... and the other's gold
by Te
April 19, 2008

Disclaimers: No one and nothing here is mine.

Spoilers/Timeline: Vague references to various older storylines, meant to take place sometime before "War Games."

Summary: Clark spends a little time with his friends.

Ratings Note/Warnings: Sexual content which does and does not dovetail with the content some readers may find to be disturbing.

Author's Note: When Petra visits, random plot bunnies often appear. This is a direct result of a past visit. The fact that it's also something of an 'answer' to One is silver is just one of those things -- and no, you don't have to read that one first.

Acknowledgments: Petra, Pixie, Katarik, Mildred, and Jack have all seen various bits and pieces of this, and have all had a hand in making it better. All must hail.

*

There were any number of 'meteor showers' on Earth the month he'd landed. For the most part, Clark had dealt with the aftermath of those showers -- certainly, he has several distinct memories of doing so -- or.

He's reasonably sure he'd *had* several distinct memories --

There were definitely memories --

Clark sits up in the bed. He has a *very* clear memory of shopping for this mattress with Lois. The look in her eyes as they'd tested one after another after another --

("I just don't know if this one is *sturdy* enough, Smallville...")

He has an erection. He -- oh. Lois is right --

Here. She's snoring a little -- Lois sleeps very deeply -- and resting on her side. She nearly always sleeps on her right side, and -- they're *married*. Clark smiles and reaches out. His hand looks strange, somehow (there's something he's supposed to *remember*), but nothing feels more right than shaping it to the curve of her hip. She's --

Lois.

He leans in to kiss her shoulder -- his arm looks a little strange, too, but he can't really put a finger on it --

The first time he'd made love to Lois -- who is his *wife*! -- he'd wanted to just kiss her for hours and hours. Lois didn't have the patience for that -- Lois is never especially *patient* -- and doing other things had, he has to admit, been even better.

Lois, he thinks, and tugs gently until she rolls onto her back. She's wearing the simple silk negligee he'd purchased for her... somewhere. He can't remember, but he knows it's something he'd picked out. The color brings out the faint hints of violet in her eyes, and he's going to see them again, soon.

She's waking up. Clark presses a kiss to the almost elegant stretch of her collarbone -- everything about Lois has *always* been so fine, and yes, so *elegant* -- and does it again, and again --

"Mmm," she says, yawning and arching. The scent of her rises around them both, and it's a lighter caress than the one she gives his cheek. "Good morning, *starshine*," and her hand is in Clark's hair, and --

She's not really stretching, anymore, as opposed to sliding her hip against -- oh, against him right *there*. Clark moans --

Lois laughs, low and sharp and soft all at once. "Mm, let me guess. You've been *waiting* for me to wake up."

Her eyes aren't open, yet, and it feels a little like a tease. Or -- there's something he's missing here, he thinks. There's something telling him to slow down, or that he *should* slow down. Should want to?

Be able to?

It's impossible to listen to, or even really *credit*. The smartest, strongest, most beautiful woman in the world is in *his* bed, and, and -- likes him. *Wants* him.

His wife --!

He moves until he's on top of her, and feels clumsy and a little hopeless --

She laughs, again, and reaches for him, cupping his shoulders and squeezing them -- she sits up, shifting her hips and thighs -- they're so smooth against his own, and the skin is so soft, and just a little cool --

"Oh, Lois, I --" Love you, he was going to say, but there's something *very* strange about his voice. Something almost --

Lois opens her eyes. "Oh -- Clark, you -- oh my *God*," she says, and *shoves* him. At least, she tries to --

He's supposed to move. He -- "Lois, you want me to --" What's wrong with his *voice*?

Whatever it is, it's wrong with all of him, and also he apparently hadn't been moving *fast* enough, because Lois pushes back, brings her legs up, and *kicks* him.

Of course (of course?), all of that had been slow enough to see, and understand, but it's so strange, so *wrong* -- "Lois, please, what is it?"

Her eyes are wide and almost wild, almost *scared*, and for a moment Clark's convinced that he'd turned into some kind of monster, or -- he does seem to look different. His hands are -- smaller? Than they should be?

"Lois --"

"Get *out* of this bed and go look in a mirror *right* now," she says, and pulls her knees back again --

"Are you going to *kick* me again?"

"Are you going to get out of this bed?"

Well -- that, at least, *sounds* like the Lois he knows, loves, and sometimes -- fears. Or -- yes, Lois wants him to go away --

He doesn't want to, at *all* -- no. Lois wants him to go away, and the bathroom is... well, it has to be nearby.

He gets up, and looks at Lois again --

"Go!"

He winds up in the kitchen on his first try, but it doesn't exactly take long to find the bathroom, and he looks in the mirror, and -- well, it's him. Same eyes, same nose. Same too-big jaw and shoulders that don't seem to match the rest of him. He's got pretty decent muscles from working on the farm -- or maybe from being a Kryptonian and he doesn't like to think about *that* -- but he has to admit he's a little... gawky, maybe?

Lois is his *wife*. She has to -- doesn't she like him?

He thinks about it -- and then he *thinks* about it. When had he left the farm? When *did* he get married?

He remembers *that*, of course -- the happiest day of his life! Only... hadn't he had to bend down pretty far to kiss Lois? He's not... well, he's not short, but he's...

And there's something about the meteors... or. Had there been something?

He hears Lois moving in the bedroom, and -- it definitely sounds like she's putting clothes on. The face in the mirror frowns pretty dramatically, but he has about as much control over that as he does over his erection.

Lois is probably taking off the silk thing now, and she -- she's going to be *naked*, at least for a moment or two, and he's pretty darned fast. Maybe if he just zipped past the bedroom...?

No, Lois wouldn't want him to do that. The trouble is, he doesn't know what Lois *does* want, except for him to be bigger than he is. No -- older. Something must've happened to make him young again, and that's all there is to it. Lois is --

Lois is supposed to be *his* age, only she's a grown woman, and he'd never known her as a teenager -- it's really pretty confusing. But. "Lois...?"

"Stay *right* where you are."

"Okay, but --"

"And remind me where you keep the JLA communicator."

The -- okay, there are memories. There's -- well, there's Batman -- Bruce. And Diana and J'onn and all the others. The *League*. It's the most important thing he's ever done. That he does. Did -- "Um. The what now...?"

Lois... Lois says a lot of curse-words. She seems quite comfortable with that sort of vocabulary, and he sort of remembers...

Don't they have something like --

"And don't you *dare* mention the mother*fucking* swear jar, you -- you -- Oh, thank God."

"Er -- yes?"

Lois tosses a robe out of the bedroom in the vague direction of the bathroom. It's very -- well, it's very big, and there's no way in the world that he's not supposed to put it on.

He puts it on, and -- the belt doesn't *quite* go around twice. And it's not *entirely* falling off of him. And it only drags on the floor a little. And --

It's a little too soft and *good* on his private parts right now, considering Lois' state of mind -- she'd been naked in there. *Recently* -- but there's nothing he can do about that, either.

"God, where *is* that thing?"

Clark eases back to the bedroom door and peers around the corner -- and gets hit in the face with a shirt. When he pulls it away, he gets hit with a pair of jeans. The button hits him in the eye, and that kind of stings. "Lois --"

"*What*?!"

Clark frowns, but, well... "Maybe I have a... secret compartment? Somewhere?" It certainly seems reasonable for that sort of thing.

Lois' eyes are... he thinks the word "gimlet" wouldn't be going too far. He's read all sorts of books which seem to describe eyes like Lois' right now, and that's the word which gets used, more often than not. Well, in the more descriptive ones, and --

"Or -- or I could go back into the bathroom...?"

"Do. That."

He goes. It sounds like Lois is demolishing their bedroom, which probably shouldn't seem like so much of a metaphor, but it does. Clark puts the seat cover down and sits on the toilet. There are crashes, more sounds of clothes flying, a thumping noise which is probably the mattress being moved at speed -- which is impressive, but Lois has always been...

Lois has always been many things, actually. Strong and determined is just a part of it.

There's the sound of glass shattering, and the smell of Lois' perfume is suddenly *everywhere*, but she doesn't seem to be cursing any more than she was before.

Clark waits, and eventually there's a knocking noise. All over -- all around the walls. Ah, she's looking for a hollow space. That's a really good thought. He thinks about telling her so, and maybe offering to help, but... no. Probably not a good idea.

The knocking goes on for a while, and Clark settles for trying to listen for especially hollow sounds. It's a little difficult, because the morning traffic outside is just gearing up, and there are a lot of birds nearby, and there are three cats in the building, and there's someone screaming very far away -- "Lois, do you know where I keep my... my uniform?"

"Oh, don't you *dare*," she says, and in a moment she's in the doorway, pointing at him and glaring --

"I only meant -- I mean, that is to say, I heard --"

"Do you --" Lois puts her hands on her hips. "Are you even sure what you can and can't do right now?"

He can -- he can *help*. "I'm strong, and I -- I can run really fast, and --"

"And if you lose your temper you might set fire to someone with your eyes by mistake...?"

Set fire... he can *do* that? That's something he doesn't -- "I --"

"You're not going *anywhere* until I can get someone from the League here to *fix* this -- *God*. Okay, here's what's going to happen. Are you listening?"

"Yes --"

"You're going to come back into the bedroom with me, and -- stop *looking* at me like that!"

"Sorry! I mean, you -- ah. The bedroom?"

"You're going to help me find this secret compartment, and then you're going to take a trip to the moon." She claps her hands once, sharp and *set*. "Let's go." She turns and goes, and --

And the robe she's wearing fits perfectly, which means it kind of swirls around her legs, and the muscle of her calf is curved and sleek, and -- and he follows her. The moon?

It goes quicker with the two of them, especially since there *is* a hollow spot just above and to the left of where the mattress *used* to be.

"Lois, I think I --"

"*Open* it."

"Er..." He gives it a push and nothing happens, and he knocks on it three times, and he scrapes around it a little --

"*Punch* it, Clark."

He does. The wall kind of crunches and crumbles around his fist, and suddenly he's brushing some kind of metal with his knuckles. And some kind of plastic with his fingernail. "Oh, I think I --"

And then Lois is there, wobbling a little on the debris on the floor, snatching the plastic thing away and shoving it in Clark's ear. And glaring at him.

"I -- how do I...?"

Lois squeezes her eyes shut and tries to punch the wall next to the hole. Clark is only *just* fast enough to catch her hand, and he braces himself for her yelling at him, more, but all she does is shudder and twist her hand free of Clark's own.

Then she reaches up and taps something on the thing -- the *communicator* -- in his ear that goes click, and --

"*Talk*, Clark."

"Er -- this is -- this is Clark -- Superman. Um. I'm trying to reach the League?"

Lois pinches the bridge of her nose, and --

"Voice identification: Failure. Please clear this channel."

The voice through the communicator is artificial, but there's something strange about it, just the same --

"Well?" Lois has her fists on her hips again. "Did you get anyone?"

"It's saying something -- it says it can't identify my voice --"

"Voice identification: Failure. Clear this channel or else."

"Er -- Lois, now it's threatening me --"

"What? Give me that," she says, and rips the communicator out of his ear and puts it in her own.

There is nothing sexual about the act, even though Lois' ears are shapely and somewhat pointed and she'd touched his skin. Several times, now.

"Listen. I don't know who the hell is listening up there, but if you don't have *my* voice on record --"

Without the comm in his ear, the computerized voice sounds different, even stranger, somehow, as it says, "Voice identification: Lois Lane."

Lois blows out a breath. "That's more like it. There's a problem here, and I don't know how secure this channel is --"

"At the moment? Very," says the computerized voice, and --

That was really rather responsive for a computer, Clark thinks, and the look Lois shoots him says she feels the same. But then Lois frowns, taps her teeth with one fingernail -- "Oracle?"

"At your service, Mrs. Lane. What can I do for you?"

For a moment, Clark can't help but feel somewhat relieved -- Lois is *smiling* -- but then he notices what sort of smile it is. It's the one she tended to reserve for people who either upset her or upset her by not telling her things -- he remembers this clearly --

"You should take it as a measure of how serious a problem it is that I'm --"

"Calling on *this* channel?"

" -- not demanding an interview," Lois says, and her smile fades. "That *was* Clark."

"That was a boy between the ages of approximately thirteen and sixteen years of age, Mrs. --"

"Clark, how old are you?"

"Fifteen, m -- Lois, um -- "

Lois holds a finger up. It's quite peremptory -- "He says he's fifteen, Oracle. And he *looks* it. I've seen pictures."

"And you're quite sure it's Superman?"

Superman. Superman? He doesn't *feel* like Superman, but it's still extremely uncomfortable to see Lois looking so *doubtful*. Clark folds his arms over his chest -- and feels the robe starting to slip off his shoulders. Better to hold on to the thing, and just --

"No. I can't be sure. He doesn't remember -- there's a lot he doesn't remember."

Clark frowns. "I remember *you*, Lois."

Lois' finger is still up. "And he just came very close to referring to me as 'ma'am.'"

"I see," Oracle says, and there's another pause.

