Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

The only time Clark ever saw Bruce smile was when he was high.

It wasn’t his first impression of Bruce, not by a long shot. Clark’s first impression of Bruce was dirty, pitiable, stone cold sober. He came into the shelter bloodied and bruised, smelling like a storm drain. Sullenly, he approached the check in desk like admitting he needed help was against his moral code. Some men believed it was, the type like Bruce who carried such immense anger and guilt that it weighed them down, made them look older than they really were, made them wary and pessimistic and hateful.

Clark recognized him instantly. He knew about Bruce Wayne even before he moved to Gotham, heard the news about Bruce Wayne as things were playing out, even knew a lot of stuff about the situation before it was public knowledge working at the Daily Planet. It didn’t take Gotham and Metropolis being in sister states for Clark to hear about it. It was national news.

He could remember the first headline he saw, the headline that took Clark down a rabbit hole of research into Bruce Wayne.

Death of Butler Sends Bruce Wayne Spiraling

It was a rather amateurish story—Clark could remember reading the article and thinking how unpolished it was—detailing the death of Bruce’s butler, Alfred Pennyworth, who was also apparently his sole guardian and the one who raised him after his parents were killed. Bruce Wayne, with no other family or friends to help him through the grief of losing another parental figure, began to descend into total devastation. 

Addiction: Your Leaders Aren’t Immune

There was a rumor that Bruce had bought drops from someone one day, and less than two months later, he’d been spotted on multiple occasions buying drugs from shady street dealers. His addiction took off fast after that, leaving Wayne Enterprises scrambling for order, and more importantly, a proper CEO. A clause in Thomas Wayne’s will endowed an acting CEO of Wayne Enterprises as next in line if Bruce Wayne didn’t work out.

Owner and CEO of Wayne Enterprises’ Step Down from Power

He lost it all. Once heir to billions and a Fortune 500 company, now a man, just as regular as the rest, living on the streets and succumbing to the ease of addiction.

Clark was the one to check him in for the first time at Gotham Men’s Shelter. It was around two in the morning and Clark was getting ready to clock out when Bruce came in. Clark’s heart skipped a beat when he recognized him, realizing he’d spent so much time invested in Bruce’s story without thinking he’d ever run into him.

National news stopped doing coverage on Bruce’s situation after a month of radio silence from him, and a month before Clark moved to Gotham. Maybe they all thought he was dead. That was usually what happened to the wealthy after they’d fallen, with no learned life experiences to know how to survive in the real world. Clark supposed he also wasn’t sure what happened to Bruce after he stopped seeing stories about him, so it was surreal to see him here, now, in the flesh, and the fact that his supposed death was proven untrue made Clark subconsciously breathe a sigh of relief.

One of the first things Clark noticed about Bruce was how soft his voice was.

“Do you have any vacancy?” It was a low, mellow timbre, like the rough side of velvet, soft yet unsmooth, as if he smoked regularly but hardly ever raised his voice.

“I think we have a few beds left tonight,” Clark said, and didn’t let on that he knew who the man was. “What’s your name?”

“Bruce Wayne.” Maybe he expected Clark to react differently. He almost visibly braced for it, wincing slightly as he said his own name, but Clark didn’t react. He opened a new profile for one Bruce Wayne—mandatory for every guest, new or old—the same as he would any other man who walked in those doors.

As Clark created his web profile, Bruce relaxed slightly—if Clark could even call it that—maybe realizing he wasn’t about to be bombarded with questions or concerns or fanfare. He was treated the same way everyone was treated here: like a human being. That was why Clark took this job. That was all Clark wanted, for Bruce, and every other man on the streets, to feel safe somewhere. 

Remembering all those things he’d read, Clark felt deeply sad for him. He watched Bruce’s face as he filled out his intake paperwork. He looked so tired, unhappy. Worn out. There were worry lines around his eyes. Bruce looked up, as if he could feel Clark staring at him, and Clark quickly shifted his eyes down towards Bruce’s paperwork, skimming his answers upside down. The questions weren’t terribly invasive; basic personal information along with his history of being unhoused and if he used alcohol or substances. Bruce had hesitated on filling out the last section.

“You’re not from Gotham, are you,” Bruce stated more than asked.

Clark looked back up at him. “How’d you know?” he asked, smiling a little.

Bruce gazed into Clark’s eyes, really looking, hard enough for Clark to begin to squirm where he sat in his old, lumpy desk chair shared by every other shelter clerk who worked this position. There was pain in Bruce’s eyes, but he was nothing if not charming. Handsome. A square jaw, pouting lips, once straight nose healed crooked after getting broken. His eyes. Captivating. Clark wanted to know everything about him.

When he realized the effect Bruce was having on him, his face began to burn, and a flash flood of confused butterflies burst in his stomach, gone as quickly as they came. Clark had to avert his eyes first, more intimidated by Bruce now than before. He caught Bruce shrug in his peripheral vision.

“You look too nice .”

The butterflies were back, full force, despite an uncertainty in his chest about that comment. There was a dangerousness about Bruce, like a tiger, and he was baring his teeth, imploring Clark not to tease, or taunt, or poke.

Clark swallowed thickly and watched Bruce’s hand as he wrote.

By the time Bruce completed his paperwork, Clark’s shift release, Jordan, had taken over at the desk, and Clark was due to leave. Bruce didn’t say another word to Clark as he was ushered towards the locker room by Jordan to be frisked and given a locker.

As Clark left the building and walked to the bus stop, he wondered if he should’ve said goodnight, or something along the lines. He had time to, as he was gathering his things to leave after Jordan had taken over, and before Bruce and Jordan went through the metal detector.

But Clark was nice, not stupid. He was able to discern what Bruce meant through what he didn’t say, and he knew not to overstep his bounds. It was great to look nice. Just not in a city like Gotham.

It was mid July then, which meant that Clark was still riding his bike to work in the evenings. Gotham was hot, humidity from the sea flushing the city out, so Clark usually took the bus to work to his eight to four. The nights were different. It was still warm, still humid, but less severe. Almost nice, almost relaxing, if it weren’t for how dangerous Gotham was. That was something Clark missed about Metropolis, the nightlife, being able to be out on the city after dark without it meaning you were looking for trouble.

Clark swore Bruce was always looking for trouble. He couldn’t tack down a routine Bruce had for showing up at the shelter; it didn’t seem like he had one. He’d typically stay three or four days out of the week, sometimes consecutively, sometimes not. One thing Bruce was consistent about was what time he’d check in and out. Always in late, always out late. 

Those summer nights were what Clark started associating Bruce with. Clark worked six pm to two am at the shelter, and Bruce always showed up right around two, same as the first night he came in. There was nothing particularly significant about this coincidence, aside from the fact that Clark spent every bike ride home in the late evening unable to think of anything but Bruce Wayne.

The more he came in over the months, the more comfortable he got with Clark, the more he began to trust him. Bruce would chat with Clark throughout the check in process. He asked him if this was his only job, if he had any family in the area, why he moved to Gotham. Sometimes he’d catch Clark outside, after he was already off shift and heading to unlock his bike from the streetlight, and they’d talk for the next ten minutes or so, Clark doing everything he could to not run out of things to say, to make the time pass slower.

After talking for months, Clark thought he might be making good headway until he realized he couldn’t recall anything significant about Bruce. 

Bruce was a man of few words, but he was smooth with what he did say. Clark began to observe the way Bruce communicated, the practiced way he talked himself out of a corner, the way he could dodge a question as easily as if it were a parked car, and Clark was a reporter, which he shared, so his questions were pretty well thought out. Somehow, Bruce avoided sharing anything worth something about himself, and by three months of… friendship?... Clark knew he was doing it on purpose.

Clark wished he could get to know something real about Bruce. He was so fascinated by him, wanted to know more, wanted to know everything behind the walls he’d built so high.

One of the most valuable things Bruce had ever shared with Clark was his desire to get sober. The first day he came into the shelter was his second day cold turkey. After couch surfing throughout the beginning stages of his addiction, he admitted he needed to get away from it in order to stop doing it himself. Clark was proud to have met Bruce, proud of how well he’d done resisting the urge to let his life fall completely apart the past three months.

It was late November now, and Clark had stopped riding his bike to work weeks ago. It was getting colder and colder by the day, snowstorms and high winds and frozen rain taking over the forecast every week. He saw Bruce now more than ever these days. 

The past two weeks were the exception.

Bruce hadn’t come in since Halloween. By the fifth consecutive day of Bruce not showing up, Clark knew something was wrong. There was no telling what could’ve happened to him, it wasn’t like the shelter kept tabs on all the men who’d stayed there before. Clark wished he’d been able to get Bruce’s cellphone number in all those moments they’d shared just outside the entrance to the shelter.

Knowing there was nothing he could do about Bruce’s missing status, Clark was ready to call it a night. He’d spent the past two weeks worth of shifts staying later and later, hoping to catch him, but Bruce never showed. Clark had resigned himself into giving up. He had a full time job outside of this nighttime life he lived, and the lack of sleep was catching up with him.

He yawned just as Aaron, his release, walked into the office.

“Man, you look like shit.”

“I don’t look that bad,” Clark said, checking his reflection in his phone screen. He tried to wipe away the bags that were forming beneath his eyes.

“You need sleep. All I’m saying.” Aaron punched his card and took a portable DVD player out of his bag. Clark had come to find out all the other staff found clever ways to pass the time when they worked the front desk graveyard shift. Clark was the odd one out. He worked on his reports at GC1.

“I sleep.” Clark couldn’t help but imagine where Bruce would be sleeping tonight, especially in the weather they were having.

The door handle rattled and Clark checked his watch. Two am on the dot. It couldn’t be who he hoped it was, Clark knew that, was done getting his hopes up, but also knew how rare it was for men to come in this late. His hopes weren’t high, but there was a fragment of faith he had left in the universe to bring Bruce in safe from harm.

Bruce Wayne stumbled into the lobby, the wind from the storm slamming the door shut behind him.

“Holy shit, it’s him,” Aaron said, coming up to Clark where he stood behind the desk.

“Bruce,” Clark said, a relieved smile coming to his face at the sight of him. He looked similarly to how he did when they first met, but somehow even more bloody and bruised than before. Clark’s relief quickly became alarm when Bruce met his eye; he was completely relaxed, his pupils huge pits in seas of blue.

