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The first instance happens in the field, which is why it stands out.
Somewhere in the fray, while dragging Oliver out of a pile of rubble, Bruce loses his gloves, so he's barehanded when he taps Clark on the forearm to grab his attention. Clark smiles briefly when his eyes meet Bruce’s lenses, but the expression falters when he notices Bruce’s hand.
There's a thin scratch on his arm, so Bruce chalks it up to Clark's signature concern about human injuries, until Clark shrugs his hand off after they quickly debrief about the situation. Bruce doesn't outwardly react, but he's taken aback nonetheless. Between the two of them it isn’t usually Clark who shies away from physical contact.
“I'd better go help Diana with the rebar,” Clark says apologetically. He clasps Bruce's shoulder firmly in his usual show of affection before taking off, which increases Bruce's confusion.
Bruce spares a quick glance at his hand, examining both his palm and fingers to see if there's anything amiss, but finds no answers there. He puts the incident out of his mind for the moment; there's still work to be done. He can overthink it later.
The second instance is outside the elevators of the Daily Planet, in the middle of what should be a routine conversation. Bruce is in Metropolis for business involving both his day job and his night life, so he swings by to bother Clark for lunch as revenge for the last time Clark trapped Brucie in an interview about his offhand suggestion to make a reality show about capybaras.
Bruce catches sight of his partner rushing down the corridor away from the newsroom with his harried Clark Kent shuffle, not Superman’s forceful stride, and snags him by the elbow before he can vanish in chase of a lead.
“Ah, Kent, there you are!” Bruce flashes a brilliantly empty-headed smile, the kind that always makes Clark look like he can't decide if he wants to shake his head or laugh. He’s always admirably immune to Brucie’s seduction techniques, which is more charming than it is irritating.
Clark doesn't disappoint. His mouth folds at the corners in amusement before he reaches up to fiddle with his glasses. “Oh, Mr. Wayne, I- I didn’t expect to see you here today.” His attempt to keep a straight face fails almost immediately, his sunshine smile slipping through. Bruce is honestly surprised that this building full of journalists hasn't yet broken the story about how Gotham's layabout prince came and seduced away one of their best, especially if they're as embarrassing to watch as Damian claims they are. Their relationship is technically still under wraps to save Clark the grief of being hounded by the press and public, but sometimes Bruce wonders if it isn't a matter of time until they accidentally give the game away.
“Well, I thought I'd come follow up with you about Capybaromantics, since you seemed so interested last time!”
He moves his hand down to Clark's wrist as he draws closer, and it's this movement that pulls Clark's attention away from Bruce's face. His eyes flicker down to the sight of Bruce's hand resting on his wrist bone and he reels away in what seems to embarrassment, opening up the space between them as Lois approaches from the opposite direction.
“Hey there,” she begins to greet, only for Clark to mutter out a “sorry, Mr. Wayne, we'll have to discuss that at another time- oh, hey, Lois” and dart past her toward the stairs. Bruce is left standing there like an idiot, his hand still hovering in midair.
Lois looks curiously between Bruce and Clark's quickly retreating back, but Bruce just shakes his head and extends his (offensive?) hand to press the down button for the elevator.
“What about you, Ms. Lane? Have an opening for lunch today?”
Lois shakes her head ruefully as they enter the elevator together. “As much as I’d love to eat a Michelin starred meal on your dime, I have an interview to get to.”
“I’ll take a raincheck, then. It wouldn’t be the only one,” he mutters, and she winces in sympathy.
“Trouble in paradise?” she asks after the doors close. “I've never seen Clark vacate a room so quickly when there’s no explosions or alien invasions going on outside, and I know his event doesn’t start for another hour.”
Bruce gamely laughs off her question, even though he’s muddled with annoyance at this tipoff. Just what on earth has gotten into Clark recently?
The third time it happens, someone finally brings it up in conversation.
Bruce stumbles down to the kitchen four hours earlier than he would like to be awake. Alfred isn't in, having left to bring Damian to school, which leaves him abandoned to attempt coffee on his own. Stephanie and Duke are sitting at the kitchen island when he enters; they each have a glass of milk in front of them that they both ignore in favor of working on a crossword together.