He knows the name Oracle, or -- possibly he'd *known* it. It's just that there aren't any images which come with it, as opposed to a vague sense that he or she works with both Batman and the League. Something about red hair...? Though when he thinks of red hair, mostly what comes to mind are images of a boy not too far from his own age with a camera.

It doesn't seem strange for Oracle to be on this channel, but he can't really trust that feeling. It hadn't, after all, seemed strange for him to look the way he does, and --

And then Batman is right there, and Lois is rolling her eyes, and there's a somehow terrible green light --

*

When he wakes up, he's lying on a bed, or -- possibly he means *in* a bed. It's more like a very high-tech sort of plastic tube than anything else. It's not uncomfortable, but it is a little intimidating.

Possibly this is because his robe is nowhere to be seen.

"Er... Lois?"

"Not here." Batman's voice comes from the speakers that seem to be to either side of Clark's head, but it feels like it comes from everywhere.

"Okay, I -- where's here? Exactly?"

It's possible that the grunt is supposed to be an answer. He -- yes, he remembers Batman, but, if anything, the memories are even more confusing than the ones about Lois. He feels reassured that Batman is on this case, *his* case, but that's not everything he feels.

Batman is his friend, against all possible evidence. His -- best friend? Closest friend. All right. Maybe he should just go with that for --

The light somewhere behind his eyes can't seem to decide whether it's a painful blue or an even more painful white, and he can't seem to stop his arms and legs -- all of himself -- from jerking.

He's making a noise.

Batman grunts again.

"Er -- did you just electrocute me?"

"Ten thousand volts," Batman -- Bruce says.

"That -- that seems like a lot?"

"I was hoping you wouldn't feel it," Bruce says, and, after a moment, a section of heretofore blank wall zips in on itself and becomes a door. Bruce walks through it and comes near -- not very near, though.

"Hello again. Do you know what happened?"

It shouldn't be possible for Bruce to look more forbidding than he already does -- his uniform is very dramatic -- but his mouth tightens into a hard line. "What's the last thing you remember before terrifying your wife this morning, Clark?"

Well, that's an easy question. He'd laid out his clothes for school on his desk and gone to bed -- hm. He's thinking of his parents' house in Smallville, only -- he definitely hadn't woken up in Smallville. "I -- I think... that's not an easy question."

Bruce nods. "Think carefully. Do you remember anything about meteor rock?"

"The green ones hurt pretty badly...? Hey, did you use one of those on me?" Clark frowns. "You know those hurt, Bruce."

"A necessary precaution --"

"I wouldn't --" Clark sits up, remembers that he doesn't have any clothes on, covers himself --

Bruce's frown gets even more... frowny. Well --

They *are* both guys. It's okay. "I wouldn't hurt *you*, Bruce."

Below the cowl, Bruce's expression doesn't change. *Behind* the cowl, Bruce is blinking a little more than necessary -- oh goodness.

"I can see beneath your -- your cowl!"

And now those eyes -- a rather cold shade of blue -- are narrowing. "You can remember my name and, apparently, our -- relationship. But you can't remember that you have X-ray vision."

"I certainly don't think I had it *before*, and -- is *that* what I call it? Do I use it to see if... if people have broken bones?"

"I've never asked you what you used it for on a day-to-day basis, Clark. I didn't plan to start," Bruce says, and turns one hand over.

There's something there which looks a little like an especially small and futuristic remote control, and, when Bruce presses a button, the arch over the bed folds back. The room isn't any colder than it was a few minutes ago, and he has nothing to be ashamed of, and --

And Wonder Woman -- Diana -- is walking in and looking him up and down.

"Um --"

"Hera, he's small. I always knew he'd had to grow *into* the Clark we know, but... well, at least the blush is the same."

Bruce raises an eyebrow behind the cowl. "You don't think it's more intense at the moment...?"

"Ah -- could I have... um."

Diana stares at him. Stares *down* at him. "What is it? Speak *up*, man."

It feels like his face is burning, and Clark closes his eyes just in case this is what causes the fire-from-the-eyes thing that Lois had mentioned.

"What's *wrong* with him, Bruce?"

"At a guess? Adolescent body shyness," Bruce says, and Clark catches himself searching that low, flat tone for any hint of amusement. There's a part of him which thinks it must be there, but he can't seem to find it.

Clark opens his eyes. A little bit. "I don't suppose I could have... clothes?"

Diana makes an affronted noise. "The way you raise your children in this world should be *criminal*."

"The way I raise mine -- is," Bruce says, and there *is* amusement there, but he's also leaving the room -- oh, the robe!

Clark opens his eyes all the way and looks hopeful. It's the same robe Lois had handed to him, and it's too big, but the only thing that would feel better right now is...

Jeans? His... uniform? He isn't sure. And, once he has the robe on, he feels a bit more qualified to look up at Diana. "I know the two of us are friends, and I can remember that, but I'm afraid I don't... it's all very vague. Like something that happened to someone else."

Diana's frown cuts itself a little deeper onto her features. "Clark. You... you really think of yourself as being an adolescent?"

"My -- my mother knitted me a very nice sweater for my fifteenth birthday a few months ago. And my father lets me drive the truck around almost whenever I want."

Diana crosses her arms under her -- her -- Diana crosses her arms. "Did you... have you started using your powers to help people?"

His powers. His -- they know he's not really like other people. They know he's an *alien*. And while that might not matter to someone like Diana... he looks over his shoulder at Bruce, who -- well, it honestly doesn't seem as though Bruce has *stopped* looking at him --

"Answer her, Clark."

"Right, I --" And then he has to stop, and think, because there's a *rope* around him, glowing and -- it doesn't seem very thick, but he can't budge it even a little. Wonder Woman's *lasso*. "I -- I wasn't going to lie to you, Diana --"

"Just the same. Answer the question."

"Well, I... I'm not supposed to. I have to keep it a secret, and my parents would probably be pretty mad -- you won't tell them, will you?"

"Your secret," Bruce says, and moves until he's within Clark's peripheral vision, "is safe with us."

"I -- sometimes there are fires, and I -- I can get people out and away from them, and sometimes I can blow them away from the fields so people don't lose their crops. And I can run really fast, so sometimes I can keep people from getting into car accidents. And I saved a little boy who was drowning in the quarry, but he might have seen me. I hope he didn't."

Diana nods, and her frown isn't quite so hard. "What else can you do?"

"The -- apparently I have X-ray vision! That's pretty new -- oh goodness, I can see your --" Clark closes his eyes, but -- "I can *still* see your -- wait, now I can see your bones. That's -- wow. You're really very well put together, ma'am -- I mean, Diana!"

Bruce makes a sound like a very sharp hum. Diana makes a slightly strangled noise -- and then the lasso isn't around him, anymore.

Clark stands up straight and pulls the robe around himself a little better -- he can still *see*. He looks at the floor, instead, and he can see -- rock. A lot of rock. Clark takes a deep breath.

Diana -- sighs. "He doesn't have anything resembling control over his powers. We can't let him out there."

"Agreed," Bruce says. "Zatanna checked him earlier -- there are no signs of magic. Until we can retrace his movements yesterday, the working hypothesis is that he had a run-in with either red Kryptonite or some other Kryptonite we simply hadn't yet come across."

Diana crosses to him and places two strong fingers under his chin until he looks up -- at her skull. Clark tries squinting -- he can see her brain.

He tries blinking -- her face. Her frowning face, but still her face. He takes another deep breath. "Sorry about that. I -- I'll work on. Um. Fixing that."

"Of course you will," she says, pauses, and then pats his cheek. "Do you understand why we can't simply allow you to go on as you have been?"

"Because it's too dangerous?"

Bruce cups his shoulder. "It's no longer a question of just protecting your secret, Clark. You've spent much of the past fifteen years becoming as much of an icon as a hero. Your enemies -- and you have many -- would go after you with a quite literal vengeance. And you would not be able to face them as you are now."

Enemies? A lot of -- Luthor -- but Lex is just a kid, like him -- or. He isn't, anymore. No one is. "Should I... will you send me back to my parents?"

Diana shakes her head. "We need you somewhere we can keep an eye on you. As to whether or not you inform your parents what's happened..." She looks at Bruce.

Bruce squeezes his shoulder. "There's a window of between twenty-four and seventy-two hours, after which, if it *was* red Kryptonite, you should be back to normal."

"If the gods are kind," Diana says, and steps away. "Will you take him with you to Gotham, Bruce?"

"I've run out of tests I can perform here, but there isn't very much more I can do back at the Cave," he says, and squeezes Clark's shoulder again before letting go. "We could keep him here."

Keep him -- *tests* -- "Er -- how long was I unconscious?"

"Three hours," Bruce says. "You --"

"Bruce," Diana says, and clips her lasso to her belt. "You are by far the one of us most qualified to deal with this."

Bruce frowns. "I already *have* a Robin."

"All the better," and Diana begins walking out. "Clark could probably use someone his own age to speak with."

Robin... Robin. Bright colors and laughter. Strength and warmth and -- "I think I'd like to speak to Robin, Bruce," Clark says, and smiles. "Is he home?"

Bruce looks at him. Clark isn't sure how to translate that look, but smiling at it doesn't make it any worse.

*

The transporter makes him feel like he might not have as many parts as he did before he stepped into it, but Bruce doesn't seem to be affected in any way, and the Cave...

He remembers the Cave, but not that it was this big and *dark*. There are lights near all of the working areas, but the Cave seems to go on for miles past those areas, and the shadows -- they seem too solid to *be* shadows.

Clark shivers, a little --

"Are you cold?"

Bruce is looking at him like he's maybe thinking of electrocuting him again. Or -- something else with *tests*. "Oh, no! Just... do you spend a lot of time *here*, Bruce? I mean, I know it's your... your headquarters, but..."

"What you do and don't remember... hm. Perhaps we should talk about that," Bruce says, and then turns away and walks over to his computers. There's a console area there which, now that Clark looks at it, seems to be designed precisely for Bruce's ease.

It makes sense, of course, but -- is the whole Cave like that? Does he really prefer it that way? "I -- well, I remember you."

"Yes," Bruce says, and starts typing.

"I remember -- it's a little like... I can remember the first time you touched me, but not why. Just that it was a first, and that it was very important."

"Really."

Clark looks around for somewhere to sit and decides on the balance beam. It's not very comfortable as a seat, but it's not very far away from Bruce, and it's kind of comfortingly warm. The wood is smooth from hands and feet -- Robin's hands and feet, always tucked away in bright green. Only... there's more than one.
There are -- he looks back over his shoulder, and there's something like a... well, it's a memorial, and then he remembers the first time -- the only time -- he ever saw Bruce cry.

"Oh, I... I don't think I remember Robin as well as I thought I did."

Bruce stops typing. "Tell me what you do remember," he says, and he doesn't look back at Clark, but it still feels like he's staring. Or -- watching.

"I remember Dick," Clark says, slowly, and he realizes he's waiting for some memory to attack him. When nothing does -- "I remember that we're good friends, best friends like the two of us, only something happened with the two of you --"

"What else." Bruce's voice sounds -- sharp and hard, but also like the weapon in it is aimed at himself.

"I remember taking Dick flying, and --" And kissing him. Kissing him and kissing him and *kissing* him, because he could, because he wanted to, because Dick is so very *beautiful*, because every time Dick calls him 'Superman,' he really means 'Clark.' And it wasn't the first time, or the second, or even the -- the *eighth* -- "Oh. Oh -- goodness."

"You just remembered that the two of you are lovers."

He's probably blushing hard enough to melt anything and everything he touches, but he doesn't smell any smoke, and Bruce isn't looking at him. Just -- that word. Lovers.

*Lovers*. The two of them -- over the *years* --

And he remembers, and he can't *stop* remembering, that Lois has a Robin suit. There's something -- her laughter, her -- acceptance? But how does that even *work* -- "I cheat on my *wife*. I'm not -- that's not right!"

Bruce makes that little humming sound again, and -- turns around. And walks toward him. And -- stops.

Close, but not very close. Just close enough for it to seem strange, because Bruce is his friend, but he's not that sort of -- of --

*This* memory is fuzzed around the edges, and Clark wants not to trust it, but --

"Bruce --"

"Yes."

"You -- you were -- there was some kind of drug, and I remember that you seemed all right, that you were -- we caught the -- the bad guys --"

"Ivy. Working with the Toyman."

Clark nods, and remembers more, the faces -- two brilliant, twisted *minds*, and then -- then -- "You collapsed. You -- you told me to bring you back here."

"I was feverish," Bruce says, and takes another step closer. "Confused," he says, and the scuff of his boot on the mats seems like the loudest sound in the world.

"You didn't -- you told me not to go," Clark says, and suddenly he can feel it. The fear, and the need to berate himself. How had he missed that Bruce was so *affected*?

"I told you how to prepare the antidote. You gave it to me."

The skin of Bruce's arm had been warm enough that it hadn't seemed cool at all to Clark's touch, his pupils had been dilated enough that there was barely a ring of blue, and he -- He had shaken when Bruce had done so, because he could smell -- "I could smell you. You... you were very -- I knew you were *aroused*."