He was most certainly high, that was obvious to Clark after having seen it in the eyes of hundreds of other men they had to turn away for being high.

“Bruce? Are you okay?”

Bruce smiled. He actually smiled, and Clark realized he’d never seen Bruce smile. His chest began to ache with affection, a nasty mix of sympathy and affection and maybe something a little more that Clark wouldn’t dare put a name to.

It was a misplaced feeling in a situation that didn’t call for it in the least. This should be taken seriously. Bruce was high. Four months had passed after Bruce’s attempt at getting sober, and they’d never had to turn him away for drugs or alcohol. What changed?

“Hi, Clark,” Bruce said, his voice softer than usual. He sounded almost sweet. Hands on his backpack straps, he stood in the middle of the lobby, swaying back and forth where he stood.

“Oh, no,” Clark said, looking back at Aaron. “What’s he on?”

Aaron had been working at the shelter for years before Clark came along. As an ex-addict himself, he knew all the signs of substance abuse and could usually accurately guess what someone had taken. “Ecstasy is my guess,” he said. 

It was a response all too casual for what this meant for Bruce, and Clark’s face formed into a concerned grimace. They couldn’t accept him like this. They had a strict no drugs, no alcohol policy. It was a privately owned shelter, the owner set the rules. Yeah, you can stay here for free, but you have to be sober. 

“I’ve never seen him in such a good mood,” Aaron said, sucking his teeth. “It’s a damn shame…” He didn’t have to finish that sentence for Clark to understand what he meant. It really was a shame, seeing Bruce relapse after doing so well for so long. Clark was terrified for him. If he couldn’t stay here tonight, where would he go?

Clark looked back at Aaron, and Aaron practically read his mind.

“You can’t go making exceptions for the ones you like,” Aaron said, lowering his voice. “It’s not fair. Pretty soon we’ll be having to make exceptions for the ones we don’t like, and that’s what leads to trouble.”

“Have a heart, man,” Clark urged.

Aaron gave him an apologetic look. “I’d rather have my job.”

Clark frowned and turned back towards Bruce. He looked like he was zoning out, still swaying.

“You can get out of here, I know you have work in the morning,” Aaron said. “I can take care of him.”

An idea sparked in Clark’s head, and whether it was a good idea or not was nobody’s business. “Yeah, alright,” he agreed, and clocked out. The employees had a back door entrance which they were encouraged to use instead of the main entrance, so Clark let himself out, and made his way in the snow back around to the front.

He waited for Bruce to come back out after being turned away, and thought how this, waiting, would be the point where Bruce would light up a cigarette. Clark never liked the smell a whole lot, but didn’t mind so much when it came to spending a little more time with him.

Clark shivered. He grit his teeth and waited, and finally, after a few more minutes, Bruce came right back out the door, his face stony and cold, his hands shoved into his pockets.

“Bruce–”

When Bruce caught sight of Clark again, he didn’t smile like before, and Clark yearned to feel what he felt when he smiled at him in the shelter just minutes before. His upper lip curled when he saw Clark this time, and he took his hands from his pockets, approaching Clark with intent.

Clark didn’t realize what was happening before Bruce’s hands were on his chest, pushing him backwards. It was a hard shove, hard enough for Clark to stumble, almost landing on his butt in the snow.

“What the fuck do you want?” Bruce snapped, his words slurring together ever so slightly.

“I want to help you,” Clark said, raising his hands, palms out, as if approaching a wild animal.

“You don’t want to help me, you just left, and– and– and you–” Bruce stammered, and yes, there was anger there, but there was also a thickness to his words, one Clark recognized as a man holding back tears.

“Come with me,” Clark said, slowly approaching and taking Bruce’s hand.

“Fuck off! I don’t need your help!” Bruce shouted, ripping his hand away from Clark’s grasp.

“You’re going to die if you stay out here all night,” Clark said, trying to rationalize with him. “Just let me help you.” This was the point in their interaction where Clark knew he should cut his losses and just go home. Bruce was dangerous, had proven to be violent towards Clark just moments ago, but still, Clark knew he wouldn’t leave here without him.

Bruce was seething. Visibly angry and shivering and the tears had finally fallen, rewetting the blood that had dried onto his face. He looked so young like this, like a teenager again. Clark wished he could’ve known Bruce when he was a teenager. He wondered if there was anything he could’ve done to prevent this fate for him.

“What’s in it for you?”

“The satisfaction of helping a friend.”

Bruce looked up at him, pupils wide and vulnerable. “You think we’re friends?”

“You think we’re not?” Clark teased gently and approached again, and Bruce didn’t give any sort of protest this time as Clark took his hand once more. “Come on, we can argue when we’re out of the cold.”

Bruce let himself be led to the bus station, but furtively took his hand back before they got on the bus. The ride back to Clark’s apartment was slower than usual. They got stuck behind a snowplow at one point before they turned at the next street. Bruce’s hands were made into fists where they rested on the tops of his thighs. Heavy scarring across the skin of Bruce’s knuckles startled Clark when he noticed. He wanted to ask. There were so many things Clark wanted to know about Bruce, things he wanted to ask and get an honest answer to. Maybe Clark was crazy for believing that he would, but deep down, he knew. He would. But not here. And not now.

When they neared their stop, Clark pulled the line to signal the driver, and found Bruce, surprisingly, still awake next to him. His eyes were trained on the seat in front of him, his fists still clenched, his jaw still tight.

Clark got up, and Bruce followed. Off the bus, Clark had the urge to take Bruce’s hand again, but didn’t have any way to play it off if Bruce questioned it. He ignored the urge and led Bruce up to his apartment, a two bed two bath in the northern inland part of the city. He used the second bedroom as an office space since he spent so much time at his desk.

Krypto was whining when Clark walked in, and a furry, white tail began to rapidly thump against the bars of his crate.

“Good to see you too, buddy,” Clark said to the dog, crouching down to unlock the crate. Krypto burst out, nearly knocking him over as he attacked Clark’s face with kisses. He chuckled and asked Bruce behind him, “You’re not afraid of dogs, right?”

When there came no response, Clark looked back over his shoulder, and his smile dropped when he saw the state Bruce was in. His skin was so pale Clark thought he might be sick right then. His eyes were empty and unblinking, and he continued to sway back and forth in the entrance to the living room. Clark could take Krypto out in a minute. Bruce needed attention.

“Bruce?”

No response. Clark got up and went back over to where Bruce stood, putting his hand in the middle of Bruce’s back and guiding him to his bedroom. They shuffled down the hallway and reached a room on the left that opened up to Clark’s room. A part of Clark considered asking Bruce to shower before sleeping in his bed, but figured it might be rude. It wouldn’t be a big deal; he had a spare change of sheets anyway.

“Clark,” Bruce slurred as Clark led him to the bed, sitting Bruce down on the edge. Bruce knew exactly what to do from there.

“What’s up?”

As soon as his head was on the pillow, Bruce’s eyes were closed, and Clark waited a long moment for Bruce to respond.

“You’re not gonna make me suck your dick, are you?” Bruce asked, his voice whispery with exhaustion. 

“What?” Clark’s face turned red, and he felt sick at the implication that Bruce was expecting Clark to make him do anything. “Jesus, Bruce. No.” 

“Okay.” 

Clark felt even more sick, angry even, thinking that might have been how things operated in the world of an addict. A favor for a favor. Thinking about it only made Clark wish he’d interfered sooner. He didn’t want this for Bruce. He should’ve tried harder to save him before it got to this point, before he inevitably relapsed. 

Clark watched Bruce’s eyes slip shut. “Just try and get some sleep.”

Chapter Text

Clark took the couch.

Trying not to fall asleep, Clark sat on the cushy sofa he’d spent so much money on when he first moved into this apartment, which was significantly bigger than his five hundred square foot, one bedroom in Metropolis. Before, he’d owned a small, leather futon that was never actually used as a futon because Clark was too tall for it. Its only use was for sitting in the living room to watch tv, but even then it wasn’t the greatest as it was low to the ground and Clark had a hard time getting up from it. 

His couch now was big. Big and financed. It was shaped like a ‘u’ with a chaise on the left, and fabric and cushioning so soft and comfortable that Clark wondered if he really needed a bed. More often than not he found himself out here on the couch anyway, either writing late into the night, or too tired to get back up and go to his room.

He was exhausted. So worried about where Bruce had been the past two weeks, Clark had been sleeping poorly, and the lack of rest was catching up with him. King of the Hill was on, but the volume was low enough that Clark could barely hear it, only so he wouldn’t disturb Bruce. He was nestled in the couch with a bedsheet, a blanket, and a pillow, fighting and failing to keep his eyes open.

He blinked, and the next time he opened his eyes, a different show was on. He checked his cellphone. 5:58. Time to get up. 

A headache made its presence known, pounding in his skull behind his eyes as he scooted to the edge of the couch, and he sat there for a moment, searching for the willpower to push himself to his feet when all he wanted was to lay back down and sleep until the headache went away. He yawned, stretched, changed the tv channel to the morning news, and heaved himself up.

In the kitchen he started the coffee maker, fed Krypto, then put away yesterday’s dishes from where they’d spent the night drying in the dishrack. Clark didn’t have much of a routine; his work schedule was consistent, but he didn’t subscribe to any particular way of personal life. He didn’t go to the gym regularly, had actually been meaning to cancel his membership since it’d been over a month since he’d last gone. He didn’t have much free time to explore hobbies. He lived to work and worked to live, and that was how things had been since he moved to Gotham.

During his downtime at the shelter, which there happened to be a lot of, Clark frequently wondered if he’d made the right decision moving to Gotham. His reasoning at the time had been clear; take the higher paying job he’d been offered here, gain experience in the role, then apply in a different city, maybe back in Metropolis, but more likely Chicago, or New York City if he was lucky. That was it. That was his goal.

It wasn’t like he’d dreamed all his life to live in Gotham. It was a truly dreadful city—despite the excuses he made for its citizens, he didn’t really enjoy living here. His rent was too high, so he was forced to work two jobs, and it was weighing on him. Shelter work was not for the weak spirited. Clark liked to think his spirit was as strong as they come, but even he struggled some days.