“Try ‘clock,’” Steph suggests, but Duke shakes his head.
“I don’t think seventeen down starts with a K. Morning, Bruce!”
“G'mrng,” he grunts out through his mouthful of coffee. He's about to ask them what the deal with the milk is, but a knock at the front door interrupts before he can.
Whoever it is must be a friendly face to get to the front door without setting off all the proximity alarms, and when he peeks through the peephole, he finds a boy scout hawking baked goods on his doorstep.
“Good morning,” he says as he opens the door.
“Hi,” Clark says, sounding almost breathless, which is silly because he doesn't need to breathe. It makes Bruce’s chest tighten with fondness anyway. “You're not Duke.”
Bruce frowns. “I'm not. Do you need him for something? He leaves for school in thirty minutes.” He glances past Clark to see if he can sense trouble brewing in Gotham past his line of sight.
“No, nothing like that- just here to make a delivery. But I wasn't expecting to run into you.”
“You weren't expecting to run into me, Bruce Wayne, at Wayne Manor, the house where I live?” Bruce raises an eyebrow, and Clark visibly resists the urge to roll his eyes. Bruce does him the courtesy of not smirking, but he does lean against the doorframe looking put upon. “Are you not pleased to see me?”
“You know I'm always happy to see you. Unless I've been brainwashed. Or possessed. Neither of which is happening right now- anyway, the point is I brought the pie that Duke and Steph requested.”
“All this way just to bring us pie?”
“I received a special order last week. Besides, it was no trouble.”
“I'm sure they appreciate it," Bruce says as he receives the pie. His fingers brush against Clark's during the exchange, and for a brief moment, they're both holding the pie together. “Would you like to come in for-”
“No, sorry, I really should be getting to work,” Clark blurts as he rapidly withdraws his hands, almost jostling the pie out of Bruce's grip. Again with this??
Bruce tightens his hold on the pie, crinkling the foil tray. “Oh. Of course, don't let us hold you.”
“But we're still on for our Friday dinner date, right?” He sounds as eager as ever, and the emotional whiplash is putting Bruce's neck in traction. Is Clark sure he isn't brainwashed?
“As far as I know. You know where to find me.” Bruce summons up a smile, but Clark is too busy staring at his hands to notice.
“Okay, that sounds great; I'll see you later,” Clark mumbles, before spinning on his heel and powerwalking away from the manor. Bruce knows the kids are peeking from behind him as they watch Clark realize about twenty feet down the path that he flew here, and he finally takes off into the air.
“That was weird as hell,” Stephanie comments, ducking under Bruce's arm to watch Clark disappear into the sky.
“Super weird,” Duke agrees as he liberates the pie from Bruce's hands. “But he followed through.”
“He always does,” Bruce says as he shoos them back into the manor. “Why are you two scamming pie out of Clark? He's a busy man. He doesn't have time to bake pies on commission.”
“Pretty sure he actually has, like, five times as much time as we do.”
“Oh, hey, is that pie?” Dick asks as he wanders into the kitchen.
“Peach blueberry, you want any? Clark brought it over,” Duke tells him as he pulls up a chair.
“Sure, I'll take a slice. Getting some early morning sugar, huh?” Dick shoots two fingerguns at Bruce, who glares at him, and opts to take a long sip of his mediocre coffee instead of answering.
“Not today he's not,” Steph mutters under her breath. Bruce sighs as Dick whirls in alarm first toward her, and then toward Bruce.
“What happened? What'd you do?”
“Why do you assume that I did something?”
“B, when I was fourteen you two didn't talk to each other for three weeks because you got mad that he didn't let you get eaten by a radioactive hippo.”
Duke looks askance at him. “Wow, Bruce.”
“The hippopotamus was never going to eat me- and that's neither here nor there. Clark's the one with the problem this time.”
At Dick's skeptical look, Steph nods. "No, he's right. All Bruce did was touch his hand a little and Clark freaked out and ran away.”
“Huh.”
“Did you have anything gross on your hand?” Duke asks as he begins divvying up the pie.
“Not just now, no. Not the previous time either. I suppose there might have been some dust or blood the first time, but Clark's never been bothered by anything like that before."