Maybe even painfully so, and he knows how that feels, only he remembers that it all seemed so much sharper, so much more *immediate*. He remembers feeling frightened and helpless -- Bruce is *human*, and he'd seemed almost wild, seemed to almost have to *fight* to stay still on the gurney --

And maybe -- maybe Bruce knows that Clark is aroused right now. Maybe that's why he's not any closer, or --

"You *kissed* me."

"You failed to stop me," Bruce says, and the corner of his mouth twitches. It's -- it's just the one movement, but Bruce's mouth doesn't seem hard, right now. It's not soft and wet, not like then, but it's not *hard* --

"Bruce, I -- I can't remember, I can't -- are we lovers, too?"

"No," Bruce says, and takes the last step closer. "We aren't," and a part of Clark wants to congratulate the rest for paying attention to the words, but the rest is caught by the feel of Bruce's gauntlets on his cheeks, and the way Bruce is leaning in slowly, so *slowly* --

"Oh, I --"

The kiss burns the memories to ash. Less than ash -- ash is something you can feel on your skin, something you can *smell*, and there's nothing Clark can feel, right now, that isn't Bruce.

Bruce's mouth moving against his own, Bruce's gauntleted fingers sliding into Clark's hair, Bruce's *tongue*, a little cool and sharp, slick and sleek -- Clark moans, and does it again when he feels his penis twitch. He's still only wearing a robe, and that could come off so *easily* -- no, he can't think about that right now.

He can't think about anything but this *kiss*, because it's important, because he knows that Bruce is entirely *sober*, that nothing is driving him to do this but himself -- Bruce pulls away and Clark can't keep himself from gasping --

"I didn't want -- I never want to lose *control* with you, Bruce --"

"I know, Clark," Bruce says, and Clark nods, and breathes.

That's -- important. It's important that they understand each other, that they don't do anything which would hurt their friendship, and their working relationship, and --

And Bruce pulls the cowl back over his face and lets it fall against the cape, and Clark can't really remember what's important and what isn't. Or -- his body can't. It's all he can do to stop himself from throwing his arms around Bruce once he's jumped down from the beam, once he's moved close enough -- God, everything he can smell, and --

And then he can hear the thud of their hearts beating, and Clark wants them to be synchronized, together, he wants to understand what makes Bruce do this, be here like this, right now, with him. He wants -- he wants --

"Clark. Tell me what you want."

"You -- you *know* what I want," he says, and blushes more, but it's true. He *knows* it's true, and that it's always been true, and that one of the hardest things he'd ever had to do was stop kissing Bruce that day, stop tasting him and the faint hint of the human poison which was coming out through his sweat, and his -- oh, his penis, too --

"You have to say it, Clark," he says, and it seems wrong that his voice is so gentle, because it's not -- it's just not very *nice*.

Clark reaches for him -- and Bruce catches his wrists. Bruce can't hold him that way -- Clark *knows* he can't -- but it's still. It's not *more*. "We -- we *should* be lovers."

"Should we?"

And he wants to flinch for that, or at least not have *been* here to hear that, but -- but Bruce's thumbs are pressed against his palms and rubbing, and it's not soothing or anything but a suggestion -- no, it's *suggestive*. Everywhere he could be touched. Every *way*, and maybe that's enough. "Yes," he says, and he knows the look on his face is the one his mother calls "muley," but he's not the one who's stopping them --

"Even though you're a married man...?"

He's not a man, right now. Or -- not a grown man, and Lois doesn't want -- no, that's just an excuse. Lois wants everything from him, and he knows that because of everything he can't quite remember her saying. It's in her eyes, and it's in her smile -- so sharp, so slow and sly --

("Tell me everything, Smallville. Or else.")

"I -- it's not right. It's still not -- not what it should be --"

Bruce squeezes his wrists, and it feels like he's about to let go, and -- maybe that means he shouldn't be hugging Bruce tight, or maybe that means it's exactly what he should do.

Bruce -- *grunts*, and his scent changes just slightly --

And Clark remembers that he doesn't want to *hurt* Bruce, and it still takes another moment before he can stop squeezing. He doesn't understand, and it's scary and confusing and -- oh, it's all right *here*, again, so sharp and somehow all over him, all over his *skin* --

"I want you, Bruce. I want --" Oh. He *wants*, and Bruce is right here, and even though he doesn't understand why -- he can *smell* Bruce, and it's important that he's this close, that he's *letting* Clark smell him, letting Clark *know* -- "I want to have sex with you, and we can do it here, or -- or -- anywhere you want." 

Bruce cups Clark's face again, just one hand, this time, and --

Bruce wants more. Wants him to *say* more, and -- but -- "Bruce, why did you kiss me?"

The hand on Clark's face tightens, a little -- "It didn't bother you."

"Well, I -- I was thinking about *sex*, and we were talking about -- and I know some people say that men shouldn't kiss other men, that a lot of people do, but it's okay, it's really *okay*, but -- did you want to kiss me? Or were you... making a point?"

"Yes, Clark. I wanted to kiss you," Bruce says, and raises an eyebrow. Humor there, Bruce *likes* -- but --

It's a question. It's -- Bruce wants to *know* what he wants, and that. That's sex, *too*. Clark takes a shaky breath. "I want you to take -- take the armor off --"

"Are you sure you can control yourself enough for that?"

Clark squeezes his eyes shut and doesn't run and doesn't squeeze Bruce and doesn't -- Bruce *knows*, all about him, because they're friends and because Bruce is *Bruce*. He knows -- "If you -- if you touch *me*, then I won't -- be able to mess this up."

"Let go."

"Bruce, *please* --"

Bruce's thumb is hard enough on Clark's mouth that Clark is reasonably sure it should be painful. The part of him which has trained and practiced and *struggled* to look normal is telling him to wince, to make a sound, but -- it's Bruce, and he knows everything. Just -- everything.

Clark closes his eyes, lets go, and even takes a step back --

"Take your robe off."

Oh -- Bruce wants him *naked*. For a moment, a part of him is a little stuck on that. The robe has been from Metropolis to the moon and now *here*, and it seems a little strange to see it puddling around his feet in the *Batcave* --

But there's nothing strange at all about Bruce pulling off his gauntlets -- the scent of his sweat is higher now, sharper and better and cut with the smell of plastics, and Clark thinks he might ejaculate right *here* if Bruce actually takes off the *suit*.

And he's afraid that he won't, that he'll just get harder -- "Bruce, I -- it hurts, I'm so --"

"Aroused. Too aroused?"

It's an honest question. Every sense he *has* is telling him that it's an honest question -- from the raise of Bruce's eyebrow to the faint rumble of his voice on its way up from his chest, out of his throat -- It's just that his body can't quite *believe* it. "Bruce, I don't -- I don't know what you want me to *say* --"

"Tell me," Bruce says, and -- cups him. Squeezes and strokes him --

"Oh -- *oh* --"

"Tell me if you like this," and it's -- not slow, but not as fast as Clark does it --

Hard and -- so -- so good -- "Yes, oh -- yes, please, Bruce," Clark says, and grabs Bruce's wrist -- and yanks his hand away just in case Bruce thinks Clark wants him to stop --

"You can touch me, Clark. I -- trust you," he says, and his voice makes it sound like a joke, but his eyes are serious, looking at him and maybe through him, and no one has ever *done* this for him before --

Except that he remembers soft skin and sharp, painted nails, and rougher skin, a smaller hand, damp with nervous sweat --

("Oh, *Clark*! You're so *big*!")

It's real and it isn't, it's tempting and it's nothing and meaningless against the feel of Bruce -- one hand on Clark's shoulder and the other stroking him harder, faster, *better*, and it feels almost like Bruce's pulse is thudding through him when Clark shifts his fingers a little, like this is just one of the ways Bruce can make love to him.

Clark closes his eyes and lets himself feel it, reaching back with his free hand until he can brace himself on the balance beam --

"Don't break it, Clark."

-- and remind himself not to squeeze too hard. "Okay, it's just -- your hand --"

"Are you going to... come for me?"

And Clark means to say yes, and maybe to keep saying it until Bruce understands that he means it more than he means anything in the world, but all that comes out is a moan, and now he can't keep his hips still, or even really find the rhythm that Bruce is using on him. It doesn't matter -- it's better this way, more ragged and *real*, and --

"Open your eyes."

Clark does it, and Bruce seems even closer than he was before, larger than life and -- 'handsome' isn't the word for it. 'Beautiful' isn't, either, and Clark doesn't feel smart enough to find the right word, as opposed to smart enough to just keep staring. He's so --

Bruce is so --

He doesn't know, and he wishes he did, but he thinks, maybe, *not* knowing is a part of what makes being Bruce's friend as thrilling as it is. He's so smart, and so strong, and so driven and focused and -- and *strong*. Having someone like this in *his* life -- and he's still married to Lois, too -- he must be the luckiest adult in the world.

"Clark," and the sound is another stroke, caressing and *perfect*, and Clark has just enough time to realize that he's going to come *now* before he's doing it. All -- all over Bruce's *hand*.

Clark watches himself do it, watches his penis twitch and spurt as Bruce squeezes over and over again --

And he knows Bruce is *watching* him watch, and while he doesn't know for sure that it's turning Bruce on, it's turning *him* on enough that he almost doesn't care about the answer.

Maybe too much. He's already hard again, and he's barely *finished*. "Um -- you could --"

"I know you want more," Bruce says, and takes his hand away. And uses his clean fingers to tilt Clark's face up.

"I -- yes. Please. I could -- I remember having you in my *mouth*, Bruce."

"So do I," Bruce says, and slides his thumb over Clark's lips before letting go -- and cleaning his fingers on a wet-wipe from his belt. "You're not as warm as you were then. Perhaps I'll find it easier to control my responses."

"I -- really hope not," Clark says, and blushes, because that's not -- well, that's not very nice of him, at all. But Bruce --

There's a smile in his eyes that's so clear and obvious and wonderful that Clark can't quite figure out why it *hasn't* reached his mouth. Perhaps he should kiss Bruce again. That might --

He doesn't really care about the smile. He has to admit that, if perhaps not as much as he has to wrap his arms around Bruce again and lean up --

"Yes, Clark?"

"Kiss me --"

At the touch -- the *contact* -- Clark remembers that he wants to get Bruce out of his clothes, as naked as he is. It would be nice if he had any helpful memories of how to detach Bruce from his uniform, but all he has is a memory of tingling at the feel of a shock that would probably knock him unconscious at this point.

It's better to focus on kissing, and on the feel of Bruce's hands moving over and over his back. Sometimes they pause, and sometimes they squeeze, and -- um. "Are you *examining* me?"

"Would it make you feel better if I told you that there was a high degree of prurience in my interest?"

High degree of -- oh. Oh. "You -- like the way I... feel?"

Bruce's answer is a hum and -- also some sort of move that ends with Clark on the floor, and that's supposed to hurt, right, he has to --

He has to try not to *stare* at Bruce as he unhooks and loosens and all of the other things that eventually lead to -- oh. "You smell really good, Bruce."

"Do I."

"Yes, like -- I don't know," Clark says, and rests on his elbows. And breathes as deeply as he wants to. "I can smell your -- your armor, and it just makes the scent of your sweat seem -- um. Better." Clark shakes his head. "I want to taste you -- again."

Bruce -- pauses.

Clark swallows. "Please?"

"You're more demanding than I -- expected."

And there's a lot in that sentence that Clark would *like* to think about, but it's hard enough trying to keep himself from sliding his hand down to his penis. He's that kind of hard which has always seemed kind of *sneaky* -- his body is lying to him, telling him that he'd be okay, that he'd feel better if he just stroked himself a *little* bit, maybe one or two squeezes -- Clark digs his fingers in against the mats.

"Perhaps I should say 'hungrier.'"

"I -- I love you. You're my *friend* --"

"Clark --"

"Please?"

"Hm." Bruce pulls off his boots and goes back to -- *releasing* himself from the armor at his jock and the tights.

Clark licks his lips and sits up all the way, because it's too slow, and because once he can *see* Bruce's thighs he has to touch. The hair is ticklish against Clark's palms and the scars are the wrong sort of smooth. Clark knows that Bruce lives his life very dangerously, and he knows that Bruce has to, it's just that -- that --

It's just that kissing Bruce's thighs makes his lips feel tingly, makes him blush more -- demanding, yes. Hungry -- *yes*.

And it's easy to roll up onto his knees, almost like he'd done before, or -- no, he'd *dropped* to his knees that time, that *one* time, because Bruce's scent had been impossible to ignore, Bruce's arousal too much, too *perfect* even though he'd been drugged --

It was *wrong*, but -- this. This isn't wrong.

"You shouldn't try to -- convince yourself of anything. Clark --"

That's *not* what he's doing. Is it? Bruce is right *here*, and it's all right to touch him. Every part of himself Clark can *reach* is telling him that this is important and necessary, that stroking up the backs of Bruce's thighs is one of those things which has to be done when there's a chance to do it.

He's not married to Bruce. He doesn't get to have this --

Bruce's hand in his hair makes him think of Lois, of all the times she's wanted him to go faster, touch harder, make love with as much of himself as Lois can *take*.

It has to be all right that the feel of Bruce tugging makes him open his mouth, makes him take Bruce's penis inside himself --

"Clark."