Days like these. Days he wished he could lie around inside, nursing a headache, days he wished he didn’t have to take Krypto outside in the snow—thank God the situation was only temporary—days he considered calling out of work, but never did, because if he was one thing, it certainly wasn’t a quitter.

Down the hall, Clark’s bedroom door was wide open, the way he’d left it when he’d brought Bruce home last night, and Bruce was still in there, lying in the same position that he’d settled on last night. Clark watched him for a moment, watched his chest rise and fall in a slow, silent rhythm.

He turned back and went to his office where he logged into his computer to check his email. There were multiple unread, but only one caught his eye, one with the subject line Inclement Weather, Work Canceled. Clark skimmed the body of the email, only gathering the important stuff; the entire print department was approved to stay home.

Clark released a relieved sigh. “Thank God,” he muttered to himself. He didn’t bother reading anything else, knew it would just make the headache worse. Closing his laptop, he got up from his desk and went back to the kitchen, resisting the urge to check on Bruce again. Three ibuprofen capsules later, Clark poured himself a cup of coffee and sat back on the couch, not yet bothering to put away his makeshift bed.

Clark watched the news as he sipped his coffee, and his time waiting for Bruce to wake up was spent wondering what the hell he was doing with Bruce Wayne in his apartment. God, in his bed, no less. Did he make the right decision? He trusted his gut, but that had gotten him in trouble before. Maybe this was what Bruce meant when he told Clark he looked too nice all those months ago.

Bruce wasn’t the first to tell him something like that. Clark had been told before that he was too trusting, and the sentiment was frustrating, because on most occasions it wasn’t trust, it was faith. Clark had faith that people, by nature, weren’t inherently evil. Devastation after devastation plagued the city. The death of Thomas and Martha Wayne, the devastation that the city had yet to recover from. The recession. The rise of the drug trade. Gotham citizens were a product of their environment. Including Bruce Wayne. Clark was only trying to afford him the sympathy he, and everyone else, deserved.

It was nearly ten am and still snowing by the time Bruce quietly emerged from the hallway. When he spotted Clark on the couch where he was making progress on the book he was currently reading, his eyebrows drew together in confusion.

“Clark?”

Krypto shot up and dashed to Bruce, jumping on him, and Bruce caught his front legs with an alarmed look on his face.

“Krypto,” Clark scolded, and quickly dog eared the page he was on. “Sorry. Good morning,” he said to Bruce sheepishly, embarrassed at the dog’s behavior. “He’s not mine, I’m just taking care of him for my cousin while she’s in Costa Rica.” He grabbed Krypto’s collar and pulled him away from Bruce, all the way to his crate, locking him inside. “You slept for a long time.”

Bruce still looked like he needed more sleep. He had deep bags under his eyes, though Clark wasn’t sure if it was entirely exhaustion or if the black eyeshadow he often wore had something to do with it. His eyes darted around the room, taking in his surroundings.

“Not that that’s a bad thing,” Clark clarified after Bruce didn’t respond. “How are you feeling?”

Bruce’s gaze fell on Clark again. “Why did you bring me here?”

“You needed a place to go.”

“You shouldn’t have. I would’ve been fine on my own.”

“You were high.”

Bruce stared at Clark, jaw tight. “Fuck you.”

“Hey,” Clark said, his tone firm and chastising. Bruce looked at his feet as his face began to turn red. “I’m not attacking you here. I’m stating a fact. You wouldn’t have been fine on your own, you could barely stand.”

Bruce was quiet. Morose. “I have to go,” he said after a brief silence, and Clark wished he could get into Bruce’s head, see what he was thinking about, see why he was so averse to accepting help.

“It’s still storming,” Clark said before thinking. 

Bruce narrowed his eyes at him inquisitively. “I’m not helpless, Clark. No matter how you see me,” he added bitterly.

“Just… please stay,” Clark said, sighing. “I brought you here so you wouldn’t have to be out in that storm. Just wait until it’s over, then you can leave and I’ll never bother you again.” The lie tasted sour as it rolled off his tongue.

“It could be days,” Bruce challenged.

“I don’t care,” Clark replied stubbornly. “It’s starting to die down anyway. A few hours left, I imagine. Definitely not days.”

Bruce glared at him, then sighed. “Fine.” He looked down at himself, his dirty clothes. “Um… Can I use your shower in the meantime?”

Clark smiled with relief that Bruce wasn’t going to continue to fight him on this. “Yeah, of course. Here, I’ll show you how to turn it on, it’s kind of weird.”

He led Bruce to his en suite bathroom and turned the faucet on, feeling for the water to become warm. While Clark waited for the water to heat up, Bruce began to peel away layer after layer, starting with a heavy parka that he unzipped, which led to a windbreaker, which unzipped to reveal a hoodie. As he lifted his arms to pull the hoodie off, the rest of his layers lifted, revealing his lower stomach along with a happy trail and sharp hipbones, and Clark was returned to reality as quickly as if someone had dumped a bucket of ice water on his head. This wasn’t a private strip tease. Stop watching him undress.

Clark cleared his throat and abandoned the faucet, turning the cold handle to the left enough that he hoped the water wouldn’t burn Bruce. “You can borrow some of my clothes,” he said as he left the bathroom. Rummaging through his dresser, he came up with a pair of fleece lined sweatpants, some boxers, a pair of socks, and a long sleeve tee shirt. He was definitely a size or two up from Bruce, so hopefully the drawstrings on the sweatpants would work for him.

Clark brought the new set of clothes back into the bathroom, where he found Bruce shirtless, sitting on the closed toilet lid untying his shoes.

Bruce looked up at him, his features much more at ease. “Thanks.”

“No problem. I’ll just… leave you to it,” Clark said and quickly excused himself from the bathroom. He closed the bedroom door behind him and went to the kitchen shaking his head and internally berating his own behavior. Hopefully he wasn’t as obvious as he felt.

While Bruce showered, Clark made them both a late breakfast. He loved breakfast food, had all his life; his mom made the best biscuits and gravy. Clark made a simple spread of eggs, bacon, toast, and hashbrowns, which was only slightly overdoing it. He usually had eggs, bacon, and toast whenever he made himself breakfast. It really was simple. The only difference was the hashbrowns, which Clark found in his freezer. He found himself wanting to cook for Bruce, wanting to take care of him, though he’d never admit that to him.

Clark finished cooking in twenty minutes, and Bruce was in the shower for twenty minutes longer. When he came into the kitchen, he looked like a new man. No makeup, washed hair, he cleaned up rather nicely. His hair was shaggy and grown out, long enough that it rested on the back of his neck, naturally parting in the middle, his bangs framing his face.

Clark took a moment to take in Bruce in this state, smelling fresh from his Irish Spring body wash, drowning in the clothes Clark had lent him. They were at least two sizes apart, Clark could now see clearly. Bruce apparently dressed very bulky, because Clark would have never guessed he was this thin.

“You cooked?”

Clark chuckled at the confusion in Bruce’s voice. “Is that okay?”

Bruce didn’t respond. Clark turned to look at him, and he looked uncomfortable, wringing his hands. His bottom lip was pulled between his teeth. He looked anxious. On edge.

“Is that okay?” Clark repeated, cautiously this time.

“It’s too much, Clark,” Bruce responded, his voice gone impossibly soft. “I– I can’t accept this.”

“Why not?”

“You’ve already given me so much, you’re letting me wear your clothes, you let me sleep in your bed, it’s just– just–”

“Hey, it’s not forever,” Clark said, cutting Bruce off before he could begin to overthink. “We agreed you’d stay until the storm stopped. Then you can go, and we’ll be even.”

“How does that make us even?”

Clark ignored the question. “Come eat.” 

Like a dog with its hackles raised, Bruce approached the dining table where Clark had served two plates, one for him, one for Bruce. He watched Clark sit down, then carefully gripped the back of the chair, and pulled it out for himself, watching Clark the whole time, looking as though ready to bolt if Clark only so implied it.

“You’re sure…” Bruce finally asked.

“Yes, Bruce, just sit down,” Clark said, stabbing his pile of scrambled eggs with a fork.

Bruce’s eyes cast downward like a scolded child. He did as he was told and sat down to Clark’s left at the circular dining table, where Clark had set his plate.

There was significantly more food on Bruce’s plate than on Clark’s, but if Bruce noticed, he didn’t say anything. Now that Bruce was so close, Clark could really smell the Irish Spring, and his head spun with affection, endearment. The 2XL shirt that was baggy on Clark absolutely swallowed Bruce. His right shoulder was showing, and it was barely a taste of what Clark had seen earlier, the build of his abdomen, lean and strong and sturdy. His trapezius muscles, which were most visible, were clearly defined, and Clark could feel himself staring, but, like witnessing a car accident, couldn’t get himself to look away.

There were scars on his skin everywhere, his forearms, his chest, his face; the ones on his shoulder looked like someone had slashed at him with a knife.

“So,” Clark began, drawing his own gaze away from Bruce and back to his own plate, and Bruce startled almost imperceptibly at the sound of his voice. “We’ve been friends for, like, four months, and I’ve shared a few things about myself… And you… haven’t.” It wasn’t the most polished approach, but Clark couldn’t think of any other way to say that he was desperate to get to know Bruce without outright saying it.

Bruce side eyed him as he was mid bite. He chewed for a long time, then swallowed audibly. He wiped his hands on the paper towel Clark had lain next to his plate. “Is this what makes us even?” he asked.

Clark failed to subdue a smile. “Maybe.”

Bruce took a sip of water. “You already know what happened to me.”

Clark knew where this was going. Bruce was going to avoid everything thrown at him. Clark still hadn’t figured out a way around it. “Not really.”

“You’re a journalist, Clark. Of course you know. If you didn’t know from work, you saw it on the news.”

This was exactly what Clark meant when he claimed that Bruce was a smooth talker. “Okay, yes, that’s true, but that’s not what I want to know about you.”

“Okay, what do you want to know about me?”

Everything , Clark thought. He wanted to know everything there was to know about Bruce, from his favorite movie to the things he was afraid of to how he liked his eggs in the morning, so he could get it right next time. As a silence stretched between them, Clark knew he had to say something, but couldn’t think of any other way to answer.