“Hm,” Dick says, leaning over to peer at Bruce's hands himself. "But you were touching him all three times?"
“Yes. My bare hand on his arm. It first started a few months ago. Each time he seems almost…nervous? Embarrassed?”
There's a beat of silence as they all take a bite of pie, and then Dick runs a hand through his hair, looking slightly aggrieved. “I hate to even suggest this, but-”
“So don't,” Steph interrupts.
“Do you know something?” Bruce asks, and Dick makes an aborted shrug.
“Not exactly, I just have a hunch-"
“He thinks Clark has a thing for your hands,” says a voice from above them. Bruce resists the instinct to fling a fork at his second-eldest, who stares down at them from his perch on top of the refrigerator.
“Holy fuck, Jay, how long have you been there?” Dick yells, leaping nimbly away from the fridge to stand by Duke's side.
“Since last night.”
“Did you sleep on the fridge?” Steph asks, squinting at him.
Jason shrugs as he hops down. There's a bloodstain on his shirt and the sight of it gives Bruce a headache. “Beats sleeping on the floor.”
“Does it? Does it really?”
“You have a room here, Jason,” Bruce reminds him, rubbing at his temples and wondering why all his children are so strange. It must be biological, right? Something they inherited from their birth parents? “You could even use a guest room if you wanted to.”
“Nah, didn't feel like giving Alfred more work, unlike the rest of you wastrels. Anyway, Supes has a hand kink, I'm calling it now.”
“C'mon, man,” Duke groans. “Did we really have to go there?”
Steph pretends to gag. “I told you not to say it!”
“Technically, you told Dickface not to say it-”
Without looking, Dick lobs an apple at Jason, who catches it on a knife he pulled out of god knows where. “Okay, anyway, the point is, I think Uncle Clark has feelings for you!”
Bruce squints at him. “We’re dating. We’ve been dating for three months. We are aware of each other's feelings.” Three months, eleven days, and nine hours. He’s pretty sure Dick knows the time down to the seconds, given how invested he’s been in this relationship since approximately ten years before it even came to fruition, so he has no idea what the boy is on about right now.
“Yeah, but not all of them apparently, if he's hiding something from you. You need to deepen your bond and figure out what it is. Maybe he’s worried you’re not as invested as he is. Bare your souls to each other! Communicate!”
“Yeah,” Jason says as he swipes a piece of Stephanie’s crust. “Tell him you’ll break up with him if he doesn’t get his shit together.”
“Not helping, Jason.”
“Can’t you just ask him about it next time it comes up?” Duke suggests, and Steph laughs.
“That would require Bruce to be honest about how it makes him ~feel~ and we all know how well that usually goes over.”
“I have expressed my emotions to all of you before,” Bruce objects, but his beloved, wretched children just laugh at him.
“Right, good luck with that,” Steph says before pinching Jason’s arm as he tries to scavenge the rest of Duke’s slice.
Bruce tries to put Jason's ridiculous suggestion out of his mind, but that Friday he finds himself thinking the words over again.
They're at Clark's place, washing the dishes together after dinner. It’s quiet, easy, and the opposite of everything he got used to doing on dates over the years. In his periphery Bruce can see Clark pouting in dismay at the wet spot smack dab in the middle of his dreadful flannel shirt, and he's overcome with the same bone-deep affection he's held for Clark for over a decade now.
Even before it was love, it was love. The foundations of it: trust and respect and a good old-fashioned friendship to build off of.
And now here Bruce is, paranoia seeping into his thoughts because he can’t decide if he’s ready to face the answer of what it means that Clark keeps pulling away from him recently. He's let people go before. It never gets easier. If anything, it gets worse each time— and god, letting go of Clark would hurt. But Bruce can handle pain. He can handle this too, if that's what it takes. If that’s what Clark wants.
But Clark turns to him now, sky blue eyes bright with joy, stray curls falling into his glasses, and he reaches out to brush a thumb across Bruce's temple with such tenderness that it feels almost impossible to reconcile this moment with his previous behavior.
“Look at us. Soap suds in your hair and a soaked shirt for me. We're quite the pair, aren't we?”