It's just his name, but it feels like so much more than that. His senses are telling him that Bruce likes what Clark's doing, that it's making him more aroused even though Clark is barely even sucking -- would Bruce want to do this to him?

It's too much to think about if he wants to keep from squeezing Bruce's thighs too hard. His thighs, his buttocks -- the shallow dips of Bruce's pelvis -- oh, Clark wants to touch Bruce everywhere, but this is a good start. A good -- the weight of him on Clark's tongue!

And Bruce's hands aren't still at all. They're mussing Clark's hair and stroking down over his cheeks, and for a moment Clark wonders if it would be better for Bruce if he had -- oh, a beard or something. Something to make him look older, if not the *bigger* everyone seems to miss.

Thinking about that makes it hard not to focus on his hands, and how they probably make him look both too small *and* too gangling -- Clark shivers and moans and distracts himself with the feel of Bruce in his mouth, with the human and somehow *rich* taste of him, powerful as everything else, and --

And Bruce wants this from him. Bruce had sent him down to the floor and hadn't said or done anything when Clark got to his knees -- Bruce *wants* this, and Clark can give it to him.

This time, moaning makes Bruce tug a little harder, and sort of *push* with his hips. It's gentle, and it's only once, but the slide of Bruce's penis over Clark's tongue feels like the best idea in the world.

Clark tries working his head back and forth, pulling against the hold Bruce has on his hair -- and wondering what this would be like if he was just human, too. If this would hurt, and if the pain would make it better, or maybe just make it *mean* more. He doesn't know, and he's probably never going to know, but --

He can pretend.

Clark opens his eyes and looks up at Bruce, and he knows that his expression must be the most *pleading* thing ever, that it probably looks like he's about to cry, or at least tear a little --

Bruce grunts and -- this push is more like a thrust, all the way to the back of Clark's throat where Clark feels tight and clumsy and hungry. He can keep himself from coughing, but he can't keep himself from groaning, and from closing his eyes again so he can focus on the *feeling* --

"No, Clark -- open. You --"

Oh --

"Look at me. Let me -- let me see you."

He'd like to know *what* Bruce is seeing, but he thinks, maybe, it would be a little too much. He can feel how flushed he is, and how much worse it's getting every time Bruce thrusts. There are no good words for what Bruce is doing to him now, and even trying to think the curse words makes Clark feel like he's both pretending to be someone he's not *and* making an idiot of himself.

It's just that he doesn't think he has a choice about -- it. Bruce is *fucking* his mouth, stroking and petting his hair and -- one thrust after another after another, and Clark can't keep himself from trying for more, even though he wants to cough.

It's easy enough to hold it back -- he'd learned how to control things like that years ago, because he always wound up sitting next to old Mrs. Merriman in church, and she'd always worn *far* too much perfume --

He can hold it back, and keep taking this, even though it makes it harder to breathe. He can go without air for a long time, though, and if it makes Bruce feel --

"*Clark*."

If it makes Bruce sound like that, Clark can do anything, *be* anything, look right up into Bruce's eyes and think about everything he wants to do, everything he wants Bruce to do --

Starting with having him *grip* Clark's head, hold him still, right here, right -- here, and now every thrust is an even thing, *precise* even though Bruce is breathing heavily -- almost panting, now, and Clark isn't sure if the sounds coming out of Bruce would be heard by a human in this position, and so it all feels like a secret present. A *gift*, just for him.

Special -- not just different.

Clark rests his hands on Bruce's hips and rides the motion and holds on, and keeps looking until Bruce closes his eyes --

And then he has to close his eyes, too. It's too much, and too perfect, and he's just about ready to try to bargain with the universe to make this go on forever when Bruce stops breathing, stills all over, and ejaculates in his mouth.

*Comes* in his mouth, and he thinks he likes that word better. It's softer, and more intimate, and Bruce tastes like salt and something deeper. More animal. More -- *more*.

Clark swallows and sucks, and --

Bruce pushes back. Okay. He can -- he can *wait*, even though he's very hard again, and now the whole world seems to smell like Bruce and *sex*. Bruce stops a few paces away and -- breathes. Evenly, just as if he hadn't been holding his breath before. He's Batman, and he can do that, even though Clark is having a hard time not gasping and he has powers.

Clark watches him stand straight, tense, and then very visibly *relax* -- "Bruce...?"

"Yes," he says, and opens his eyes, and -- Clark's really glad he hadn't tried to stand up. That expression --

There's too much there. He can recognize pleasure, and something which is probably what happiness looks like on Bruce (it is, he knows it is), and -- and he doesn't know what else. It's an *important* expression, and Clark thinks he'd like to remember it.

He doesn't really understand why he remembers some things and not others, but he has to believe that if Bruce had ever looked at him this way he *would've* remembered it. And --

"Can we... could we do... more?"

"That depends," Bruce says, coming closer and dropping into a crouch in front of Clark, "on how you define 'more.'"

*

He *wouldn't* have defined it as anything which involved Bruce putting on one of the more heavily-armored gauntlets and -- and *fingering* him with it on, but Clark has to admit that he's spent most of the last hour really *thinking* about it. It's not that Bruce had hurt him -- anything but -- but he'd never really considered that sort of --

Well, it's not like he'd considered very much. He'd only just barely realized that a lot of the words and feelings the other guys described when they were talking about girls *also* described how he felt about guys, and -- he knows that it's not just because he's an alien. Bruce doesn't even seem to think about it very much, and -- he has all of those memories.

Lois hadn't used her fingers.

He'd squeezed too hard for Dick to -- to *continue* --

And if he keeps blushing his way through the nice lunch that Alfred had made for him, he's going to feel pretty silly. And feel some other things, too.

It's just that Bruce has gone back to *working*. He's even wearing pants, again, and it doesn't matter that Clark is, too. The pants are too long *and* a little too tight in the hips and thighs. The t-shirt is tight on his shoulders, but fits all right in other ways --

He's wearing Dick's clothes, but they don't smell like any of his memories. That may be for the best, considering --

("Relax for me. Breathe... good, Clark. Very -- hmm.")

Considering.

And considering the fact that he'd finished all of his sandwiches and started in on Bruce's without even thinking. Clark swallows. "Bruce --"

"Eat them all," Bruce says, without turning around.

"But -- what about you? You should really eat something after -- um."

"All of that 'exercise,' Clark...?"

He wasn't really going to say anything like that. Was he? Clark stares at the avocado and sprouts sandwich. It doesn't have any answers for him, but it's easier to look at than the back of Bruce's head, right now.

"I'm reasonably certain that Alfred intended for you to eat the lion's share of those sandwiches, Clark. I'm not a vegetarian."

"Oh. All right. But -- I'm a vegetarian?"

Bruce stops typing. His scent changes, but Clark isn't sure how to translate that into information he can use, or even fully understand.

"I mean -- I will *be* a vegetarian? Do you know why?"

"Hm. You don't see auras, do you," he says, and it's better that Bruce turns around for that -- Clark just can't seem to make himself comfortable with the extremely limited amount of eye contact Bruce seems to expect -- but the question is still kind of incomprehensible.

"You mean... lights? Around people?"

"People, animals -- all living things," Bruce says, and steeples his fingers. "You're not seeing one around me."

"I -- I think I'd notice. Sorry?"

Bruce nods. "Perhaps not the thing to worry about at this time."

It's definitely something to consider. If he could see... well, he already sees more of the world than humans do. It's mostly something he tries *not* to think about, but... he thinks it must be beautiful, what the man he's going to grow up to be will see.

The world must be so -- so *bright*.

Clark smiles to himself and goes back to eating. After another moment, Bruce turns back to his computers.

He's most of the way through a tomato and cheddar sandwich when the sound of an engine sort of pulls away from the background hum of Gotham and starts getting closer. He remembers that the manor has neighbors, but they're all quite far away -- if not so far as his parents' neighbors. It's the first engine he's heard this close for almost two hours now, though he supposes it's possible that it isn't coming here --

And then two of the monitors above Bruce's head switch to an outside view, and Clark watches a red motorcycle zoom past. Is it -- "Is that Robin?"

"You tell me, Clark."

"Oh, I -- I didn't get a very good look --"

"Size, body language... style?"

He starts to say he can't really be sure, but -- he already knew that he processed information faster than humans. The sound of the engine is getting closer, and he knows it's Robin, it has to be Robin, it's just -- "He's very -- he's smaller than I am. And very -- he didn't seem very relaxed, but he also didn't seem tense, as opposed to focused."

"Hm. Anything else?"

"I think -- well, I can't be sure, but I think he was enjoying himself. Or -- it seemed as though... there was something. I'm not sure. But I'd be surprised if he wasn't at least a little bit... pleased. About something."

Bruce doesn't stop typing this time, but -- "Perhaps the pleasure of the bike itself...?"

"Does Robin -- the current Robin -- does he like to drive?"

"You don't know him very well."

"I don't? Or -- was that a question?"

Bruce doesn't answer him right away, and this is an excellent excuse to finish the sandwich. There are only two left, and -- he'll leave one for Bruce. He might not be able to make him eat it, but -- or maybe Robin is hungry? He remembers -- there was a diner. Or maybe -- there is a diner, and he'd gotten to take Robin there once -- only that was Dick.

Hm... "I don't think -- I remember --" A bright smile and a hand swallowed in his own. A sharper smile and a larger smile. Red, gold, and -- green. "I remember being introduced to Dick, and to Jason, but not to... to. I don't know his name, Bruce."

Bruce makes a sound like he's been hit. That really seems to be the only way to describe it. "I never -- you were never formally introduced."

Oddly, that makes him feel a little better. Clark picks up what looks like a mushroom and mozzarella sandwich. "*Do* I know his name? I mean -- is it okay for me to know it?"

"Yes. And -- yes," Bruce says, and stands up. He walks toward the other vehicles, and, after about a minute, Robin pulls in -- slowing enough that the bike rolls to a stop exactly within one of the empty spaces.

He pulls off the helmet, and Clark takes the opportunity to just look at him. There's a superficial resemblance to Dick, but it's as much of one as there is to Jason. He moves more like Bruce than either of them had as he gets off the bike, and his eyes have a hint of grey in their blue.

His cheekbones are sharp, as is the line of his jaw -- and it seems like barely a second has passed before Robin's looking *right* at him.

"Company," he says, and his voice is quiet and precise and more than a little questioning.

He doesn't look at Bruce. Clark puts the sandwich down -- a little regretfully -- remembers to wipe his hands on a napkin as opposed to on Dick's pants, stands up, and hopes nothing will rip before he can walk closer.

"Tim," Bruce says, and *that* makes the other boy look at Bruce. It's not that he narrows his eyes, it's just that it looks like he wants to.

Clark manages to bump into two of the cars on his way over, it's just that -- it's just that it's Robin, even though the only bright color on him is the red of his jacket. It's -- it's *Robin*, and Clark thinks he might be smiling too widely.

Especially because Robin starts to take a step back -- Bruce squeezes his shoulder. "I'd like you to meet -- Clark Kent."

Robin -- will he get to call him Tim? -- stiffens, but the motion of his head as he turns back to face Clark is almost too smooth. Just as the expression in his eyes is too hard. In his mind, Clark knows that Tim is just examining him the way everyone else has today, but it's still a little hard to look at directly.

Looking at Bruce is -- easier. Especially since he's saving all of his attention for -- Tim.

"Magic?"

"Not that Zatanna could discern," Bruce says, releasing Tim's shoulder and -- it seems like he's giving him room.

Tim brings one hand up to his own chin and *actually* narrows his eyes. "I wasn't aware of any Kryptonite which could have this effect, save for the rather disconcertingly random red. Hm. Clark, do you remember --"

"I -- no. I remember laying my clothes out for school last night, and -- I woke up this way. Could I call you Tim?"

Tim blinks. Twice. "You -- yes. Your memories are... spotty? Or do you have memories of being an adult at all?"

"I --" Clark looks at Bruce, but now he isn't looking at either of them. It occurs to Clark that one or both of them are being tested. Probably both. "Spotty. Vague -- kind of... strange," Clark says, and reaches out. "It's nice to meet you, Tim."

Tim takes his hand and squeezes it. His palm is dry and his hand is small, hard like Dick's had been, and -- "Likewise," Tim says, and blinks again, and smiles.

It's not a very big smile, and it doesn't seem very warm, but it's still the first smile he's seen all day, and the fact that Clark knows his expression is a little ridiculous won't let him control it very much. And -- "I've always admired you, Robin. Very much."

"Inasmuch as you remember... Robin," Tim says, and takes his hand back.

"Well... yes."

And then there's a moment which is a little strange. Tim seems to examine Bruce, too -- Bruce stands still for it -- and then he turns back to *him*, and --

Looks.

"We should find you better-fitting clothes... Clark."

Somehow, it seems as though Tim knows -- something. Or perhaps everything. It's in the second glance he gives to Bruce, and it's in the tightening of the smile on his face -- still amused, but now amused very *specifically*, and --

"I'll need you to stay here with Clark, Tim. Bruce Wayne needs to make an appearance at WE."