“I don’t know,” Clark said. Cowardly.

“You’re a terrible reporter,” Bruce said, and that might’ve been the first time Bruce tried to joke with him. Clark looked up at him, and Bruce watched for his reaction with a nervous, hopeful look on his face.

Clark’s face broke out into a grin. “Oh, yeah? Smarty pants?”

At Clark’s positive reaction, Bruce’s expression eased. The corner of his mouth ticked upwards ever so slightly.

“How’s this for a question,” Clark said, settling into his chair and looking over the top rim of his glasses at Bruce. “Where have you been the past two weeks?”

Bruce had looked slightly amused until those words left Clark’s mouth. His face fell, and he looked shamefully down at his plate, visibly drawing in on himself. “It doesn’t matter.”

“Of course it matters.”

“I’m alive, aren’t I?” Bruce snipped.

“What happened?” Clark asked gently. “Why did you…”

Bruce’s expression was slowly becoming more and more sorrowful. Despondent. “Relapse?” His voice cracked slightly on the word. He sat back in his chair, hands in fists on top of his thighs. “It was going to happen eventually. Four months and I couldn’t hold down a job.” The bolt of his jaw tightened. “I was tired of feeling like shit.”

Clark’s heart broke for him. He wished there was something he could’ve done, anything. “Why didn’t you reach out?”

Bruce looked up at him, confused. “What? To you?”

Clark cocked his head, also confused. “Why not me?”

Bruce looked hard at Clark, as though trying to discern his thought process. “We don’t know each other, Clark.”

“We would if you would actually talk to me,” Clark said, frustrated to an extent. He only wanted to talk with him, and not be talked in circles. Why was that so much to ask?

“Why do you want to know?”

And once again, Clark wasn’t able to respond.

“Seems like you’re not answering any questions here either. Friend. ” Bruce bit into that word like a venomous snake.

Clark felt like Bruce had punched all the air from his chest. There was a quietness between them then, a morning talk show just barely audible from the tv in the living room. They’d both stopped eating, Clark with his fork poised above his plate, unmoving, Bruce wringing his hands in his lap.

“I’m sorry. For wanting to be your friend,” Clark said quietly.

Bruce sighed. He looked back, towards the door. “I think I should go.”

“You promised,” Clark blurted out. “That you’d stay until the storm was over.”

“I didn’t promise shit,” Bruce said, scooting his chair back.

Clark stood as Bruce stood. “Okay, I don’t care,” he said, matching the anger he could tell Bruce was just holding back. They were both standing now, almost nose to nose, except Clark had the height advantage. “I’m trying to help you because I want to know you. I want to be your friend. And I made you breakfast, and it would be pretty rude of you to just leave without finishing your food. You owe me that much.”

Bruce’s upper lip curled in anger, and for a moment, Clark thought Bruce might actually hit him. That, or continue to argue, to fight, because it seemed that was all Bruce had known the past year. 

“Why?” Bruce asked. “Why do you want to be my friend? What could you possibly see in me?”

“I don’t know,” Clark said, and he realized it was true. He didn’t know why he was so stuck on Bruce, just that he was. Why did he need a reason to desire him?

Maybe Bruce could see that desire in Clark’s eyes, in the words he left unspoken, because he slowly sat back down, and Clark followed suit as he realized Bruce wasn’t going to run away.

“I’m… I’m sorry,” Bruce said, letting out a breath he must’ve been holding. “I just–” he paused. “I’m sorry.” He bunched up the fabric of sweatpants in his hands. “I was with my old friends. The past two weeks I wasn’t at the shelter. They’re all still, y’know,” he cleared his throat, “so, uh, they offered. I accepted.” Bruce lifted a shoulder. “And I didn’t… reach out… because you work at the shelter. It’s probably against the rules for you to be involved in my life.”

Bruce was putting all the blame on himself when that wasn’t where all of it belonged. He had to be faulted for putting himself in a situation where he knew he would fail, but he couldn’t be faulted for not reaching out. Bruce had a point; he and Clark were little more than strangers, and here Clark was, offering his bed and his food. Clark didn’t know what had gotten into him.

“I want to know about you,” Clark said. “And I can’t think of a specific question, but I just want to know you, and I want to get to know you, and I wish you’d let me.”

“It’s not that simple.” There he went again, talking himself out of an uncomfortable situation. Bruce must have noticed that Clark seemed rather dejected about all of this, because after a few silent moments, he said, “...Why don’t you try asking a specific question and see where it leads?”

Clark looked up at him, a golden opportunity presenting itself, and his mind raced with the things he wanted to know. Knowing he couldn’t ask a majority of them until they actually did know each other a little better, Clark started simple.

“How old are you?”

“Twenty five. You?”

“Twenty two,” Clark said. “What’s your favorite color?”

“Black. Yours?”

“Blue.” Clark smiled. “Can I ask something more personal?”

Bruce bristled, but hid it well, and Clark pretended not to notice. “Sure.”

“Who are your friends?”

Bruce chewed his bottom lip. “I was crashing at Gabriel’s house most of the time. That’s kind of where everyone crashes.”

Clark didn’t know what ‘everyone’ meant in this context, but he didn’t ask.

“Gabriel takes care of everyone. Older guy. He owns a big house downtown, five bedrooms or something. He raised his kids in that house. Had a wife, too, but she passed away, and when all his kids moved out, he got really depressed. Gabriel’s is kind of like a safe haven for people on the street.”

Despite the entire situation, Clark was slightly relieved that Bruce was with someone trustworthy, who would keep him safe. He was determined to find the underlying cause of Bruce’s relapse. There had to have been some reason, something that made Bruce feel like throwing away all the progress he’d made.

“I was with Selina most of the time.”

Clark started a mental catalogue of all the names Bruce had given him so far, Selina’s quickly becoming a source of intrigue.

“My first night on the streets, I’d gotten into the Iceberg Lounge somehow, where I met Selina.” Bruce recalled her with a fond tone of voice. Longing, maybe. “She took me back to her place.”

Clark wondered if asking for clarification was inappropriate. “You slept with her?”

Bruce nodded. “She let me stay for a couple days before she realized I didn’t have my own place. After that, she let me come around every so often, stay a few days at a time.” Bruce took a bite from his toast before he spoke again. “Selina’s friends kinda became my friends, along with a few others I met at the Iceberg Lounge. That’s where Selina works.”

“Presently?”

“Yeah, presently. She has her own place with her girlfriend.”

Clark thought for a moment on how to phrase his next question. “Do any of your friends share your current situation?”

“Are any of my friends homeless junkies?” Bruce asked sarcastically. This subject seemed to aggravate Bruce, and he was unable to control his emotions effectively, lashing out subtly.

Clark winced. “That’s not what I said.”

“Basically,” Bruce said. “And yeah. There are a few.” Despite how uncomfortable it was making him, Bruce was still powering through and answering Clark’s questions. He could easily leave right now, and Clark would have no way to stop him, but he didn’t, which made Clark think that maybe he did care about their relationship. Enough to put himself through discomfort, at the very least. Clark knew he should change the subject soon.

“Okay, next question,” Clark began, and Bruce became visibly tense. “What’s your favorite movie?”

Bruce looked at Clark oddly. “I don’t know.”

“Mine is The Goonies,” Clark said. It’d been his favorite movie since childhood, but he was always embarrassed to tell people. So if anyone asked, he usually said Star Wars, which was his second favorite movie, at least.

Bruce cocked his head. “Why that one?”

Clark grinned and looked down, shaking his head, his cheeks tinting pink with embarrassment. “I grew up in Kansas, and I thought that Oregon looked like the coolest state ever. I liked to think about how much fun it’d be to go on a real treasure hunt. I know that’s stupid.”

Bruce was quiet for a moment before speaking again. “I like The Silence of the Lambs. The… detective work. I thought it was really interesting. I still do. If I could go back I would have gone to college for criminology.”

“You still can.” Clark didn’t want Bruce to think his life was permanently over. There were still possibilities for him, opportunities, he just had to choose the right path.

Bruce scoffed. “Whatever, Clark.”

Clark frowned at him and furrowed his eyebrows disapprovingly. “You’re not always this mean.”

“What the fuck do you know?”

“Bruce…” Clark said firmly, and it was a warning. He wasn’t going to tolerate disrespect in his own home after having so much grace for Bruce’s situation.

Bruce breathed deeply for a few moments before he said anything else. “I’m sorry. Jesus, I’m sorry, I’m just…”

“It’s withdrawal, right?”

Bruce glanced up at him and hesitated before nodding. “I’m sorry. It’s not an excuse.”

“It kind of is,” Clark joked gently. “I have thick skin, don’t worry.”

“If you say so.” Bruce turned his attention back to his plate, effectively ending the conversation, and Clark was kind of glad for it. It was really becoming tense. Bruce ate faster, clearing his plate within minutes. He didn’t say a word after he finished, just sat with his hands folded while he waited for Clark to finish.

“What did you think?” Clark asked expectantly.

“It was good,” Bruce said. “Really good. I haven’t had an actual meal in… I don’t know.”

“I’m glad you liked it.” Clark picked up his plate, and reached for Bruce’s, but Bruce shooed away his hand and picked up his own plate. He took Clark’s plate from him.

“I can help.” Bruce took the dishes to the sink and began to wash them.

“You don’t have to do that,” Clark said, feeling entirely too domestic for comfort in this moment.

“I want to,” Bruce said. “As a thanks.” He looked over his shoulder at Clark. “Thank you. By the way. For helping me. I’m sorry for everything.”

“Don’t worry about it,” Clark said with a soft, genuine smile. He looked out the window, where the snow was easing, the sky becoming lighter. “What do you want to do while we wait?”

“This is your apartment, you call the shots,” Bruce said as he scrubbed a plate.

“Cards?”

“I don’t know how to play cards.”

“I can teach you.” Clark retrieved a pack of well loved Bicycle playing cards from a shelf in a bookcase in the living room that held all his other favorite board games. “My favorite card game is rummy, but since it’s just the two of us, we’ll play gin rummy.” He leaned against the counter, watching as Bruce finished up the dishes.

Drying his hands on a dish towel, Bruce asked, “What’s the difference?”

“It’s the same game but the rules are a little bit different. And gin rummy is only played with two people.”