“There's a reason Alfred sighs every time I enter the kitchen.”
“Oh, it’s not because it’s nigh impossible to feed you when your big brain is occupied with crime and punishment?”
“Dostoevsky?”
“No, just the concepts. Y’know, vengeance. Justice. The occasional puzzle.” Clark plucks the last clean plate from Bruce’s hands, and this time, when their fingers brush, he doesn’t draw away with haste. Each of his movements is casual, steady, as he puts the plate in the rack and dries his hands off on a dish towel before passing it to Bruce.
The difference, Bruce realizes, is that they’re not in public. There’s no one around to notice Clark being weird about Bruce’s hands.
Okay. Hand kink. He can work with this.
“No puzzles tonight,” Bruce says, crowding Clark against the sink after he places the dish towel aside.
“Thinking of occupying yourself some other way?” Clark asks, unable to hide his smile as Bruce reaches for his belt buckle.
“If you’re amenable to it, yes.”
Clark certainly has no complaints when Bruce frees him from his slacks and slowly strokes him to full hardness. He takes his time so that Clark can fully indulge (?) in the sensation of Bruce’s bare hand, in the curl of his calloused fingers and the firm swipe of his thumb that elicits a lovely little sound from Clark that Bruce files away in his memory.
They’ve done this before, and it doesn’t seem any different than usual, so he’s starting to have his doubts about this hand fetish thing. But he pushes that question to the back of his mind as Clark tugs him forward for a kiss. Clark finishes soon afterward, spilling into Bruce’s hand as he deepens their kiss until Bruce begins to feel slightly light-headed from the lack of oxygen.
“That was a bit more exciting than puzzles,” Clark says when he finally lets Bruce go to catch his breath.
“Clearly you don’t spend most of your time in Gotham.”
Clark laughs and steals another kiss. “I would if you would let me.” He lets Bruce go long enough to clean his hands off at the sink, before snagging him back by the waist, pulling Bruce taut against his body. Even though Clark’s cock has been tucked back into his pants, Bruce can feel it hardening again, pressing against Bruce’s own.
Bless his Kryptonian biology.
“Hey,” Clark says, regarding Bruce with such open emotion that Bruce feels his traitorous heart skip a beat. "I'm taking you to bed now."
“I have no objections,” Bruce says, and he’s quick to wrap his legs around Clark’s waist when his partner quite literally lifts him by the ass. He links his hands together behind Clark’s back even though he knows there’s a zero percent chance of being dropped. “This isn’t how you normally carry someone across a threshold, is it?”
He regrets asking almost immediately, but Clark just beams as he kicks the bedroom door closed behind them.
“Wouldn’t know, haven’t tried it yet. We’ll have to find out together.”
Faced with such irrepressible luminescence, what choice does Bruce have but to agree, “We will.”
Bruce’s questions about the hand situation remain unresolved for another few weeks. He does some research about how best to please a partner with an interest in hands, and while Clark is amenable to all of it, he doesn’t seem more stimulated or aroused than usual. As expected, Clark has no issue with physical contact of any kind when they're alone. Meanwhile, Bruce has tried to avoid touching Clark too much in public since his discovery. Whatever his hesitations are against touching Bruce's hands, Bruce can work around them.
Tonight they're on a half-date half-business meeting at a local Metropolis restaurant that Clark claims is better than Batburger. They're hidden away in a corner of the restaurant that isn't visible to most other patrons so they can have some nominal peace. Allegedly, Clark is being given the chance to interview Bruce about the latest WE affordable housing initiative, but Clark already has most of the material he needs from their casual conversation in the cave last week. Bruce didn’t mind going along with the excuse when Clark asked him out this morning, but after a long day at the office he would rather be slouching over at Clark’s apartment or the manor.
“How long did you sleep last night?” Clark asks dubiously, as he watches Bruce zone out while cutting his hamburger again.
“A few hours,” Bruce replies, expertly skewering his bite of burger with a fork. “It's been a long week. Shareholders making a fuss. Dick caught a bad cold. Damian's parent-teacher conference was on Monday, and Cass called me at four in the morning because she was afraid she broke Barbara's dishwasher while house-sitting.”
