaving behind the tacky warmth of scented oil and freshly massaged tissue. Another deep-reaching sigh follows, and Bruce's right arm rolls free from the hold beneath his forehead, splaying beside him in an unspoken ask. His head sinks and tips onto its side.

"Point is, you spent that whole meeting half-asleep, nodded off halfway through his spiel, and still managed to wake up and offer to bring sides without anyone noticing. But, I did. And, Bruce, I..." He trails off another time, exhaling, standing, bottle in hand again. And God, Bruce shouldn't miss the warmth as much as he does.

Clark begins to round the bed. He's smiling a little. Reflecting, Bruce thinks. "I was this close to chasing you to the Zeta-Tubes, you know? Wanted to, just..." His free hand makes a vague motion between them, "this." His knees sink back onto the mattress, hands already slick with another driblet of oil. "Right there. Maybe not this far, but something. Probably your shoulders. You would've needed it, I think."

The hands wrap around the curve just below his right-side shoulder this time, working down his bicep, his elbow, forearm, then wrist. He stills there. "I just... Thank you," he murmurs, voice swelling just slightly. "For trusting me with this. It might mostly be because you're barely awake, but... Thank you."

He doesn't wait for a response, perhaps sensing how close to the edge of sleep Bruce is again. The hands repeat that effleuraging motion, from wrist to shoulder, holding there before they descend again. His right hand cups Bruce's wrist, left hand on his elbow, the limb pulled back in that same stretch from before, left leaving to press into his wrist, drawing up past his forearm, his bicep, rounding over the top of his shoulder, slowing over his back, warm and...

...thick, flat fingertips press into the skin between Bruce's shoulder blades. Careful, first, then rubbing in a slow, soothing motion. It makes a few rounds like this, working consciousness back into him.

"Hey," Clark tries, his hand flattening, the rub turning into slightly wider downward strokes. "You with me? Bruce?"

He finally stirs, mumbling something, body even heavier than before. The hand raises, sweeping back up, drawing down again. 

"I would've let you sleep, but we really should get some water in you first, B."

Bruce's eyes finally crack open, dry and unfocused. Clark's looking down at him, leaning over just enough to reach. Disorientation tells him that he's certainly been asleep for more than a brief minute or two -- perhaps closer to twenty, maybe thirty.

Clark catches the glance. "Good," he adds, a smile following. The hands pull away. "Let's get you on your back, yeah?" he offers. "Do you need some help?"

He's nodding before he realizes it, eyes slipping closed, and Clark doesn't say anything more. His knee presses into the bed on Bruce's left side, instead, reaching over to cup a firm hand around his right shoulder. His left arm, at the same time, wraps around Bruce's, hand taking his side shoulder, nestling the limb close to his body while his right pulls, carefully guiding him onto his side, then onto his back. Bruce's movement is unsteady but present, legs fumbling to follow the motion before his hips settle with a lax sigh. Clark pulls his left arm free from under his shoulder blades, then back entirely.

He picks something up. Bruce blinks his eyes open again, managing to focus on the vague shape of a glass in Clark's hand. There's a carafe on the nightstand, too, sweaty with condensation -- and a towel beneath it, collecting the occasional dribble to protect the wood surface. When he sits on the edge of the bed, one of his hands thread into Bruce's hair, cupping the back of his head to support him as the glass nears. He's guided toward the straw, and drinks in the cool water steadily. 

Half of the glass is gone before it's pulled away, Bruce's eyes tracking the movement past half-lids and daze. That hand rests on his own thigh for a break of silence.

"Your butler's very nice," he offers, other hand still idly supporting the back of his head, thumb drawing once over his temple. Bruce's eyes are closed again when he nods in agreement, for a rare time, unable to work up any response. 

"You know, he listened in for a good half-hour by your door. I'm gonna assume you didn't tell him, right?" A weak shake of Bruce's head, then: "Yeah, he pieced that together. And I think he was worried about you."

He nudges closer to offer the glass again. "Let's at least finish this much, alright? Or you'll be miserably dehydrated when you really wake up."

Lips part to take in the straw, working the water away. His body is pleasantly warm and slack in the bed, back crawling with the faint phantom memory of rocking pressure, hands tacky and damp from residual oil. They twitch, testing motion, loose and numbed from sleep. When the glass is emptied, Clark draws away, depositing it on the nightstand. The hand in Bruce's hair lowers his head, settling him comfortably on the pillow. Instead of pulling away, that hand glides down the nape of his neck, to his shoulder, his bicep before lifting. 