“Alright,” Bruce agreed.

They sat down at the table in the same spots they occupied before, and Clark took all the cards out of the box, carefully so he wouldn’t rip the box any more than it was. He began to riffle and bridge shuffle them, over and over while Bruce watched. As he shuffled, he began to explain the rules.

“I’m gonna teach you the way I play it,” Clark said, and Bruce nodded. “The objective is to make three combinations, or melds, of cards out of the ten cards you have. These combinations are called runs and sets. Runs have three or four consecutive cards of the same suit. Sets have three or four cards of the same number. The rest of the deck you can draw from and discard. You can draw from both the discard pile and the deck as long as you put one of your cards onto the discard pile on the same turn.” Clark looked up and found Bruce still watching his shuffling. “Understand?”

Bruce looked confused. “Maybe. We should do a practice round.”

Clark dealt them both ten cards, alternating, then put the deck face down, and started a discard pile. He scanned his own cards, then scooted closer to Bruce in his chair to show him.

“See how I was dealt three aces,” Clark said, “and a six, a seven, and a nine. The three aces is a set, and the six, seven, and nine are almost a run, I would just need to draw an eight from the deck or the discard pile.”

“Okay,” Bruce said, nodding along to Clark’s explanation. “This seems simple.”

“It is once you get the hang of it. The first person with three melds wins.”

“So since I know you’re looking for an eight, it would be unwise to discard an eight I don’t need…”

Clark laughed. “That’s the idea.”

Bruce took a moment to look at his own cards. He rearranged a few of them, then drew from the deck and put an eight of hearts down on the discard pile.

Clark looked up at him.

“I didn’t need it,” Bruce said with a sly look.

Clark picked up the eight and put down a king of spades. The game continued until Clark successfully had three melds, which he placed face up on the table.

“Aw, man,” Bruce said. “I almost had it.” His hand had two melds, and he was only missing a third four to finish his last set.

“You did!” Clark exclaimed. “Usually people don’t really understand when I try to explain this.”

“It’s fun. It’s kind of strategic.”

“Yeah, it can be,” Clark agreed. He gathered all the cards, shuffled them a few more times again, then redealt. 

They played cards for the better part of two hours, pausing near the beginning of the first game for Bruce to ask if he could wash his clothes while he had the chance. They played through the washing machine cycle, and the dryer cycle, continuing to chat, about everything and nothing at all, which was all Clark really wanted. They waited an hour after the snow stopped to see if it’d start back up again or if it was really over. Clark had lost count of how many rounds they’d played by the time he decided the storm was over.

Bruce placed his cards face up on the table. He’d won for the fourth time in a row.

Clark chuckled in slight disbelief. “You’re pretty good at this game.”

Bruce almost smiled. It came out kind of like a grimace. “Thanks.”

Clark nodded and gathered up all the cards again. “The storm is probably over now.”

“That’s good,” Bruce said, and Clark couldn’t help but get the feeling that Bruce was sad about that fact. He stood up, stretching his back, as did Clark. Time really did fly when you were having a good time, Clark thought.

He went down the hall to the dryer, where he retrieved Bruce’s warm, dry, clean clothes. He could only imagine having to wear the same outfit every day, probably not able to wash it very often. Especially in the cold like this, and especially when it rained. No way to get dry. Clark’s heart hurt for Bruce, for how he ended up in this situation.

Bruce changed out of his borrowed clothes and back into his multiple layers. He thanked Clark again for letting him stay, apologized for getting his bed dirty, and left.

Clark felt like he should’ve been doing anything but closing the door after Bruce left. There were still so many things he needed to know, still so many ways Bruce could get hurt out there, even after the storm stopped.

But Bruce was right. He wasn’t helpless. He’d made it this far, and had managed to keep himself alive. Maybe Clark did need to back off…

Clark shook his head to himself as he stripped his bed and started another load of laundry. Like hell he would.

Chapter Text

The next morning the sun rose, filtering through the breakages in the cloud coverage and peppering the city in a dull confetti of unsaturated sunlight as the storm moved to the west. Snowplows worked overnight to push the worst of the snow from the road and into the gutters where it compacted into icy, impenetrable mounds. Buses and taxis and commuter cars slowly crept up the streets where the ice was the worst. Rock-salted sidewalks were packed with people wearing large coats, winter boots, and cold, pessimistic frowns. Each salty crunch underfoot was a symphony of melancholia, every collective stomp through the dirtied snow a parade, an endless march. The city was back to life.

The print department was approved to go back into the office today, and as Clark waited at the bus stop, a windchill burning his eyes and the inside of his nose, he began to understand why everyone always seemed so miserable; the sky was always dark, the weather was always bad, the buses were always behind.

Already late at this point, Clark avoided checking his watch any more than he already had. Frustration, prickly and insistent, wrapped itself around his spine, settling deep within him, its influence visible on his face through a furrowed brow and a stony gaze. The longer he waited, the more his patience wore thin, an affection he could typically push away with ease, but right now found himself overwhelmed by after the way he slept last night.

It wasn’t because of Bruce. Clark had to keep telling himself that, otherwise he’d be overwhelmed by something even more troubling, something he didn’t want to deal with right now. It wasn’t because he was unable to fall asleep, worrying about Bruce, or wondering where he might lay his head that night. It wasn’t him reliving the day in his head every time he closed his eyes, recalling the way Bruce smelled after his shower, the scars littering his torso when he saw him shirtless in that brief instance, the genuine sincerity buried deep beneath a hard exterior and snarky attitude.

Clark couldn’t stop the cyclical train of thought that asked what else he could have done for Bruce. Not last night, and not even now. Bruce forced himself into every part of Clark’s brain that could be infiltrated. He still wondered; what else could he have done? He thought he did as much as possible—offering him respite from the storm, offering him food, offering him friendship—but it still didn’t feel like enough.

It wasn’t a comforting thought, Bruce being fully capable of taking care of himself on the streets. It only made Clark want to help more, because, as capable as he was, he shouldn’t have to be. He didn’t deserve any of this.

The bus finally arrived. 

Clark boarded, sat down, and finally took what felt like his first proper breath all morning. The buses weren’t always late. This line was consistently on time, in fact, when the weather wasn’t so bad, and Clark had to remind himself of that, had to remind himself of all the things that weren’t truly the end of the world, but that currently made him feel like he was stretched thin and about to snap.

It was just one of those days.

If he weren’t late to work as often as he was, a habit he needed to work on breaking, he probably wouldn’t have been reprimanded as badly as he was today. He sat down heavily at his desk and got right to work, trying to distract himself from what was lurking in his mind. The morning passed slowly, and judging by the ache behind his eyes, Clark knew the rest of the day would likely follow suit.

He popped a few Tylenol for lunch and choked down a dry convenience store turkey sandwich. He avoided eye contact with anyone who passed his desk, feeling like he had something to hide whenever anyone asked him what he got up to on his day off. He told those who asked that he stayed in, without much else to do on a snow day. He worked on a personal piece of writing. He did some laundry. Nothing out of the ordinary, nothing that would draw suspicion.

Fabricating a story wasn’t necessarily the hardest thing he’d ever done; after Bruce left around three yesterday afternoon, Clark had the rest of the day to himself to sit in his apartment and reflect on his life, his decisions, his future. He just hated lying. He wouldn’t if it didn’t feel like he’d done something wrong by offering Bruce help. But, strangely, it did. So Clark kept it to himself, and it would stay that way until he wasn’t exhausted, until he was ready to think it through and choose his next course of action.

It was Tuesday, one of the two weekdays he was scheduled at the shelter, and he was not looking forward to it. Unable to even consider calling out because of how short staffed they were, Clark finished his day at GC1 and went home for a much needed break before his shift.

Bruce didn’t come in that day.

It was probably for the best. Not that Clark didn’t want to see him, but they didn’t have any beds available, and it’d been a pretty rough evening; a fight broke out in the dormitory earlier around eight. It turned bloody. Men were kicked out. Cops were called, not that they showed up in time before the ones who started it were long gone.

Working the front desk this late at night, he only had a handful of men trying to come in, and turning them away due to lack of vacancy wasn’t the hardest part of the job, but it weighed on Clark. He wished he could save all of them. Bruce, most of all.

“Hey, Clark.”

The check in desk was more of an office room with a large window in the wall facing the front door, designed that way to keep the front of house workers safe. There were two entrances to the office, a door that led directly to the lobby, always locked from the inside, and a back door that led to the back of house, the employee areas, and the locker room where all the mens’ belongings were kept until they checked out.

Aaron came in through the back door, hanging his backpack up one of the hooks near the door, and punched his card.

“Hey,” Clark greeted halfheartedly. He’d spent a majority of the night dozing off, but unable to truly relax after that fight. Rubbing the exhaustion from his eyes with the heel of his hand, he opened a filing cabinet drawer to the left of the desk and pulled out the official incident report from earlier. “There was a fight today.”

They’d had to blacklist four men who were involved. Clark hated filling out incident reports and blacklisting profiles. For a lot of people, Gotham Men’s Shelter was a last resort, and Clark hated taking away sanctuary for some, even if they’d done something violent. Everyone deserved a second chance.

Aaron read the incident report and let out a low whistle. “Damn. I kinda had hope for Nicholas. That’s too bad.”

Nicholas was the one who started it. He’d managed to sneak in some coke, used it, and got violent with the other guests. Hence, the incident report. It wasn’t just his fault. It was the staff’s responsibility to do thorough frisks and make sure nobody had any paraphernalia. A meeting between Clark, Jordan, Lacey—and everyone on shift at the time, but specifically them since they were working the front of house and dorms—and the shelter manager was sure to happen within the next few days.

Clark began to gather what little he’d brought out to work on during the night as he handed off the shift to Aaron. He hadn’t been very productive, but he didn’t hold much urgency towards what he was writing. It was about Bruce, something he’d started the day before, but had no intention of publishing, or even finishing. When Clark was stressed, he tended to write about it. He stuffed his journal haphazardly into his messenger bag and punched his card, but before he could leave, Aaron stopped him.

“Hey, can I talk to you real quick?”

Clark looked back from the door. He released the handle and let it close. “Sure.”

“Okay, fully honest, off the record…” Aaron began, and Clark’s stomach sank.