“Did she?”
“No, the thing's been malfunctioning for half a year now, and she still won't let me get her a new one.”
“I'm sure Barbara will let you if and when she needs help.”
Bruce grunts noncommittally and takes a sip of water. “And how was your week?”
While Clark tells him about life at the Planet, Bruce finishes the rest of his meal. Clark's voice has a way of calming his nerves, and in this moment it's doing more than that. He's lulled halfway to sleep before he knows it, and it's only Clark's hand to his shoulder that stops him from faceplanting right onto his plate like Tim into a bowl of soup.
“Watch out, you’re going to get a face full of ketchup,” Clark says, his eyebrows furrowed in concern.
“I've dealt with much worse," Bruce reassures him, reaching up to pat Clark's hand.
“Still, you're more tired than I expected. Let's wrap up here before I have to carry you home.”
Clark stands, flipping his wrist to connect their hands and help Bruce to his feet. Bruce reaches into his pocket with his free hand to find his wallet, and almost falls back into his seat when Clark releases him with such speed that one would assume he'd just been burned.
“God, I- sorry, Bruce- um. Mr. Wayne. I forgot where we were for a second-”
“Wait,” Bruce says, grabbing hold of Clark's wrist so that he can't escape. This sudden dithering, this switch in tone like he's been caught doing something wrong... “Why are you sorry?”
Clark's gaze falls on Bruce's fingers wrapped around his forearm like a vise. Bruce would feel guilty if he didn't know that the pressure doesn't bother Clark in the slightest. And yet, there's distress written clearly across his face.
Maybe Dick and Duke were right. Perhaps it really is about feelings.
Bruce releases Clark carefully, and withdraws his hand to open his wallet with deliberately telegraphed movements. He places a few bills under his glass; it's probably about twenty times more than their dinner actually costs. Whatever this conversation holds in store, he's certain he doesn't want to have it here, where anyone can see.
“Never mind. I shouldn't have grabbed you, knowing you were uncomfortable with my touch. We can discuss it elsewhere-”
“Bruce, wait, pause,” Clark interrupts. He steps forward to close the distance between them, and angles his voice low when he says, “I'm not bothered by your touch. Quite the opposite, actually. But...you- you realize we're in public, don't you?”
The realization hits late, and Bruce feels like an idiot for not seeing it sooner. Of course. “I apologize, I know you didn't want to make this public yet. Too much physical contact certainly wouldn't help with that.”
But Clark shakes his head, his face contrite. “No, I'm the one who should be apologizing. Look, I know I've been being weird recently. It's not that I don't want other people to know. It's just- when you stand so close, when your hand touches mine- it's incredibly difficult to resist showing everybody just how I feel about you. I want to hold your hand, I want to kiss you- I want to make it obvious to anyone who sees us that you're mine and I'm yours.”
Even the sun itself has nothing on Clark when he's like this, so beautifully bright and honest that it aches.
“Is that a problem?” Bruce asks quietly, and Clark's answering smile is soft.
“No, but it's a lot to put on you. A lot of publicity and possible fallout to deal with just because I have no self-restraint, and I know how important it is for you to be able to control your public image. I didn't want to overwhelm you with an uproar that you weren't prepared for just for the opportunity to kiss you whenever I want to.”
Too noble fool, Bruce thinks fondly. “I wouldn't have minded. You could've told me, instead of leaping a meter away each time.”
“I know. I'm sorry.”
“But I also could have asked,” Bruce concedes. “We were both a little stupid about this, especially since I always thought we were keeping things hush-hush for your sake. If you don't have a problem with it, we might as well break the news on our own terms now.”
Clark's eyes go wide behind his glasses. “Really? Are you sure?”
“Absolutely. Let's go.”
“The second we step outside, we're going to end up all over the evening news,” Clark warns, and Bruce reaches over to squeeze his hand gently.
“I'm well versed in what it means to constantly be in the limelight. Are you ready?”
“You make it sound like I haven't dealt with the press before.”
“You are the press. It's cheating when you interview yourself.”
“Hey, at least 40% of my soundbites go straight to Lois.”