"I presume we're not letting him operate in his current state...?"

"No," Bruce says, and the look he gives Clark is... completely unreadable. Which doesn't seem right, considering everything, but then, maybe, Bruce doesn't want *Tim* considering everything? Or... he's not sure.

It's all he can do not to shuffle his feet, and it's worse when Tim nods and moves away from them both. *He* doesn't bump into the cars, and he heads straight for the lockers. Clark tries looking at Bruce again, but --

"It's all right," he says, and squeezes Clark's shoulders. "You've always enjoyed spending time with Robin, Clark."

There's a joke in his voice, and another that seems to be hidden in the set of Tim's shoulders when Clark turns to look, but it doesn't really feel as though they're laughing *with* him. "I -- all right? Will you be back soon?"

"Sometime before dinner, if all goes according to plan," Bruce says, and turns to walk toward the stairs. Clark follows.

"There will always be someone with you, Clark."

"Oh, I --" Clark blushes and yanks the t-shirt down, and -- it's not his shirt. He stops. "It's not that -- I don't need a *babysitter*, Bruce --"

"I didn't mean to imply you did. We need to have you under observation, however, and Tim won't be able to stay for very long." He looks at Tim.

Tim doesn't look back over his shoulder, but he seems to feel it, just the same. "I need to be home at six-thirty," Tim says, and pulls off his jacket.

"Noted," Bruce says, and starts up the stairs. And doesn't say anything else before he's gone.

Tim seems to be changing into workout clothes, and -- and Clark doesn't have to watch him do it. He probably *shouldn't* watch him do it, even though they're both guys. Both -- kids. Clark frowns and goes back to sit at the small table with the sandwiches.

And -- looks.

His shoulders aren't as broad as Dick's were when he was that age, and maybe they won't ever be very broad at all. He's -- he's almost *skinny*, even with all the muscle... though that doesn't seem to make people believe he isn't fit to go out and help people. Of course, he knows it's not about size as much as it's about control, and training... hm. "How long were you in training with Bruce?"

"I still am," Tim says, and crouches to tie his trainers. "Formally, though... a year," he says, and stands up until he's on his toes, rocks on his heels, and bounces. Jumps. Quite high, actually, even though it seems as though he's testing the fit of the trainers more than anything else.

Robins can *fly*. So can he, apparently -- or, he will be able to, and -- that still seems very strange. *Wonderful*, but strange.

After another few jumps, Tim stops and -- stops. He seems to be thinking, and Clark's a little nervous about what he's thinking about. What if Tim is Bruce's -- lover? Bruce doesn't seem to have the same... the same *attitudes* about that as he does.

Not that Lois does, either, but...

Clark reaches for the last sandwich -- chopped tomatoes and what smells like basil and other spices. Maybe some balsamic vinegar. The bread is fresh and -- no. He's not *very* hungry, anymore. "Tim? Are you -- there's a sandwich," he says, and looks up, hoping --

He's not sure what he's hoping for. What he gets is -- well, it's a look. There's a smile on his face, but it seems distant, like maybe it has more to do with something amusing Clark can't possibly know about than anything here in the Cave with them.

"I -- did you have lunch?"

"A quick one. But if you're not hungry," Tim says, and walks over. It's another chance just to watch, to see, to -- he should have more memories, more thoughts than just the realization that Tim doesn't wear the same uniform. The way he moves...

It's not so much like Bruce, anymore. It doesn't seem tense so much as very deliberately *not* tensed. Definitely not relaxed, and -- when Clark looks up Tim is looking at his face. "Um. Sorry --"

"Don't be. I'm someone you're absolutely sure you *should* know, and your memories aren't being very helpful at the moment. Right?" Tim puts out his hand, palm up --

Clark squeezes it -- and then remembers that he was supposed to give Tim a sandwich. "Sorry," he says, again, and grabs for the sandwich. The fact that he manages to neither drop it on the floor or crush it into a delicious paste feels like a victory. Tim is right. Clark *should* know him, if only because Bruce is his best friend, and Tim is Bruce's -- partner.

That much, at least, he can be sure of.

It's a surprise when Tim joins him at the little table and just -- starts eating. Maybe he means it's disconcerting -- Tim is still looking at him. "Um."

Tim raises an eyebrow, and there's something almost soothing about it, actually. If it was Bruce, there wouldn't be quite so much *light* in the eyes.

Clark straightens up in the chair. "Bruce -- he said I was allowed to use your name... before. Even though we were never introduced."

Tim nods. He isn't blinking enough, and -- okay, Clark can just *ask*.

"Would you tell me why?"

Tim swallows and puts the sandwich down. "I told you to. I -- you probably don't remember No Man's Land."

He doesn't, and the explanation is boggling. Governments don't *work* that way, and heroes don't -- no, he's stuck on boggling. "I didn't stay?"

"Your methods weren't very... effective," Tim says, leaning back in the chair and tapping the table lightly and rhythmically with his fingertips. His hands look more like Dick's than anything else about him. "Still, you were welcome enough. You brought supplies when you could. And you were very warm to stand next to."

Clark frowns, and -- doesn't reach for the sandwich that Tim's currently not in the process of eating. He has no hope whatsoever that Tim didn't see him thinking about it, which makes it a relief when Tim picks it up and takes another bite. "It just doesn't seem... we've never... worked together?"

"We've worked... parallel to each other, Clark, but no. We've never been a team."

"Oh. Would you -- did you ever want to be?"

Tim's smile, this time -- it still doesn't show any teeth, but it's there and it's. Clark thinks he wants to call it 'welcoming.' "Of course. And there's something of a tradition... part of me has always assumed it would happen someday. Team-ups are unpredictable in their timing and content, but happen predictably often, just the same."

Clark nods. That's -- that's a little better. He watches Tim eat and wonders if they'll still be able to talk while Tim is training. Will there be anything he can help with? Probably not. If there was, then Tim wouldn't be planning to train alone, and Bruce has probably trained Tim to the point where he could make all kinds of *observations* about Clark even when he's doing other things. It's just...

Tim dabs his mouth with a napkin. "Yes, Clark...?"

"I want to know you. You're -- you're Robin. I'm pretty sure that means --"

"That we should be friends?"

"Well..." Clark shifts a little. It isn't that the chair is uncomfortable -- he realizes that he's fidgeting and frowns at himself.

"Clark --"

"I think so. I mean -- yes, it does. We should all be friends, or at least know each other well enough that we could be," Clark says, and makes himself meet Tim's eyes again. He looks -- well, he still looks like he's studying Clark more than he's doing anything else, but Clark's just going to have to get used to that. Maybe if he studies Tim right back.

"You're reminding me of your -- hm. Never mind," Tim says, and takes another bite of his sandwich. *He's* not fidgeting, but there's a definite sense that he could be.

"My what?"

"Trust me, Clark. It's a conversation we don't need to have at the moment."

"That's --" Clark puts his hands on the table and frowns at Tim. "I'm really -- really sick of that. I'm not a baby, you know."

For a moment, Tim just keeps eating. He doesn't seem to be looking at anything right now -- definitely not at *him*, and that's really -- he doesn't like that. "Tim --"

Tim makes a small sound and pushes the chair backwards until it falls over and he can roll off.

"What --"

"Your eyes are glowing, Clark," Tim says, from under the table. "How much control do you have over your heat-vision, exactly...?"

"Heat -- what are you -- can I really set fire to things with my *eyes*?"

"I'll take that as 'none whatsoever,'" Tim says, and reaches up to tap on the table. "Close your eyes."

"I -- why -- they're closed," Clark says.

He can hear Tim moving, quickly and quietly, and after a moment Tim's behind him.

"What are you --" Clark starts to turn --

"Please don't do that. Unless -- are you feeling more relaxed than you did before?"

"Well... *no*," Clark says. "I really -- do you really think I was going to set you on *fire*? I wouldn't ever --"

"On purpose," Tim says, and places his hands on Clark's shoulders. "I'm aware of that. Think of this as an exercise in caution, as opposed to one of mistrust. What can I do to improve your mood?"

Clark probably shouldn't be thinking of Bruce's mouth on the back of his neck, and all the different ways he'd *made* Clark want to be open, ready, *everything* -- "Ow."

Tim squeezes his shoulders. "'Ow...?'"

"My eyelids -- well, they're. It feels like. They're very warm."

"Hm. Stand up. I'm going to lead you somewhere you can't cause much damage --"

"This --" It shouldn't be that difficult to just stand up, but he manages to kick the chair. And the table. "I --"

"You're used to using your rather prodigious vision, but you have other senses, Clark," Tim says, and Clark listens to him move -- in front of him.

He wants to *see*, but --

"Put your hands on my shoulders."

It takes a moment to find them, as opposed to Tim's back and arms. He feels smaller, even, than he looks -- he's not sure -- "How old are you?"

"Sixteen," Tim says, and begins to walk. "And you think of yourself as being...?"

"Um, fifteen," Clark says, and thinks about it. Tim is smaller than Lois, even, and so he must be used to Clark towering over him. It's just that it doesn't seem to be throwing him even as much as it's throwing Bruce. They *must* not know each other. "I just -- I don't want you to treat me like -- like some kind of lab rat."

"It's tempting to say something along the lines of me wondering how you haven't started becoming accustomed to that treatment with Bruce, but... well," Tim says. His pace is steady and even, and... it's not that bad. If Clark thinks about it, he has a pretty workable map of the Cave in his mind. He just has to stop thinking about the Cave in his *memories*.

The first time he'd been here, the place had been much emptier --

"Slight rise," Tim says, and steps up -- onto the mats.

"All right. And -- Bruce did a lot of tests. Mostly I was unconscious. He'd used the green Kryptonite on me."

"Mm. Your resistance to it must be very, very low."

"I think so," Clark says, and keeps walking. "Where are we going?"

"About another three hundred yards in this direction. The damage from the 'quake was too extensive to make it worth repairing."

"I -- I could've helped." If anyone had *let* him --

"Yes, you could've," Tim says. "Perhaps you still can, someday."

Clark -- doesn't trip. It's a near thing, but he manages. "Really?"

"Yes. And -- what do you want to know about me?"

He's not going to say 'really' again. "Well -- what's your last name?"

"Drake."

Tim Drake. Tim -- "Do you have a middle name?"

"The ceiling drops here," he says, and pauses. "And no, I don't. Yours is... Jerome, yes?"

The question seems more polite than meant, and somehow... "You know everything about me," he says, and ducks. He feels the rock brushing against his hair.

"I know a large number of *facts* about you. It's not the same," Tim says, and moves to the side.

Clark lets go. "I -- here?"

Tim squeezes his arm. "Go ahead."

Clark opens his eyes slowly. It's dark over here, and there's something a little thrilling about that. They must be inside one of the thick shadows of the Cave, some place not remotely designed for human occupation. It feels a little like being, oh -- maybe in Bruce's bedroom, or somewhere -- he's not sure.

And he's not burning anything.

"Um --"

Tim hums. "You're feeling better. That's good."

"I --" He's not disappointed. He's really -- really not. "I really thought -- I mean, I didn't notice when it -- stopped."

"You also didn't notice when it started, but I did. Shall I say something annoying?"

"Please don't." Clark frowns and stares into the... the dark isn't complete. He can see tumbled stone, and he can hear, from somewhere behind it, the steady drip of water. The echoes suggest... Clark slides one foot forward and pretty much immediately finds a drop. "Are we -- is this a cliff?"

"Useful for test detonations. I -- according to the files, there's another way to trigger the heat vision. I'm just not sure how to... approach it."

He'd been thinking about Bruce, and --

He can still see -- he can see better than he had before -- it's just that the world is washed with red, and full of the scent of burning dust. "Oh -- goodness."

"Hm. If you don't mind my asking...?"

It would be a terrible idea to turn to face Tim, as opposed to continuing to burn *through* the large stone partially blocking the other side of the chasm. "Um. Bruce. And -- Bruce."

"Noted," Tim says, and there's a sound of fabric, skin on skin --

"What -- what were you doing?"

"Hmm. Folding my arms under the cape I'm not wearing, actually."
"Oh." The stone begins to run. The sight makes Clark wish he hadn't eaten quite so many sandwiches. What possible good could come from a power like this? The rest of the thing is riddled with cracks, and the inside of his head feels... not smoky. Not really. Something else warm and dry and wrong. "I don't suppose... I mean, is there anything in your notes about how I turn this *off*? I can't walk around with my eyes closed every time I get an -- um."

"Considering -- ah. You don't think your earlier frustration is playing as much of a role as sexual arousal?"

There's absolutely nothing sexy about the way Tim had said that. He knows, he would've noticed. It's just that he's Robin, and standing right there, and he's Robin. Grace and competence and -- hope. Something like it. Even though Tim's voice is making him think of film-strips and the kind of embarrassment which only gets worse when you notice that the other seven boys are squirming, too.

"You should probably try blinking," Tim says, after another moment, and that reminds Clark that he hadn't *been* blinking for rather a while, and that he really doesn't want to.

He narrows his eyes, instead -- and another hunk of half-melted rock falls down into the chasm. Clark gives up and closes his eyes, and immediately feels like he's stabbing his own eyelids while also burning them. "This -- this really stings, Tim."