“Okay…” Clark hesitantly agreed.

“Did you take Bruce home with you on Sunday night?”

Clark couldn’t get a read on Aaron. Maybe it was the exhaustion, maybe it was the way his face was perfectly blank, or maybe it was Clark’s guilty conscience telling him this was his punishment for trying to keep what he did a secret. “Yeah, I did,” he admitted.

Aaron pursed his lips and grimaced. “You know that’s not allowed, right? Like, you could get into serious trouble with the owners.”

“I know.”

“You need to be careful.”

Clark sighed. “I know, I need this job, I just–”

“No, Clark, that’s not what I mean,” Aaron interrupted. “I mean, yeah, you could get fired just for that if anyone found out, but it’s not just about the job.”

A bad feeling began to brew in Clark’s stomach, stomach acid rising into his throat, a feeling analogous to dread, yet a feeling he wasn’t able to name.

“Bruce is dangerous.”

Clark knew it. Deep down, he knew that for a fact, but something within him, even deeper down, knew that he wasn’t irredeemable. There was hope for Bruce, there was a chance he could turn his life around, and maybe it only took one of them to believe it for it to be true. So, he rolled his eyes. “Oh, please.”

“Look, I know you want to help. I get it. I wish I could help everyone here. But you can’t choose favorites, and you can’t take them home.”

The way he said that made Clark feel filthy, perverted, like he was taking advantage of Bruce.

“Jesus, I didn’t sleep with him,” Clark said, as if the idea disgusted him. It did, to an extent. He wouldn’t have slept with Bruce in the state he was in Sunday night.

“It doesn’t matter,” Aaron stressed. “It’s better to keep your distance. What you’re doing here, just working here, that’s helping enough.”

“I disagree,” Clark said petulantly.

“Clark, he’s an addict,” Aaron rebuked. “Do you even know what he uses?”

Clark looked away. “No,” he said quietly.

Aaron forced a mordant breath of air through his nose. “Yeah, well. That should tell you everything you need to know. Don’t get involved with him.”

Clark’s face burned, and he was getting frustrated, this conversation just the cherry on top of a bad day. “Okay,” he surrendered, so as not to cause a bigger argument than this needed to be. “Thanks, Aaron. Have a good night.” He opened the door and left.

Five more days passed without any sign from Bruce.

Clark worried. That conversation between him and Aaron plagued him all week, tormenting his thoughts, forcing him to assume the worst for Bruce. Yes, Bruce was an addict—should Clark have been doing more to help? He swung between considering going out and finding Gabriel’s house, if such a place really existed, and rationalizing with himself that Bruce was an adult, older than Clark, and able to take care of himself. There wasn’t much Clark could do for Bruce that Bruce wasn’t already doing for himself.

Except there was. He could provide a place to sleep when the shelter was full. He could provide a reliable food source. There were so many things Clark wanted to do, but was now unsure of himself because of Aaron. Was there anything to truly be afraid of when it came to Bruce? Was he as dangerous as Aaron claimed?

So, Clark waited through all his shifts at the shelter, feeling useless, feeling like he should be out there, doing more. He waited, and he tried not to hope that every time the front door opened, it would be Bruce.

Clark was patient. And on Sunday, he finally saw him again.

His shift ended fifteen minutes ago, and he was walking up the sidewalk to the bus stop when they passed each other. Clark didn’t recognize him at first, likely due to the blood covering the face of the individual, but something told him to look twice.

“Bruce?”

Bruce looked back at Clark, dried blood covering a majority of his face, his skin bruised, his bottom lip split open.

Clark wanted to be horrified, wanted to freak out and call the police and find out who did this and get to the bottom of it, but he paused. Bruce was calm, collected, seemingly unaffected by his current state.

“Jesus Christ, what happened?” Clark exclaimed, approaching Bruce to get a better look at his face. The metallic scent of blood was present beneath stale, cold sweat. Bruce looked a lot worse off than he did the week before. His eyes were wider than normal, and not as present as they usually seemed. His skin, beneath the blood, was grey and dull. He seemed to be sweating despite the cold, and the bolt of his jaw was protruding, his teeth locked together tightly.

Bruce’s eyes darted around, and his neck jerked almost imperceptibly. “Nothing,” he said.

“That’s not nothing,” Clark said, coming up to Bruce even closer and examining his current state. This close up, he could now see his pupils, wider than he’d ever seen him, even after he’d seen him last week, and when he made the connection, his stomach dropped. Bruce was high, but Clark had never seen him like this before. It was alarming and made him uneasy. “Are you okay?”

Having a hard time keeping his eyes focused, and an even harder time standing still, Bruce stepped off the sidewalk, to an alley between the shelter and the building beside it. There, he paced as he pulled a pack of cigarettes from his jacket pocket. “Yeah. Fine.” His words were short, and he gave a perfunctory shrug of a shoulder, though it looked more like an uncontrolled muscle spasm.

“What happened?” Clark asked again.

“Got into a fight,” Bruce said, and took the longest drag from his cigarette Clark had ever seen.

“With who?”

“Doesn’t matter.”

“Bruce,” Clark admonished.

“What do you want from me?” Bruce snipped. The look in his eye was slightly crazed, and made Clark want to take a step back.

Dangerous.

Clark didn’t move from where he stood from following Bruce into the alleyway. With his right hand he wrung the canvas strap of his messenger bag where it was slung across his chest. He didn’t think now was the time to disagree with Bruce, so instead of saying he wanted the truth, he said, “Nothing, I guess.” He changed the subject. “How have you been?”

Bruce looked at him hard for a moment before his gaze landed resolutely on the ground. After a few more puffs from his cigarette, he didn’t seem as wired as before. Almost passably sober. “Fine.”

“Yeah?” Clark asked, and Bruce nodded. “Me too.”

Bruce chewed the inside of his lip. Two minutes passed, the two standing in the same vicinity, wordlessly, as Clark tried to think of something to say. Anything.

“Hey,” he said, suddenly remembering what he’d forgotten the last time they saw each other. “I’m going out of town soon. For Thanksgiving. Can I get your phone number? Just in case.”

Bruce looked up at him, his brow furrowed, almost angry. “In case of what?”

“Emergency?” Clark tried to joke, but it didn’t land.

Narrowing his eyes, Bruce didn’t respond for a moment. “I don’t have a phone.”

“I can get you one.”

“No.”

“Why not?”

Bruce twitched again. “Because that’s insane, Clark.”

“Why is that insane?”

“You might as well buy me a house and a car while you’re at it,” Bruce went on. It was a joke, obviously, cruel and at the expense of Clark, and he didn’t appreciate it.

Clark’s brow furrowed, offended. “It’s just a phone.”

“No, it’s not,” Bruce said. “It’s a commitment.”

“It would just be a flip phone or something,” Clark argued. “They have them for like twenty bucks a month at T-Mobile.”

Bruce shook his head, like Clark just wasn’t understanding. What could there be to understand? Sure, it might’ve been a commitment, but Clark was committed.

“Quit acting like you care,” Bruce said venomously, looking Clark directly in the eye. “Get the fuck out of my life.” He threw the butt of his cigarette to the ground and stomped it out. Turning, he stalked out of the alley, crossing the street and disappearing into the night before Clark could think of a way to stop him.

Chapter Text

On Tuesday morning, Clark left for Kansas.

His leaving was marked by the humiliating ritual of dragging everything past the doorman—his luggage, Krypto’s stuff, and the dog himself—down to the parking garage below his apartment complex. Already running late, Clark didn’t have time to make multiple trips. Leash in hand while shouldering a heavy duffel bag and his carryon, he dragged everything else behind him while Krypto pulled hard in front of him. Everything except Krypto went into the truck bed, and Krypto sat shotgun next to Clark, and by the time they were ready to leave, Clark was sweating in the driver seat despite the freezing temperatures.

Prayers went up as he turned the key in the ignition.

“Please, please, please…” Clark muttered as the engine stalled for a good five seconds before turning over. Releasing a relieved sigh, he let his forehead rest against the cool steering wheel as the old truck rumbled to life.

Traffic on the way to the airport, along with the chaos of trying to find parking when he arrived, checking his bags, and finding his gate, all while trying to control the dog, left no time for Clark to dwell on recent events. However, once safely on the flight with Krypto lying at his feet, Clark’s mind began to wander.

Airplanes were never comfortable for a man Clark’s size. He didn’t like plane rides, rather preferred to drive long distances if he had the option, especially since he was traveling with Krypto, but Clark hadn’t driven or done maintenance on his truck since before he moved to Gotham in March. As old as it was, Clark was surprised it started, let alone took them to the airport with only a few concerning noises from the engine. The truck wouldn’t have made it in the snow either, so flying was his last resort.

When they pushed back from the gate, Clark put in his earbuds and tried to catch up on some sleep, but he couldn’t stop thinking about Bruce, hadn’t been able to since seeing him on Sunday night. He was unable to get past how Bruce refused him, unable to stop thinking about how sick he looked. Bruce was at risk of making some very poor decisions, Clark knew it, and although he didn’t know how to help all the time, at least he was available, in the city, in case something went wrong. 

Clark wished he hadn’t left things between the two of them the way he did. It felt like rejection because it was, and Clark hated to admit that, would barely even admit it to himself, let alone anyone else.

Sleeping was impossible. He was uncomfortable, knees pushed into the back of the seat in front of him, and every time he closed his eyes he envisioned Bruce, sickly and cold and stumbling around looking for a place to sleep out of the snow. Clark knew he had to stop thinking about it, but couldn’t, sick with heartache.

Did Bruce ever think of Clark? Surely not—there was no need. But, Clark wondered, in passing, were there ever instances in which Bruce wondered about Clark, too?

Clark knew the answer. If he did, he wouldn’t put so much energy into refusing him, into pushing him away and keeping the vault of himself sealed tightly shut. Unfortunately, none of that deterred Clark’s thoughts, nothing Clark could rationalize with himself put the thought of Bruce Wayne on the back burner in his head.

Clark only wanted Bruce to like him. He just wanted a friend in that dark city, was desperate for company, or if anything, the lack of loneliness.