“That’s why she's the one I'll-” Bruce is interrupted by a cracking yawn, and Clark tugs him away from the booth before he can fall asleep on the laminate tabletop.
“Alright, then, let’s get us home.” Clark's grip around Bruce's hand is confident and steady as they walk out of the restaurant and down the Metropolis streets. It doesn't falter for a second, even when faced with the flashing lights of cameras and excited whispers of onlookers that follow them on their way home.
The media frenzy is manageable, despite the spontaneity of their decision. It isn't like Bruce wasn't prepared for the eventuality of their relationship being discovered, and after the initial explosion of gossip and speculation, his PR team releases a statement, and sets up a series of interviews with journalists he respects not to twist their story around. They'll be the talk of the town for a while yet, but he's confident that some insane new development like another alien attack will push them out of the spotlight in a month or two. It isn't so bad, being able to finally be open about his feelings for Clark.
Hand-holding isn’t so bad either.
It’s sweet, the way Clark delights in being able to clasp Bruce’s hand in his while they walk around the park or the Kent farm.
It’s also kind of sexy, the way Clark’s eyes darken when Bruce twines their hands together when they’re in bed, and he automatically starts moving faster, rutting into Bruce with almost desperate need.
All in all, Bruce has no real complaints about the way things have turned out, and neither does Clark. It's made obvious when he flies by to drop off another shipment of baked goods one morning.
“What on earth could we possibly need seven pies for?” Bruce asks, amused, as Clark places each one carefully on the kitchen counter. Tim and Cassandra are very blatantly peeking in from the dining room, waiting for their chance to strike.
“Pie isn't about need, Bruce. I'll see you tonight for monitor duty?”
“Nine p.m. sharp. Don't be late or you know Barry will start vibrating out of his own skin.”
“I'll do my best.”
Clark presses a kiss to Bruce's lips, and then his palm, allowing Bruce to briefly cup his cheek before he draws away.
“Oh, he's cured,” Steph says as she bounds down the stairs from Cassandra's room, waving at Clark, who beams as he speeds back out the front door. “Happy for you.”
“Many thanks, Stephanie,” Bruce says dryly. “Come have some pie.”
Damian also joins the pie party after he returns from walking the dogs. He helps Bruce set aside a slice of maple apple for Alfred and then joins the others, who are, regretfully, discussing the state of Bruce's love life.
“Canoodling,” Cass is telling Steph. She nods wisely.
“I knew it.”
"So the whole hand saga is over, huh?” Tim comments.
"Why do you know about the hand situation?” Bruce asks, watching him with narrowed eyes.
Tim snorts. “Are you kidding? The only thing that travels faster than gossip in this family is Damian when he sees a stray cat. So what was the deal, in the end?”
"Yeah, was it what Jason said?”
“No. Clark just...wanted to hold hands. He likes being affectionate in public, as you have probably all seen by now. He's a romantic,” Bruce says, smiling faintly into his coffee cup.
This reaction is met with a round of loud hissing.
“Oh my god, you sappy old man. Do you even see your face right now?” Tim demands, snapping a photo of Bruce with his phone. “I hope Dick never lets you live this down.”
“Holding hands? Obscene,” Cass accuses.
“There are children here!” Steph cries, closing her hands over Damian's ears.
“Father, please keep your private matters to yourself,” Damian agrees. He's too occupied glaring at Bruce with disdain to shake Steph off.
“I apologize for scarring your tender minds,” Bruce says, rolling his eyes. He turns to Cassandra, feeling slightly betrayed. “You didn't used to be like this. What have they done to you?”
“Trade secret; don't tell him, Cassie,” Tim calls over, still furiously sending incriminating pictures to his brothers.
Cass smiles when Bruce looks inquisitively between them, and raises a finger to her lips in a “shhh” gesture. “Have fun,” she tells him as he leaves them to heckle him in private.
“Thank you. Carry on with breakfast.”
As he makes his way toward the cave, Bruce rubs his fingertips gently against the center of his palm, remembering the sensation of Clark's kiss against his skin. After this whole ordeal, he's come to appreciate every touch they share, but this one feels a little extra special.