"There's a little more I can do, Bruce," he murmurs thoughtfully, standing from the mattress. "Could help you rest." Bruce can feel the eyes on his own, despite them being closed. He requites the look by slipping them open, groggy still, but just able to interpret the softness he sluggishly labels this time: Muted devotion. "Would you like that?"

He hardly has to think about it -- hardly can, given his semi-conscious state. Bruce nods, and his eyes close again. "All right," Clark responds.

When he settles on the bed this time, it's a slower, more careful movement. His thighs straddle over of Bruce's and that same bottle tacks open, oil pours, and it's placed away again while the rasp of rubbing palms fills the room. The scent finds Bruce again, familiar and fresher now: Ginger, patchouli, and a tinge of sandalwood he hadn't noticed before. Clark leans forward, remaining a comfortable distance above, hands settling lightly below collarbone. 

Warmth sinks into Bruce with considerably more ease now. The heels of both hands work from there, drawing firmly from the far ends of his collarbone, across décolletage, meeting at his sternum, then gliding back. They move to press together again, before skimming away -- again. Those palms come rest on the surface of flat skin below his shoulders, and when they move next, its a drawn-out, downward motion, spreading warmth and oil along along with them. Fingers trail behind, thick and smooth, tracing pressing along to soften the muscles of Bruce's outer pecs, then sides. They continue lower, along his ribs, his abdomen, before drawing back up with that same patient slowness.

Several rounds pass this way, before those hands stop at his shoulders once more. Now, they draw together over his sternum, dragging down before shifting together to cup around Bruce's right pectoral. He holds there. 

"Still okay?" comes Clark's ask, and a weak nod back emboldens his movements.

The hands flatten with greater confidence, stilling long enough to begin warming the muscle there. When they begin to move, they do so close together, palms side-by-side and rolling slow, circular kneads in a wide circle to encompass the plush of flesh -- careful to avoid the sensitive center. With time, the kneads work a complete round, then a second, then a third. With the area thoroughly relaxed, his palms are replaced by fingers, and begin working wide, gentle draws of muscle up before allowing it to settle again. Like those previous kneads, these work clockwise around that swell of muscle, completing two rounds before drawing away.

Clark begins working on the opposing muscle without another word, starting with stalled contact to warm the area, and to sense for any discomfort. Finding none, he begins to knead. Bruce's eyes crack open, just enough to take in the sight through the blur of grogginess threatening to pull him back under. He's at last able to watch Clark as he works, brow furrowed with focus, those blue eyes narrowed and calculating, lips parted, body crackling with restraint. His hands move, slow and skillful, spreading an oily shimmer which is highlighted by the glow of fireplace. The room seems to be a hint brighter than before, with the sun long past rising, glowing in a steady thread from underneath the blackout curtain. The sound of slick hands drawing over skin makes something in Bruce warm even further, startlingly familiar now, and the ghostly sensation of the earlier massage slinks down the back of his neck.

His eyes flutter closed again. Those hands draw together with a sense of finality when he finishes with this side, pulling together just beneath Bruce's sternum, drawing lower, lower still, cresting the already-relaxed muscles of his abdomen. They splay out there, wide, warming, tender. Bruce's hips shift, nestling more comfortably into the bed as the warmth envelops him in full. In the crook between Clark's left thumb and forefinger, the heel of his opposing thumb settles, and they work in tandem to knead a slow, careful round over the soft tissue: Smaller circles on the right of Bruce's stomach, stroking with care before they move positions. It's a clockwise motion again, stopping several inches over to work the next spot. They move again, kneading a small, new section along that path. Then again, spreading looseness through the muscle. Then again, and they're now twitching into slackness, warm and exhausted. Then again, devoted and slow. Then again...

...and he's asleep, again. Clark exhales slowly, and his hands still where they're at on the left of Bruce's abdomen. There's a sense of finality in the way Bruce sighs, the sound seeming distant. He doesn't move for a long moment -- doesn't want to jolt the man awake the way he had before. Instead, his palms settle carefully, drawing closer to his sides, resting over the base of his ribs. His skin is softened by the faintly scented oil now, velvety and warm under his touch. It's redder, too, a satisfying sign of circulation springing to life. 

His throat is tight with a hundred words of praise, all unspoken. One is finally allowed to slip free with the next breath, a quiet "beautiful" that makes him pause -- concerned that Bruce could be awake, after all. But there's no reaction, not even a hint, and he relaxes at that.