Nearly four hours of eternity passed before they landed, and Clark had worked himself up a headache that hammered behind his eyes. He got off the plane with Krypto and went to the baggage claim where he met his parents. Immediately, they noticed something was wrong. Clark refrained from collapsing onto them when they hugged, letting them hold up the weight he felt like he’d been carrying the past eight months.

He didn’t want to get into it, not right then and there. It was all too much to explain on the drive back to his parents’ house, and it wasn’t like he wanted to explain to them that moving to Gotham wasn’t going how he’d hoped. So, he told them about how work was going, avoiding mentioning the shelter, and he fabricated a few details about his life in order to avoid admitting that he was failing.

Walking into his parents’ house again truly felt like coming home, more than going back to his apartment from work every day in Gotham ever did. It made him terribly sad, made him wonder if moving away from home in the first place was the right decision. In college it seemed to be, but now that he had graduated, now that he had his bachelor’s in journalism, now that he had his own life, and his own responsibilities, and his own heartaches, he wished, oh how he wished things on his own were a little bit easier.

Settling back in at home was the easiest thing he’d done in the past year, and it simultaneously made every problem he had seem that much bigger and also that much more insignificant. He wanted to stress about Bruce, about money, about bills, about feeling like nothing he did mattered, but the smell of his mother’s cooking coming from the kitchen to meet him where he sat on the couch in the living room made him forget everything. He was home, and that was all that mattered, and he didn’t want to spend this time worrying about everything out of his control.

Come Thanksgiving, the house was filled with relatives and family friends, because Smallville was just that, and everyone knew Martha’s cooking was the best in town.

The unfortunate thing about being around all these relatives and friends was that Clark was getting pretty tired of lying about what was really going on in his life. There was a weight on his chest, a burden he carried with him throughout the house, throughout every conversation, that he just couldn’t get into, because as much as he didn’t want his parents to know he was struggling, he wanted his other relatives to know even less.

By the time everyone had gone home, Clark was exhausted. He fell into the old couch, sinking into it a little too much for it to be comfortable. His pa joined him in the living room with two beers in hand.

John passed one to Clark and sat in his recliner.

“Thanks,” Clark said. He didn’t enjoy alcohol a whole lot, but wouldn’t refuse a beer with his pa.

John took a long drink from the amber bottle and stared at Clark like he knew Clark hadn’t given him the full truth about himself since coming home.

“Something’s eating you up, Clark. I can see it in your eyes,” John said.

Clark looked down at the bottle beginning to sweat in his hands. “Yeah…” he agreed, but found it difficult to go any further than that.

“Is it anything I can help with?” John asked.

Sighing, Clark weighed his options. He could tell his pa everything that had been weighing him down, but what good would that do? He’d still be stuck in Gotham, Bruce would still hate him, his life wouldn’t get any easier.

John spoke again in Clark’s hesitation. “If it’s got to do with the money–”

“No, Pa, nothing like that,” Clark assured, even though it did have something to do with the money. He had only been working at Gotham Men’s Shelter since June, after his pa had a heart attack in May. They needed help with medical bills, so Clark offered to get a second job to help them out. Even his ma was working again after retiring a few years ago, just to get those medical bills paid. Clark would do anything for his parents. After all, they did everything for him. The least Clark could do was pay it forward.

“There’s just this guy I met at the shelter that I’m worried about,” Clark said. He wondered how much he should reveal to his father. He didn’t want to go airing out Bruce’s business to people he didn’t know, and it felt like a violation of his privacy to talk about him and his… habits…   behind his back. “He’s troubled.”

Clark chose Gotham Men’s Shelter because he wanted to make a difference, yeah, but also because he was twenty two with a bachelor’s degree, and the only other place he could find hiring that was part time was fast food. Clark didn’t want to imply he was above working in fast food—he worked in fast food since he was sixteen. It was important for him to remain humble, but there was another part of him that believed he worked hard for his degree, and to go back to what he was doing before he earned it would be doing all his hard work a disservice. Surface level, his job at the shelter was very easy. After eleven or so it was never very busy. 

But it was the late nights, and it was the days he’d already worked in the office, and it was the people, and the heartbreak from the physical evidence in front of him that, no matter how badly he wanted to, he couldn’t save everyone.

And suddenly everything was pouring out of Clark, actual word vomit, an explanation for everything flowing out of him that he just couldn’t stop. It was like his brain was purging the things he’d been holding in for the past eight months, not for lack of wanting to get it out, but lack of necessary resources to do so.

“Why didn’t you tell us you were having trouble, son?”

Clark rubbed his eyes with the heel of his palm. The truth was that he was embarrassed, and felt like a failure. But admitting that was even harder now that his pa knew what he was struggling with. “I didn’t want you guys to worry about me. You have enough to worry about as it is.”

“It’s our job to worry,” John said. “You’re worth worrying about.”

Clark had been so starved, so deprived of genuine human connection, that getting it off his chest made him feel like he could actually breathe again. For the time being, at least. He gave a halfhearted smile. “Thanks, Pa.”

Getting comfortable back at home made it that much harder to leave on Monday. Amongst friends and family once again, it became easy to imagine a life out in the country again, a life with Gotham in his rearview mirror, never to turn back again. He considered it briefly, moving back home and living out a life he never wanted for himself. No offense to his friends who stayed at home for college, but Clark had bigger dreams for himself. He wanted opportunities in life that Smallville could never provide for him.

Clark wasn’t one to throw in the towel when the going got rough. As much as Gotham was killing him, darkening him from the inside out, he knew he had something to look forward to every day. Or rather, someone.

The flight back to Gotham was much more simple. No vet records to worry about, and especially no dog to try to control on the way through the airport. When Clark got home, though, back in the city, in his apartment, but this time without Krypto, he realized how quiet things were without him. No more paws on the kitchen tile. No more chewed furniture, no more barking when the neighbors came home. Just silence.

What a lonely life he led.

Clark switched on the tv, switching to the news channel, and nearly passed out when he saw the current story. Bruce’s mugshot in the top left corner had Clark’s heart racing, and he turned up the volume to catch the end of the reporter’s sentence.

“–not guilty to misdemeanor charges, and will be held in jail until his public hearing on December 19th.”

When the story changed, Clark rushed to his computer to look up what happened, because this was his worst fear, and he knew something bad was going to happen, and he never should have left when he did.

A simple Google search of Bruce’s name led to a plethora of articles surrounding the subject. Bruce was arrested on Wednesday, only a day after Clark had left. Some more digging led to the discovery that Bruce had been involved in an underground fighting ring. One of the fights was busted, and everyone on the premises was arrested. Including Bruce. His arraignment was today, where he pleaded not guilty, and his next formal hearing was three weeks from then. That was all the real information Clark could find, but there was plenty of speculation from opinion pieces.

Bruce Wayne, Meth Addict Turned Convict

Clark saw the title of one of the articles and felt sick to his stomach. He had no idea what Bruce used up until now, and now things were put partly into perspective. He thought of what Aaron had said, about Bruce being an addict. About Bruce being dangerous. 

This was real, almost too real, and a part of Clark wanted to back out now, before he got too deep into this mess. Another part of him, however, was compelled to do something, even though he had no idea what he could possibly do in a situation like this. There was no way he could afford bail even if he wanted to.

He suddenly remembered asking for Bruce’s phone number, like some girl desperate for the bad boy to like her, and he felt like an idiot. He should’ve given Bruce his own phone number in case of a real emergency like this.

There was no reason to beat himself up over it. What he could do now was make better informed decisions, and trust his gut against all else. 

And right now, his gut was telling him to go to Bruce.

Chapter Text

Visiting Bruce in jail was something Clark wished he’d never have to do. He’d had nightmares about it. Nightmares of death, of pills and needles and vomit. Of drowning and waking up breathless. Of somehow getting involved in a physical fight on the streets while walking home late at night and feeling his skin ache to the touch the next day. Sickened with guilt and fear, consumed by anxiety, the less than a week before Clark was able to see Bruce felt something more like months.

“Empty your pockets and place everything in the bin.”

Complying with the officer’s commands, Clark took his phone, wallet, and keys out of his pockets and set them in the bin. The bin was slid through a small x-ray machine, and Clark was instructed to step through the metal detector, a process reminiscent of what he had to do at the airport, minus taking off his shoes. On the other side of the metal detector, Clark stood feet shoulder width apart, arms straight out to either side of him as the officer used gloved hands to grope at his arms, feeling for paraphernalia within his coat.

After an uncomfortably thorough pat down, Clark wasn’t allowed back his belongings. He was instead led into the next room through a heavy steel door. It was almost exactly like he pictured it—a windowed brick wall, twelve seats, a one way telephone in each window.

“Third from the left,” the officer instructed, and Clark took his seat. Walls made of concrete exacerbated how cold it was in this room, and Clark couldn’t imagine what the conditions of the rest of the jail might be like. Not a minute later and Bruce was being led into the room, matching all the other inmates with a bright orange jumpsuit. He sat down opposite Clark, the angriest he had ever seen him.

They both picked up the phone. Neither spoke for the first few seconds, tension stewing.

“What are you doing here?” Bruce asked.

There was no answer that didn’t reveal how worried he’d been, how sleepless his nights were, so Clark avoided the question. “How did this happen?”

Bruce looked down and away, temple flexing as he clenched his jaw. “They busted one of our fights. Arrested everyone.”

“What do you mean? What kind of fight?” Clark had read as much as he could find about the fighting ring, but he couldn’t find out Bruce’s affiliation with the apparently rather exclusive club, or what kind of fighting was happening.

“It’s like… MMA. You know. Just street fighting.”

Clark failed to hide his surprise. He had so many questions, but didn’t know where to begin, didn’t know if he’d even have enough time for all of them now.

“Tom Salazar, the owner of the restaurant, he’s facing real prison time. I only got arrested because I was there. Since there was no evidence I was involved, I’m innocent until proven guilty, but since I’m also technically a flight risk, they’re holding me until my hearing.”

“When is it?” Clark asked, even though he knew.

“December nineteenth.”

“That’s not fair. There must be something you can do.”

“If there was, I wouldn't be here, would I?” Bruce snipped. “What are you doing here, Clark?” he asked again. “You can’t help me out of this, so why are you here?”

“I wanted to make sure you were okay,” Clark said. “I never should have gone on that trip.”