"It's really quite curious that it didn't happen before --"

"I wasn't *angry* before," and Clark realizes that he is, now. He would've said frustrated, or confused, or --

"Yes. Your body is out of your control --"

"*Yes*," Clark says, and balls his hands into fists.

"None of us are being exactly helpful --"

"You don't -- you keep teasing me with everything I don't know about myself, like -- like it's some kind of *game* --"

"You weren't allowed to speak to your parents...?"

"They'd only *worry*, and I've already made them -- they put up with so much --"

"And we're not letting you help people. And it's not the first time and it probably won't be the last," Tim says, and his voice is a terrible thing, grating and quiet. *Calm*, just as if it doesn't mean a thing that Clark's entire life is wrong, and the inside of his *head* is wrong, and --

And. Clark loosens his fists. "I wasn't thinking about all of it before."

"Bruce can be quite distracting. When the mood strikes him."

"And then he just *left*, and you're not even --" Clark bites his lip. "I'm --"

"I'm not the right Robin, no. I am, in fact, a walking, talking reminder of that which you've -- lost."

"I --" Clark knows he's facing the right way. "You should -- you should duck," Clark says, and gives himself just one more *moment* -- and opens his eyes. Everything is red, grey shapes within a bright, burning *mass*. He's expecting the melt, disturbing as it is, but the rocks he's looking at start to shake -- "Oh, no," he says, and closes his eyes and dives to cover as much of Tim as he can.

It's less of a boom than a giant, intimidating *crack*, and then Clark's being hit with what feels like hundreds of mostly small, warm rocks -- Tim hisses, once, and maybe the rocks are more than just warm. Clark huddles over him more, and wishes he could just be *bigger*.

"I'm *sorry* --"

"I'm not --" Tim coughs, and it sounds harsh and a little frightening, but Clark knows that coughs always do. He can hear *everything* going on inside Tim's body, and he can feel some of it. The air smells burnt and wrong, and --

"I'm going to --" Clark runs them away from the choking cloud. The mats are the softest place here, and that's not really soft *enough*, but Tim braces himself on them, breathes sharply, and then breathes deeply.

Clark backs away enough that he can stroke Tim's back, and arms -- there's a shift in the temperature of the skin of his forearm, and, when Clark looks, he's already blistering, a little. Clark frowns and runs upstairs for ice. By the time he gets back, Tim is settling into a crouch and examining the wound himself.

He takes the ice without a word and hums at the feel of it. Clark checks Tim over as much as he can for more wounds, but he can't see anything. Maybe if he --

Well, it's *kind* of nice to know that there's nothing wrong with his bones other than the fact that several of them have been broken over the years. Clark reaches out to touch the hand with the most old breaks, and blinks until he's just seeing pale skin with a layer of dust.

"Are you all right?"

Tim looks up at him from under his lashes. It's not... it's a smile that isn't broad enough to reach the rest of his face, and it's a little more than that, too. "Exciting," he says.

"I'm -- really sorry."

Tim tilts his head to the side. "For letting me work you up until you had to release some of the... tension?" His eyes are still very bright.

"Is that --" Clark wraps his arms around himself and -- stops. He keeps his hands at his sides. "You did that on *purpose*?"

Tim rolls up onto his feet and presses the towel with the ice in it harder against his arm. He doesn't wince. "To a certain extent. Let me tell you why."

Well, that -- "Please," Clark says, and catches himself nodding -- he doesn't need to nod. It's just that --

"You've been training to keep yourself under quite rigid controls since you began understanding English, Clark. That sort of thing has... hm. Side effects," Tim says, and steps closer. He's only a few inches shorter than Clark is, but when he's this close...

When he's this close, it's hard to focus on things other than his heartbeat, and the way it's just a little bit faster than it was when he'd arrived at the Cave. It's actually a little soothing to know that he *isn't* as calm as he seems to be, and -- none of that has anything to do with what Tim had actually said. "Side effects?"

"When was the last time -- before a few moments ago -- that you were angry?"

"I..." The ice is shifting in the towel, and it only takes a moment to tie it tight and press it back against Tim's skin -- gently.

Tim looks down at his arm after he's done -- and then smiles up at Clark. "Thank you. And I'm going to go ahead and assume it's been at least several months."

Maybe more like a year. Or -- maybe more, but --

"The circumstances are extraordinary, of course. However there have still been occasions when you could've become angry, could've allowed yourself to *feel* the emotion, but -- you didn't. You were afraid you'd... show your hand. Your speed, or perhaps your strength. You swallowed it back, instead. And did the same the next time, and the next, and the next --"

"I had to, Tim. I can't let anyone -- know." And of course that's ridiculous *here*, but -- how *had* he decided to share everything with Bruce and the rest of the League? How could that have ever happened?

"When something... frustrates me in my civilian life, I have an outlet. It's potentially dangerous to think of it that way, but it would be even more dangerous not to allow it to myself."

"You -- you were giving *me* an outlet." Clark rubs his palms on Dick's pants and -- puts his hands in his pockets. They're much too tight for that, though, and he feels a stitch let go. He yanks his hands back out and --

Tim catches one of Clark's hands with his free one and squeezes it. His hand seems very strong. "You've had your eyes open for quite some time now, Clark."

Oh. He -- he *has*. "I... you think I should have *less* control?"

Tim... laughs. It doesn't last very long, and it's very quiet, but --

"That's two," Clark says, and smiles.

"Two...?"

"You were the first person who smiled at me today, and now you're the first person to laugh because I've said something funny."

"Hmm," Tim says, and brushes Clark's knuckles with his hard, callused thumb before releasing his hand. "Don't get me wrong, Clark, but that's somewhat disturbing."

Oh, well... hm. "You're not very... demonstrative, usually, are you?"

"Not as a rule, no," Tim says, stepping back and removing the makeshift ice-pack. "I'll have to bandage it for tonight, at least -- don't apologize again."

Clark stops with his hands raised. He's not sure what he was going to do with them, in all honesty. "I -- it's possible that I wouldn't have said that, as opposed to --"

"Mm. For certain very narrow values of possible, yes," Tim says, and the expression on his face somehow looks like an even better variety of laughter than before, even though he's silent.

Perhaps Clark's hands had seen that coming and had been preparing to touch. "I like you."

"I like you, too," and then Tim turns away and walks toward the part of the Cave which looks like a chunk of a well-stocked emergency room had, somehow, grown itself up out of the stone. Clark follows, and watches Tim apply some sort of ointment to his arm.

It doesn't have very much of a scent even to Clark's senses, which is probably -- "Most of your medicines are odorless...?"

"Whenever possible," Tim says, and flexes his hand back and forth on the bad arm.

"Because you don't want the criminals to think about the fact that you can be hurt," Clark says, and nods when Tim does. "I -- you can probably bandage yourself without any help."

"Yes. But I was still planning on asking." There's a little... extra? It's not that Tim is blushing, but there's a hint of it, and slightly more heat when Clark reaches up to -- not touch.

Not quite. Just -- he has such sharp cheekbones, and his features are even and... neat, somehow. Clark wants -- "Will you tell me what -- do you and Bruce ever just talk? Or... hang out?" Make love?

Tim pulls out gauze, tape, and scissors and lays them on a small tray. "It's my understanding that Bruce and Dick sometimes watched films together... there have been times when I've watched a movie down here while Bruce was working. And it's always rather companionable when we're both, say, doing our cool-down exercises."

In Clark's mind, Bruce and Tim are stretching in a strange sort of tandem, silently rhythmic and... silent. He pulls some tape away from the roll, and Tim nods when it's the right length. "You're not... you're not friends?"

"I wouldn't say that," and Tim flexes his arm again and frowns -- stops. "It's really not that painful, Clark. I was just considering what sort of effects scar tissue here might have."

Clark pulls a second length of tape. "This time I really wasn't going to apologize."

"All right --"

"I was just -- he seems different, somehow."

Tim raises an eyebrow and lays the gauze flat on his arm. "From the man in your memories?"

"Yes. No -- there are things I *know* that don't really feel like memories as opposed to like... I don't know. Things I believe?"

"You're taking a lot on faith...?" He holds his arm up, and there's plenty of space between the end of the bandage and the actual burn, but Clark still feels like he has to concentrate.

Tim's arms are as lean as the rest of him, and the skin is as thin and vulnerable as it is on any human, and Clark has to admit that this sort of thing is made up of far more theory than practice. Still, he doesn't cause any more pain taping the gauze down, and, when he's done, Tim nods at his work.

"This should get me through tonight's patrol. Though I'll have to come up with an excuse for my parents tonight."

Parents. That -- for a moment, Clark wonders if Tim thinks of Alfred as his mother, but that would involve thinking of Bruce as his father, and -- no, that doesn't seem to work at all. "You -- you're not an orphan?"

"My birth mother was killed a few years ago. I have a father and a stepmother, and I live with them," Tim says. "And if you keep making that face I'm going to start feeling very strange, indeed, Clark."

"I -- well..." Clark watches Tim head for the weights and thinks about it. If Tim doesn't live here, that would maybe help explain why he's not as close to Bruce as he could be, or...

Maybe Bruce just doesn't want to interfere in Tim's life? There's something about the later, vaguer memories of Dick in his mind which makes that thought seem better and more plausible.

Something had happened, there, and while he can't be sure about this, it would definitely make sense for it to be something he wasn't allowed to have a part of. He's only ever been their friend. Clark nods to himself and moves to put away the bandaging materials -- but Tim has already done so.

And now he's lifting weights, breathing evenly while he does so. He's stronger than he looks, but then he would almost have to be. Clark had stopped trying to measure how much he could pick up the first day he'd caught himself lifting the tractor to jog it a little, and convince one of the barn cats that it didn't really want to sleep in the engine.

That sort of measurement has no point -- it's not like he's ever going to have someone to brag to -- but he thinks, maybe, it has to be different for Tim. He has people to measure himself against every day, and maybe it's something he's supposed to do over and above not being able to avoid it, and --

It's possible that he's just supposed to go find something to do -- there must be a library upstairs, somewhere -- and leave Tim alone, but Clark kind of has to *see*.

There's another one of those tiny smiles when Tim looks at him, and that's enough of a reason for Clark to take one of the empty benches and just... hang out.

Of course he spends time with Pete -- he'd *spent* time with Pete, and Clark isn't sure if he wants to know what Pete is doing *now* -- but then he'd always had to be careful. Tim knows everything and then some, and Robin -- this is another *true* thing -- is allowed to have fun even when he's working.

"Why don't you tell me what you like to do for fun, Clark...?"

Clark curls his fingers around the edge of the bench and smiles, just for himself.

*

Bruce gets back just a little after six, which means Clark had pretty much just enough time to get used to the idea -- the threat -- of Bruce and Tim talking about him as if he wasn't there before it happens again.

They talk about his heat vision, and Tim shows Bruce the damage. At one point, Bruce catches Tim's injured arm, and it feels like both of them are very *loudly* not looking at him, or maybe at each other. It's impossible to tell, and Bruce doesn't touch the bandage before letting go.

After that, they talk about how they're going to patrol for the evening, and that's much easier to tune out, especially since their speech is peppered with a lot of pretty seriously incomprehensible codes.

All the while, Tim is changing back into his street clothes. He hadn't worked up much of a sweat while working out -- and Clark has to wonder what his *real* training regimen is like -- but he also hasn't showered.

Tim smells a little like salt with the faintest *edge* of something Clark's come to identify as pain, though it's probably not enough for Tim to be fully aware of it. Combined with Bruce's scents -- cologne, the plastics of the utility belt under his shirt, himself -- it's all a little bit... Clark thinks this is what the word 'heady' is for.

Certainly, it's something nice to focus on while he waits to find out who's going to be watching him next. Maybe it will be Batgirl. He never really knew Batgirl -- he's sure of that -- but she's young, too. Maybe they'll get along -- Tim's coming back.

Clark slips down off the gurney and smiles -- and Tim smiles back.

"Just in case Bruce... forgets to tell you before he leaves, Dick's coming over from the 'haven."

"Oh! I haven't seen him... I... I'm not sure."

Tim's smile turns crooked, and somewhat lopsided. "Knowing Dick, he probably won't be entirely sure, either. But that sort of math isn't exactly a productive use of one's time. Tell him I said 'hello.'"

Clark nods and thinks about it and -- takes Tim's hand in his own. "Are you sure you can't stay?"

"Positive," Tim says, and looks down at their hands. "I had a good time today."

"I did, too. Maybe -- well, if I'm still here, tomorrow, I mean..." Clark squeezes Tim's hand gently. "Maybe you could show me around? I mean... outside?"

"Clark, if I get more than three hours of direct sunlight per week, Bruce puts me on punishment."

"I --" Bruce is stripping out of his suit and apparently not paying any attention to either of them, which probably means he's making note of absolutely everything, but. "Well, you're not very big," Clark says. "I could sort of... shadow you," and Clark lets go of Tim's hand and raises his arms above his head in his best impression of a very friendly tree.

Tim nods very seriously. "It could still be dangerous. You could... hm. Sneeze."