He's finished with his work, but his palms don't lift, not yet, simply coasting atop scarred skin and riding the steady rises and falls that rock Bruce's chest. He's feeling something further than that touch, though. It's something he'd sensed earlier across the back and dominant arm, especially, but Clark only allows himself a hint of indulgence now. Fingers press with an added degree of firmness, no longer cowed by the expected sensation, seeking it instead as they trace over bone.

Pain, first. Old and delicate, and alien to him in this area, yet impossibly familiar. Bruce's pain, far away and sparking through Clark's nervous system in a way made possible only by such extended contact. An unintended side-effect of coming here. He'd encountered it before, sparingly: Stormy nights spent held by Ma back home, extended flights with Lois in his arms, hands held with a Metropolis stranger as he'd passed on. Love, thrill, then anguish. And here, it's hurt. Not sharply, not in a way he knows pain, but it aches instead, and pulses with each breath. And there's a strange, grounding comfort in it: Bruce's comfort. As though it were a reminder, instead. Proof of survival, despite everything. He can see it, too: The long-healed fractures, plural, of that lower rib, but the sensation of it is beyond visceral. And it's intimate. Invasive, Clark figures with a twinge of guilt. But it still takes a surge of effort to lift his hands away -- and that connection is severed.

He untangles from where he'd been hovering over Bruce's thigh, steadying on the hardwood. Clark takes his left hand with his right, stretching them both as he absorbs the sight of Bruce, finally resting, finally safe. His attention breaks away after a long time, taking in the rest of the room, of the carafe still sweating fresh condensation into the towel. It crosses him, the thought that Bruce still hasn't had enough water.

There's a smile. He makes no move to wake him for more liquid, though, stepping close again to reach for a spare blanket at the foot of the bed, something expensive and heavy. As he works to unfold the thing, Clark thinks back to the already-broken rule he intends to violate again. Bruce won't mind, he figures, just this time.

The first thing that finds him is the scent. Nothing too strong, but undeniably present: Spice, musk, something earthy and sweet. It's cologne, he thinks, but none of his own. A slow, fumbling lift of his right arm and it crrackles in a series of painless pops that makes Bruce's sluggish breathing stutter. It drops onto the pillow again, heavy and weak, and loose. He stills completely, fighting intense brain-fog only made more intense by the blanket of scent. Ginger, first, but he can't name the rest of it, not yet. His skin is tacky and warm, too, like sweat --? But, no it's all oily, soft.

The memory settles over him in a vague cloud. Oil, yes, not cologne. Phantom hands cup over his chest under the blanket, heavy and kind. Pressure brushes over his back, runs along the length of his arms, down to each finger. The realization should make him uncomfortable, but it doesn't. It can't, actually, because every fiber of his being is in a limp, relaxed state it hasn't experienced in years, and he'd allowed it. Asked for it, even.

Bruce's head tips back, a light stretch, and pops follow, deep and satisfying. His neck is loose, sagging into the pillow instead of resisting as it tends to. He tries his left arm. It, too, fizzes and crackles before obliging the motion, a deep sigh leaving his chest at that. It's so loose, uncomfortably so. Not completely free from tension nor pain. But, it's better. And that affects Bruce far more than he expected.

He turns over, the movement smooth, body spilling onto its side like a puddle. There's a brilliant orange through the slip of outside he can catch: Evening, surely. Or, morning? No -- he can't have slept that long, it must be late in the same day.

The bedside table catches his eye next. There's a carafe resting there, cupped by towel, room temperature. A full glass, too, complete with a straw, and a brief note. The reach over is fumbling and uncoordinated, fingers feeling thick and unfamiliar as he works them. But, he manages to bring the thing over, manages to peer down at it through the floaty haze of his mind. He has to focus for a long moment before he can understand the words, a task made more difficult by the dimness of the room.

'Please drink some more water and rest up. Your city is safe tonight

-S'

And a smiley face, because of course, there's a smiley face. 

Bruce should be upset about it: His rule against unauthorized League activity in Gotham, broken. The implication that he has no choice but to take a night off. The way Clark's hands have wrecked him. But he can't be. He just can't. 

He pulls the note closer instead, curling around the thing, the tightly wrapped blanket smothering him in impossibly more warmth. He eyes the glass of water, but half-defiance and half-exhaustion both keep his arms tight at his chest, keep his body limp on its side. His eyes are closing, again.