Bruce rolled his eyes. “There was nothing you could’ve done. You didn’t know.”

That didn’t make Clark feel any better. It only made him feel like he should have known, should have predicted that something would go wrong. 

Sooner than later, their meeting time was up, Clark was forced to leave, and Bruce was led back through the door he came in from. On the way home, Clark’s mind raced with the possible outcomes of this situation. If they found evidence against him, Bruce could be sentenced to real jail time, or even prison. There was no way to tell which way this would go from here.

With the rest of his Saturday, since he’d had to wait until he could get some free time to visit Bruce since his work schedule made finding free time hard, Clark began to research the best lawyers in Gotham. Within three hours Clark was finally on the phone with a criminal defense attorney with rates Clark could reasonably afford. He’d probably have to pick up more shifts at the shelter, but what else was he supposed to do? Let Bruce rot in jail? Like hell.

After an exhausting work week, Clark went back to visit Bruce the next Saturday. Only two more weeks until the hearing.

This week, Bruce was visibly worse off than the week before. He was sweating, the collar of his jumpsuit and his underarms damp, and he was scratching at his neck, his hands, his arms, whatever was exposed. Eyes hollow and sleepless, skin paler than usual, Bruce was like a living corpse.

“I can’t believe you hired a lawyer for me.”

“Why wouldn’t I? We’re friends. I want to help you.” It was maybe the closest Clark had gotten to expressing his real concern, his real feelings. Bruce made Clark a weak man, a scared and uncertain man. In Bruce’s presence Clark became putty. He wanted to tell Bruce how much he cared about him, but he was afraid. Afraid of the complexity of the man before him, afraid of the true dangerousness he managed to hide so well when he was around Clark. There were dozens of things to fear.

“I had a lawyer.”

“A public defender.”

“It’s the same fucking thing, Clark,” Bruce said, becoming angry, like a dog baring its teeth. “We’re not friends. You’re someone who won’t leave me the fuck alone.”

Hurt spread through Clark’s blood like a venom. “You don’t mean that…”

“What do you know? Huh?” Bruce snapped, raising his voice. “What the fuck do you know, Clark?” He bit down on Clark’s name, clenching his jaw. 

“Hey!” a guard called to Bruce, a warning.

With his chin tilted down and eyes predator-like, Bruce’s breathing was audible through the receiver, and Clark just watched him for a moment.

“Bruce,” Clark said softly. “Come on. You don’t mean that.” Sounding like he was trying to convince the both of them, himself more than Bruce frankly, Clark felt like he was making a fool of himself, unwanted where he thought he could help.

But as Bruce lowered his gaze, and took the phone away from his ear to collect himself, to calm himself down, Clark saw the humanity in his face, the sadness and fear, a glimpse into who he truly was behind the anger.

“I’m sorry, Clark.” Bruce’s voice was soft now, and Clark had no doubt that he meant it.

“It’s okay.”

“You shouldn’t have gotten me a different lawyer.”

“Why not?”

“Because it doesn’t make any sense,” Bruce said, admitting his confusion. “What’s in it for you?”

“Nothing,” Clark said and felt his face heat at what had become an obvious lie. “I want the best for you.”

“Why?”

“Because I care about you, Bruce,” Clark said, impassioned. “Because I knew what was going on before I even moved to Gotham, and I felt like if I could just help, if I could make a difference in just one life… I don’t know, then maybe I’d feel like I didn’t make a huge mistake by moving here.”

Mouth slightly agape in shock, Bruce stared at Clark through the glass separating them. “What do you mean you knew?”

“I heard when your butler died. I kept up with all of it. And I know I’m just some guy who won’t leave you alone, so I probably don’t mean a whole lot to you, but to me you mean something.”

Bruce looked mournful—maybe the mention of his butler wasn’t the best idea at this time, but Bruce had to know. After a few solemn moments, he finally spoke again.

“I think you should go.”

Clark knew better than to argue. Embarrassed at his sudden confession, he left, and another long, arduous work week passed before he visited again the next Saturday. Bruce was looking better this week, less neurotic, less strung out. Clark realized that last week Bruce must have been experiencing withdrawal symptoms. He’d done some research, had spoken to his coworkers at the shelter, they all agreed that he had to be detoxing. This Saturday their meeting was brief, but Bruce spoke more kindly, seemed more receptive to Clark’s assistance, and looked at Clark differently than before. 

The next Monday was Bruce’s court date, and Clark arranged with his work to go to Bruce’s trial to report since it was a public hearing. He’d told his boss he would try to get an interview. It was a lie—the last thing he wanted to do was invade Bruce’s privacy any more than he already had just by following the news of his downfall a year ago.

Clark arrived early, hoping to catch Bruce as he was coming in, but to no such luck. Clark went into the courtroom and took his seat. It wasn’t long before Bruce was led in, hands and feet chained together so he couldn’t run. It was a harrowing sight, one that made Clark second guess what he was doing anymore. Involving himself with a criminal. What would his parents think?

After a long hearing, Bruce was ruled not guilty, and Clark felt like he could faint with relief. The lawyer he hired did his job and did it well, and that made all the overtime, the extra shifts, and the long nights at the shelter worth it.

Following the crowd of reporters and policemen out, down the courthouse steps, Clark kept a careful distance from Bruce so that he wouldn’t accidentally fall into his path. Avoiding an interview with Bruce Wayne would get him in trouble at work for sure, but hopefully plausible deniability would be on Clark’s side this time around.

As Bruce was taken back to the jailhouse in a prison bus to be officially released, Clark caught the city bus the same way. He was practically buzzing with excitement, utter relief and happiness overtaking him, making the sun seem to shine brighter in the sky that day. Fighting down a smile every few moments, Clark couldn’t help but think of what this might mean for them, their friendship. For Bruce, and all of the possibilities that arose now that he was a free man once again.

Clark stood on the sidewalk just outside the gates of the jail that Bruce, against his will, called home for nearly a month. When Bruce walked out in his usual clothes and backpack, Clark wanted to go to him, embrace him, but worried that was too far. Their friendship was tentative at best, but something had changed. That was something Clark was certain of.

Catching sight of Clark, Bruce’s expression shifted from a scowl to something of surprised confusion. The surprise was quickly concealed, and Bruce made his way towards where Clark stood against the fence.

“What are you doing here?” Bruce asked with a relaxed gentleness about his voice that Clark couldn’t recall ever hearing from him. It warmed him even with the temperature in the twenties today, especially after he’d “forgotten” his scarf at the office because he didn’t want Bruce to think he was a loser. Clark loved Bruce’s voice. He wanted to hear it all the time. Not just chance meetings.

“Where else would I be?”

Bruce looked into Clark’s eyes in a way that gave Clark the impression he might have been suspicious about his intentions. All Clark wanted was a friend, and he’d made that clear. Whether or not things went further, that wasn’t something he was focused on right now. He could, though, hear how romantic his statements often were now more than ever. 

Bruce lifted the corner of his mouth, almost grimacing, like he’d forgotten how to properly smile. He shook his head and looked away, taking a pack of cigarettes out of his jacket pocket and moving to stand downwind from Clark. “I should’ve known.” 

“I was at your hearing,” Clark said as Bruce lit up.

“I know.” A long inhale. A brief pause, then an exhale, turning his head in the opposite direction. “I saw you.”

Clark kind of liked the smell of cigarette smoke now. It made him think of all the times before when they’d talk late at night while Bruce smoked. The times before now, when their friendship was just beginning, when Clark saw a light in the darkness after having to start working at the shelter just to make ends meet. Clark was glad he followed that light. “I was supposed to get an interview.”

“Why didn’t you?”

“There were too many other reporters. I couldn’t reach you in time.”

Bruce nodded, letting a short silence wash over them before speaking again. “Can I ask you something?”

Clark looked down at him, his sharp side profile as he stared straight ahead. “What’s up?”

Chewing his lip, Bruce paused again. “What’s your end goal with helping me?”

Clark puzzled. “What do you mean?” 

“What do you want? Obviously you want something, but it’s not sex I think, and it’s definitely not money, or, as far as I know, drugs.”

“Why can’t I just want to help you?” Clark asked.

“Because everyone wants something,” Bruce stressed. “You’re not different.”

Clark had learned how to take Bruce’s distrust and attitude in stride, but it was still disheartening to hear Bruce talk about himself that way, and treat Clark like he had ulterior motives. “I just want to be your friend.”

“And that’s… it?” Bruce asked.

“What do you mean?”

Bruce looked over at Clark, dropping his half finished cigarette butt to the ground and crushing it beneath his shoe. “Never mind.” He hiked his backpack up higher on his shoulder where it’d slid down, a signal Clark knew meant he was about to leave.

The thing was Clark knew exactly what Bruce meant. He could feel his face heating with guilt, like him secretly wanting to kiss Bruce was a crime. He avoided Bruce’s gaze, finding something in the distance to settle his focus on. Playing dumb wasn’t working anymore, but still, Clark felt like his tongue was too big for his mouth for the way he’d never been able to confess to Bruce. How could he tell Bruce he loved him when, realistically, they didn’t even know each other?

As Bruce stepped away from the fence, away from the jailhouse altogether, Clark knew that if he didn’t stop him now, he’d regret it.

“Why can’t I just be different?”

“What?”

“You said I’m not different. How is that fair? How do you know?”

Bruce looked him hard in the eye. “I guess it doesn't matter.”

Clark was taken aback, and didn’t know what to say then. “Can we talk about this more another time? I’ve gotta get back to work.”

Bruce’s walls had been put right back up, all because Clark couldn’t get out one little love confession.

“Fine.”

“Will you come over for dinner tonight? Six?” Clark’s stomach churned with anxiety. The last thing he wanted was for Bruce to be upset with him, especially after what he’d consider a breakthrough while Bruce was in jail. If he could get the chance to explain, to think of exactly what to say and how to say it, he’d be far better off than doing it in the streets with no plan.

“Sure,” Bruce agreed.

“Cool.”

“See you then,” Bruce said in parting, crossing the street. Clark went the opposite way. That had to be a good sign, Bruce not outright refusing him. There was still hope, still a possibility that Clark could get what he wanted. Because Clark could claim he was different, but deep down he did want something. He wanted Bruce, in every way possible.