"Maybe if I ran you between patches of shade. While also covering you."

"Of course, I'd have to wear a burqa."

Clark lowers his arms. "Is that something that covers you from head to foot?"

"Oh, yes. I'll have three to nine layers of sunblock on beneath it, too."

"That sounds... slippery."

"Proper precautions are an important part of the Mission, Clark," Tim says, and heads for his locker.

"Of course," Clark says and only follows close enough that Tim's scent doesn't dilute itself much in the air of the Cave. A faintly more powerful wave of it comes when Tim swings his jacket back on, and it's...

Well, it's something he remembers from before pretty much everything else. It doesn't *feel* strange to be able to smell people so clearly, even though he knows it's not the same for humans. He's been doing it for as long as he can remember. It's comforting, and it's always somewhat warm in ways he can't figure out how to describe.

It's another kind of closeness, and with Tim, perhaps, it's another kind of touch. Tim hasn't hugged him, after all, and maybe he just doesn't like it as much as Dick does. This is something Clark can have.

"What are you thinking, Clark?" Tim zips up his jacket.

"Oh, just -- about closeness. Being close to someone." Like you.

Tim narrows his eyes slightly, and his expression slips into something like a thoughtful frown. And then he steps close, for just a moment, and raises both eyebrows. Clark thinks --

All he can really think, for what feels like much too long, is that Tim is close enough to kiss. Really -- maybe --

Maybe Tim will assume he's blushing because of something else. Or --

Or maybe he'll just look into Clark's eyes just like this, and search and search like he could find everything, *see* everything. Not just all the things that Clark is trying hard to push to the back of his mind. Clark takes a deep breath -- and smells *new* sweat. Not much. Not --

Tim steps back, again, and Clark knows that if he were to reach out, now, he'd feel the heat building again beneath Tim's cheeks. There are other places to feel heat, too, and he can -- they could --

"Tim --"

"I'll see you tomorrow, Clark," Tim says, and it seems like he might say something else, but he doesn't before he turns to head for the vehicles, and the fact that Clark has been following Tim around the Cave all afternoon... well, there's really no excuse to keep doing it now.

Clark watches him go, and then he listens.

When the bike's engine fades into the sound of all the other engines, he takes another breath, and turns, and -- Bruce is right there. And watching him so -- so *heavily* that Clark doesn't even jump.

Well, not on the outside. And he has no illusions that Bruce didn't see him do it on the *inside*. "Um."

"You're attracted to him," Bruce says, just as if that's *nothing* --

"I -- he's very --"

"I'd wondered," and then he tilts his head to the side very slightly. "That's not entirely accurate."

Clark scrubs his hands against his pants -- Dick's pants. He remembers that he can't use the pockets and he crosses his arms. Loosely. Mostly loosely. "What isn't -- it's not?"

"I couldn't be sure how... specific your attraction was. As opposed to being quite sure that you continued to be fascinated with Robin."

That's -- Clark's not sure if that was supposed to sound like an insult or not, and he knows that the look on his face is probably pretty obnoxiously stubborn. "I didn't -- I know I didn't know him before."

Bruce strokes two fingers over Clark's forearm. "And you know him now?"

*That* sounds like an invitation to trip himself up on his own ignorance, like there's something obvious Bruce is thinking about that Clark just isn't. But... "He's funny. And he's very smart and he didn't -- it didn't seem like he was spending time with me just because he had to."

"Have I made you feel that way? That I'm only with you from obligation?"

("*Clark*.")

Clark shivers and... it's not really another trap, even though it seems that way. "You're my closest friend --"

"Hm."

"Whether or not you act like it," Clark says, and watches Bruce's eyes widen just a little bit. His scent doesn't really change, though, and Clark doesn't know what to make of it beyond that something he'd said -- or maybe how he'd said it -- had been enough to make Bruce stop testing him for at least long enough to *look* at him.

"I wonder what your memories of this time will be like when you regain your correct age and form." Bruce cups Clark's face, but it feels more serious than anything else, like maybe Clark wouldn't pay close enough attention without the touch to reinforce it. Or --

Or something. It's Bruce's hand, and it feels cool and just a little rough against his cheek. Impossible not to rub against.

Especially because Bruce makes a sound like something big and *controlling* has loosened inside him. Like the very beginning of a moan -- "Clark, you should be aware that my only concern with regards to taking you in was that we'd wind up in just this sort of... position."

There are all *sorts* of positions they could be in, but. "Making love?"

"I think you can agree that it would be pleasant if that sort of thing could occur without even a hint of one of us taking advantage of the other," Bruce says, and starts stroking Clark's mouth with his thumb. Back and forth and back, over and over until Clark's mouth feels both tingly and a little too dry.

When Clark licks his lips, he can taste the oils from Bruce's thumb, and that's an excellent reason to lick Bruce's hand, instead. As much as he can, and -- yes, also hold that hand still, at least for as long as Bruce doesn't try to move away from the touch.

It's Bruce's hand, and he remembers the first time Bruce had wrapped it around his forearm, remembers the strength of that grip and how it had felt like an offer of so much more than simply contact.

He *knows* that, he knows Bruce, and everything he could hide from Clark, could *keep* from Clark -- Clark shifts Bruce's hand and sucks two of his fingers into his mouth. More of the taste, that basic human -- *something*, that thing which he's always known by its absence within himself. Maybe when he's older he actually has words for it, but he hopes not. Words would take something away, and he never wants --

"Did you want to do this with Tim...?"

He didn't, but he doesn't shake his head. He wants to *now*. Tim's hands are small and hard, with far less flesh than Bruce's hands, and sex is such a big and important and *needful* thing. It's a relief that he remembers it being just this way, but he also remembers having no idea, and -- Tim's hands are Robin's, and he only has to think about them a little to remember the feel of them in Clark's own.

Bruce is stroking him with his other hand, Clark's shoulders and the side of his neck, a thumb brushing over his jaw -- "Do you think he'd let you?"

Clark moans and tugs until Bruce's fingers are just barely touching his lips -- "I don't know. I don't -- what do *you* think? Is he attracted to me, too?" He is. He *is*, but --

"You could consider asking him," Bruce says, and presses the edge of one short fingernail against Clark's mouth. "Hm. Soft, but you're not controlling that, right now."

"What? I --" Clark kisses Bruce's fingertips, and then does it a few more times because he can. "Bruce, would you really... would it really be okay?"

"To ask...?" Bruce kisses him, and it's a messy thing with his hand right there, and with Clark's basic inability to figure out where, exactly, he wants to put his tongue. He doesn't want it to stop, but he doesn't really know how he can make that work other than by continuing to *reach* for the kiss even as Bruce pulls back --

And kisses him again, quick and hard. "Bruce --"

"When did you realize you wanted him?"

That shouldn't be a difficult question, but it is. Clark thinks about his fingers curled around Tim's shoulders, thinks of the raise of his eyebrow, thinks --

("Exciting.")

"I -- I'm not sure. I just knew... he was so close, and I could've kissed him, I --" Clark shakes his head and leans up and in for another kiss, and another, and Dick's pants are much too tight. Bruce is wearing a t-shirt and suit pants. His feet are bare and he still smells like that wrong cologne and --

"Did my presence stop you...?"

Had it stopped Tim? "I -- I couldn't just -- but I wasn't really thinking. About you," Clark says, and he thinks there's more he could say, things which could've come after that, but Bruce's mouth is wet and red. And Bruce --

"Understandable," and Bruce is moving him, and it's tempting to just stand where he is, to stay still and let Bruce *push* against him, but it's even better to move this way, to *let* his body move exactly the way it wants to. A little too fast, a little too easily.

He's being *noticeable*, and whether Bruce is seeing it or seeing it and how much Clark is *enjoying* it -- it makes Bruce smile in that space behind his eyes. He's used to it, now, or *enough* used to it.

It's a look which makes Clark want everything, all at once, and so it has to be a look Bruce hadn't *given* him before, even though they'd made love when Bruce was drugged, even though --

"Am I safer this way? As a... teenager. Is it -- is it easier?"

"Yes," Bruce says, and pushes Clark until he's sitting in Bruce's *chair* -- "and no." And then Bruce is crouching, pants pulled tight over his thighs. If Clark tried to do that right now he's pretty sure he'd tear Dick's pants even worse, and also it would hurt enough that Clark would probably make a noise.

Even the stroke of Bruce's hands up over his thighs is torture. Clark wants to be naked again, and -- "Oh, yes, please, Bruce --"
Bruce hums and opens Clark's fly, hands moving with an easy quickness that manages to be both wonderful and frustrating. Bruce doesn't *feel* the way he does, or maybe just isn't feeling this the way Clark is.

Either way, it's wrong and it hurts, and it isn't enough when Bruce makes Clark lift up enough that he can tug the pants and the tight briefs down and out of the way. It's a cold feeling, or at least a lonely one, and it's worse when he can't stop himself from moaning.

It's not *enough*.

"Please, Bruce, I need -- I need to make *you* feel good. Let me -- can I suck you again?"

"Imminently," Bruce says, and just -- swallows Clark, all at once and perfect and -- *perfect*. Too much, and better than that when Bruce just keeps swallowing.

"I -- I'm -- oh, do you want me to -- to come in your mouth?"

And then Bruce looks at him, and Clark understands why Bruce hadn't wanted him to close his eyes. Looking at Bruce's eyes is like *seeing* this as much as he's feeling it. Clark still wants to make Bruce feel crazier, if not as crazy as *he* feels, but this --

He doesn't know exactly what Bruce wants, but Clark thinks he can see all of it right now. Bruce's eyes are so deep, so active and full of -- of *thoughts*, and there's a creaking, cracking sound -- the chair. He's squeezing the arms of the chair too hard, and he can't make himself let *go* --

Until one of them snaps right off.

"Oh God, I'm sorry, I'm -- oh goodness, Bruce, your mouth -- you -- oh, *please* --"

And Bruce makes another of those humming sounds, only it feels like what he's really doing is making love to every part of him which can feel, or hear, or -- something and everything and *Bruce*, and maybe it looks really silly to be hugging himself right now, but --

At least *this* way he can squeeze as hard as he wants, and also keep himself in one piece no matter how good it feels, how right and warm and -- maybe some kind of safe.

Even though the look in Bruce's eyes is anything but. Even though the look in Bruce's eyes makes Clark want to never blink again, just so he can see how *hot* those eyes can be, how focused and sure --

"Bruce, you look so good, and so sexy, I --" Clark squeezes himself, and squeezes harder when he feels himself shaking --

And yells, hoarse and loud, when Bruce cups his hips and yanks him forward. It's not that it lets Clark get any deeper, it's just -- what it is. Was. What it did, and how it feels --

Would Tim do this? Would he want to?

Can Bruce see that, *too*? And -- Clark doesn't know anymore. It's easy to just let all the words *go*, and then it's something bigger and better than easy.

It's the bundle of *feeling* at the base of his spine, and the way he's hurting himself with his own grip, and Bruce's *eyes*, taking in everything and knowing --

The cry shocks Clark on the way out of his throat, and it's not enough of a warning of the orgasm that makes him shudder all over and cry out *again*. Bruce tightens his hands on Clark's hips and swallows, over and over. It's like being teased in the worst way or tortured in the best, and Clark hears himself panting and groaning and knows he's not going to stop anytime soon.

Bruce doesn't pull *back*, and there's a little semen -- he can see it spilling out of the corner of Bruce's *mouth*, and Clark has to squeeze his eyes shut against that. Just --

*Bruce*.

When he can, he stops hugging himself, and manages to keep himself from doing it again when Bruce pulls back. He wants more, and he wants to make Bruce want more. He also wants a hug, and sliding off the chair onto his knees gets him closer to it.

Wrapping his arms around Bruce and squeezing makes Bruce grunt, but, after a moment, Bruce strokes his back. It's not quite enough, but it still feels good. And better -- and different -- when Bruce rocks his hips against Clark's abdomen. Bruce feels gratifyingly hard, and he makes a soft, *good* noise when Clark pushes closer.

"That was -- oh, you're -- that was really, really good," Clark says, and pushes as close as he can.

"I'm glad you found it so," and Bruce kisses him, slow and deep and not really soft, at all.

If he was human, a kiss like that might hurt a little, and he wonders if it's hurting Bruce -- but Bruce bites Clark's lip when he starts to pull away, and it's better to do his wondering while he's kissing. The way Bruce is stroking his back and -- down to Clark's *buttocks* -- makes Clark think that Bruce will probably be able to recognize him by touch, if he ever had to.

Parts of him, anyway, and it still feels more thoughtful than sexy -- not like that time in his memory -- but it's maybe sexy *enough*. Especially once Clark starts moving against Bruce, against the thickness and heat that's Bruce's erection --

"Would you... maybe you could rub it on me?"

Bruce kisses the corner of Clark's mouth, exhales -- for a moment the only thing Clark can smell is *himself*, and that's distracting and wonderful and *very* sexy --

"Bruce --"

"Would you like that, Clark?"

He thinks he *will* like that. Or that he'd already liked it, and wants to go right back *to* liking it. Only, the images in his mind are mostly of Dick, and the way something like... like a kind of physical *abandon* always came over him, the way he would cling and rock, urge Clark higher into the sky, thrust and *smile* --

Bruce probably wouldn't do it that way, and that's a sad thing, but it's also a thing with a question in it. How *would* he do it? And it's a little hard to even wrap his mind around the question, but his body doesn't seem to need any help with it -- he's already shuffled back on his knees enough to get to Bruce's pants. He can feel the utility belt under Bruce's shirt, but he knows better than to touch that.

It's more than enough to open the pants, to slip a little on the material of Bruce's boxers before his fingers find the slit --

Bruce hums, and it probably shouldn't feel anything *like* words, but it does. It feels like a whole speech on why Clark should slow down, look at him, and do all sorts of things which would distract Clark from the way he's gripping, stroking --

Clark swallows. "You feel really good in my *hand*, Bruce," he says, and he sounds like he's begging to his own ears, which must mean that he's all but groveling to Bruce's own, but he really has to --

"This -- isn't what you wanted."

That's true. That's definitely true. It's just -- "I change my mind...?"

"Do you."

Never have two words sounded so -- so darned *ominous*. Ominous enough that Clark almost looks up, but then there's a little bit of liquid shining on the head of Bruce's penis, and that's more important than everything. Clark shakes his head, stops -- Clark licks his lips and squeezes his eyes shut for just a moment. "I want to make you -- come."

"Did you think I wouldn't with the other, Clark?"

The way Bruce says his *name*. Like he's everything he's ever wanted to be and other things, too. Scary things are in there, and strange -- alien -- things, and it feels like Bruce is branding him with every single one of them, making them true and real.

Making it so everyone who ever looks at him from now on will see him the way Bruce does, or -- he doesn't know, but he definitely *cares*, and he wishes he knew how Bruce likes to do this to himself.

He wishes he could be sure Bruce would *tell* him if he asked --

"Clark --"

"Just -- please?"

Another one of those *hums*. Maybe Bruce likes it when he says 'please.' It seems like a silly thing to like -- Clark thinks he's been using that word more than any other with Bruce -- but maybe it's like how sexy it is when Bruce sighs like this, like he's giving in to something he really enjoys, or...

Clark risks looking at Bruce's face and immediately feels like it's going to be impossible to look away. There's a scary and hard sort of smile in Bruce's eyes, and it feels like it's going to change him as much as the way Bruce says his name. It makes Clark feel much too young for anything, and inexperienced, and maybe a little foolish, too -- "Bruce...?"

"You don't have to be quite that gentle. Clark."

"You -- oh."

"Did you know that you shiver, just a little, every time I say your name when we're touching?"

"It's -- I --" Clark bites his lip and squeezes Bruce's penis, and does it again when Bruce grunts. "You don't say it like anyone else. You --"

"Not even the way Tim does...?"

Tim, like this, hard in Clark's hand and watching him, close -- close enough to *kiss*. Clark shakes his head like a dog and realizes that he's closed his eyes -- he opens them, and that *smile* is still in Bruce's eyes, and it feels like -- he doesn't even know anymore, but -- "No, he -- he says my name like a question he hasn't asked, yet. You say my name like you already know everything."

"We've been friends for quite a while," Bruce says, and twines the fingers of one hand in with Clark's own around himself. And hums again.

"Still, you -- you don't know me *now*. And -- I don't think you know. Everything."

"Do you think I'm making -- hm. Incorrect assumptions about you...?"

It's more that he's assuming at *all*, but Clark doesn't know how to say that and have it come out the right way. "I don't. I don't know. Tell me how to make it feel good?"

Bruce shakes his head, just once, but he also forces Clark's hand to stroke faster, and he squeezes himself on every downstroke --

"Oh. Like this? Like -- you're so *slick* --"

"You make me very aroused, Clark."

And... Bruce's voice is so even, so natural and normal, and Clark feels himself blushing, anyway. Or maybe blushing *because* it sounds so calm. "Have I -- always?"

Bruce's answer really *isn't*, but the smile has made it to his mouth, at least, and that's -- it's not better, but it *is* sexier. Hotter, like maybe Clark is even warmer than usual under the skin. Certainly, there's a temperature difference between the skin of his palm and the skin of Bruce's penis.

Does it feel good?

Would Bruce tell him if it didn't? Clark shakes it off and makes the stroke faster, and the squeezes a little harder. The pre-ejaculate is a steady trickle, shiny on Bruce's penis and their fingers, and, when Clark looks up again, there are two spots of color high on Bruce's cheeks and his lips are parted just *slightly*.

"Bruce, I think -- I think I must think about you when I'm masturbating. At least sometimes. And I think I'd think about doing this, maybe more than anything else."

"Fascinating," he says, hard and a little *dark*, and absolutely like he means it.

Bruce's expression is a little different now. It's almost *angry*, and it's making Clark salivate and want -- more. More of everything, more of *anything*, so long as he can make Bruce flush like this, and feel how hard he is.

For *him*. But --

"Or -- may I take you in my mouth again --"

"Do it."

Oh. That --

Clark feels himself kicking the chair as he lays himself flat on the stone, feels himself flinching at the cold of it against his own skin and wonders when he got so sensitive.

Maybe this is just a part of the sex, a part of what makes it all so wonderful and irresistible --

"*Now*."

Clark can't make himself let go, but Bruce is still holding on, too. Bruce -- Bruce's hand is *shaking*, and it's only a little bit, but it makes Clark salivate more. There's spit running down Clark's chin even before he gets his lips wrapped around the head, and the only consolation is that Bruce probably can't see it --

Except that Bruce's other hand is on Clark's face, and his thumb is spreading the saliva *around*, and maybe Clark was already blushing enough that a little more doesn't matter.

Maybe he can be that good for Bruce, that -- oh, but he already knows Bruce *likes* this, and he's not so horny right now that he can't think. It's good to be touched while he's doing this, and it's even better when the touch becomes a hold on the back of his head.

He won't go anywhere.

And if he was human he wouldn't be able to hear the way Bruce's heart is beating faster, the way his breathing is hitching, those two little noises which sound like a moan broken right down the middle.

Clark sucks as hard as he dares, wishing he'd thought to pay attention to *everything* he'd done before and glad that he gets to do it all over again. It would be terrible to find out that flicking his tongue against the head like this doesn't really do anything for Bruce, considering how good it feels -- and tastes -- to *him*.

When Bruce pulls his hand away, it's the best signal in the world. Clark pulls his away, too, and goes down as far as he can. He wants to *swallow* Bruce, to hold him and have him --

And then the head of Bruce's penis is *lodged* in his throat, and it's such a surprise that he coughs -- but it's not enough of a surprise that he doesn't feel the way Bruce's hand tightens on the back of his head. Clark tries it again, wondering why he hadn't thought of it before -- and he *keeps* trying.

He's not sure how many tries it takes, but Bruce moans *twice* while he's doing it, and once he's *in* again it's all Clark can do not to just *grip* Bruce in triumph. Still, focusing on not coughing and not swallowing too hard and keeping his teeth right where they are --

Bruce *groans*, and Clark feels his own penis twitch against the stone, and now there's nothing cold in the whole world. Or maybe he means that there's nothing he couldn't warm, or -- or maybe it just means that Bruce is going to come in his mouth *again*.

It should feel obscene, or at least intimidating, but it's Bruce. It's -- he's safe, and it's okay, and maybe once he's back to being the person Bruce thinks he is they'll be able to do this all the time.

Clark shifts until he can hold Bruce's hips --

Bruce pushes his hand into Clark's hair --

Clark licks him as much as he can, trying to get all around, trying to make this perfect --

And it's *enough* of a warning when Bruce tightens his hand in Clark's hair for Clark to swallow, and keep swallowing until there's only a little bit of semen left in his mouth and Bruce is pushing him away.

Clark pushes himself up into a sitting position and watches Bruce force his breathing to slow down. It sounds harsh and a little painful, but Bruce's breath is back to being even and slow just as fast as before --

"Clark," he says, and the smile in his eyes is a little bit softer.

Clark hugs Bruce again and tries to make himself ignore the back-patting which feels *exactly* like a request -- order -- to let go. He can't do it. Clark swallows back a sigh and sits back and pulls his knees up. "You have to get ready for your... patrol."

"Yes," Bruce says, and stands up. For a moment, he just looks down at Clark, but then he pushes his hand back into Clark's hair and strokes.

That's better -- *warmer*, and --

"You should go upstairs. Alfred has been working on dinner for you."

Clark nods and watches Bruce walk toward the showers. He could go, too, but he's not that dirty, and he has a really solid image of Bruce pushing him away. It's not a memory, but it's a really good theory. He can't handle that.

Clark goes upstairs.

*

Dinner turns out to be eggplant parmesan, manicotti, and a big salad with a lot of different kinds of lettuce and other things, too. It's all very good, even though it isn't his mother's, and there's a *lot* of it, which is even better. Clark doesn't say that out loud, but he thinks Alfred hears it, anyway.

Alfred also lets him eat in the kitchen, which, even though it's huge and shiny and not at all *lived* in, is still a lot less intimidating than the dining room, which looks like it could comfortably seat at least a hundred people.

Clark searches the memories, but he still has no idea whether or not Bruce or any of the others actually eat there. He kind of hopes they don't, but it's possible that it would just seem normal to them. (He hopes it doesn't.)

Dessert is a big, wonderful-smelling rhubarb pie. Alfred gives him a small plate and a fork, but he *also* gives Clark the pie-knife, which is the most wonderful thing ever. Sometimes his mother makes Clark a whole pie or cake for himself, but it's only ever for birthdays and holidays.

"Oh, wow, thank you, Alfred!"

"You're very welcome... young sir. We have had some measure of experience with the appetites of young men in this house."

Clark blushes. "Ma always says I'd eat my own weight if left to my own devices."

"Hm. I have my doubts. Just the same, you will find a bowl of mashed potatoes in the refrigerator, as well as several ears of corn, a rice pilaf, and another salad."

"Wow. I -- I mean, I know Bruce is very wealthy, but are you sure that's... I mean, is it all right?"

Alfred pats him on the shoulder. "Master Bruce would be quite disturbed if you didn't eat it all, young sir. As would I. And, of course, if you require anything else, you need only ask."

He's really tempted to ask for a chicken, or maybe a nice roast, but it's possible that he'd feel guilty about eating that kind of food when he got to be his own age, again. And he'd be *really* surprised if Alfred wasn't thinking just that. He nods, instead of saying anything stupid, and once he turns to the pie he can't really think about anything else.

The crust isn't as perfect as his mother's, but the filling might be *better*, all warm and spicy and sweet. He's never going to say anything like that to *her*, of course, but it's a wonderful treat.

And a pretty distracting one, too. When he looks up, Alfred is nowhere to be seen, and Clark has to concentrate in order to zoom in on his heartbeat somewhere above Clark and to the northwest.

And when he looks up again --

Well, to be fair, he'd been assuming that Alfred would come back this way to check on him at some point, and so the heartbeat must've just faded into background noise, and -- it's a very good pie.

It's just that it's also Dick, sitting across from Clark and resting the side of his jaw on his fist. And staring at him with his mouth open a little bit.

Clark swallows and looks at the pie. There's still about a third left. He pushes it across the table -- Dick holds up his other hand. And keeps staring.

And -- licks his lips and keeps staring.

"Dick...?"

"You recognize me. That's -- a really good thing. A weird thing. But a good thing. Er." Dick drums his fingers on the table. "How much time do I get to have to be a little freaked out?"

Clark thinks about it. "Are you going to kick or electrocute me?"

"I... no. At least I'm pretty sure I won't."

Clark nods and goes back to the pie. "Then you can freak out as much as you want."

"No, not that much," Dick says, and drums his fingers on the table again. "I'm taller than you."

Clark swallows another bite. "You're five feet eleven inches tall. I remember you showing me the wall in Titans Tower with all the marks on it."

"Ohh... wow. That was years... I was still wearing..." Dick shakes his head vigorously enough for the motion to catch Clark's eye. And then he stares at Clark's face again, and seems to be searching it -- "You... remember me pretty well?"

"You, and Bruce, and Lois, most of all."

"That's pretty flattering, you know." Dick's smile is crooked and warm and -- warm.

Clark can't help but return it. "You -- you're my other best friend."

"Ohh... wow. Can I tear you away from that pie long enough for a hug?"

Clark stands up -- and, by the time he's pushing the chair back with the backs of his knees, Dick is holding him -- and knocking him back a little. It's a pretty impressive hug, even though his mind wants him to know that Dick's arms should be around his neck and Dick's legs around his waist --

And then Clark hits the kitchen wall, and Dick's knee digs in against his hip, and it feels just right. Especially once Dick laughs. "Okay, so even looking at you wasn't quite enough to convince me that you're *smaller* than I am..."

"Your -- your pants don't fit me right."

"Mm. Different shape. God, Clark... how are you?"

That -- that. Clark squeezes Dick and pushes his face against Dick's shoulder and maybe he's being really obvious, but the scent in the air is the one which has always meant some variety of comfort, and flight, and the perfect warmth of a friendship which had always, always made *sense*.

"I'm