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Clark wore glasses every day. It was a daily addition to Clark Kent's persona, and served a dual purpose. First, to conceal the brilliant kryptonian blue of his eyes-and second, to add the finishing touch to his bumbling persona.
He couldn't count the dozens of times being hard of sight and clumsy had allowed him to stumble into people, places, and stories. Dropping his glasses a la Velma and fumbling for them on Lex's carpets had gotten him access to the billionaire's computer more than once. Which was really just plain sad, because that kind of trick should never have worked twice.
The few times anyone had gotten a direct look at his eyes without the lenses, they'd been captivated-dare he say entranced-by the color. They had an allure that edged on being entrancing, which he'd never taken advantage of. Wouldn't take advantage of.
That was a lie. He had used it once, and had felt so furiously guilty for a week that even Lois hadn't been able to snap him out of his funk. He'd sulked for days, guilt eating at his every thought.
The point was, Clark was attached to his glasses-wore them like a second skin, like he needed them, even though they were just plain glass. He wondered briefly why no one have ever peered into the lenses, or had examined them just a little more closely. No one had seen through the disguise yet, flimsy as it was.
Well-that was also a lie. One man had. Bruce Wayne, the first time he'd seen him in his civilian persona. The other man had leaned in, face carefully blank, and whispered those aren't prescription so softly, only he could hear it. How he'd known baffled him.
No shit, he'd mouthed back, pleased when a grin hinted at the billionaire's mouth. Then the rest of the press junket had overtaken him, pulling him away with handshakes and shouted questions. His smile had been brilliant, full of shiny white teeth, bared like shields against their pressing questions.
Somehow, he liked Bruce's crooked grin just a little more.
Clark took care of his glasses. At night, they rested on a soft cloth in his bedside table. He hardly ever took them off. Every now and then, he'd leave his quarters on the Watchtower in civilian clothing, only to have someone stumble, and doubletake, exclaiming Superman, is that you?
Maybe it shouldn't have come as such a surprise that Bruce had seen through him instantly. Regardless of prior preparation, hints, clues, the first time Clark saw Bruce wearing glasses, his swore his world changed.
It was four in the morning. The Justice League was sixteen hours into an off-world crisis that was just beginning to wind down. Clark had spent fifteen of the past hours assisting, and was welcoming a break. His suit was torn and blackened around long-healed cuts and burns, flapping against him as he flew.
Transporting alien tech from space and flying it back to earth quietly for scanning sounded easier than it was. If Bruce hadn't needed it alive and functioning (read: spewing death threats in a strange alien dialect), Clark would have deactivated the robot hours ago. As if sensing his irritation, it began squawking just as he entered Gotham's airspace. He kicked it in the head once, peeved. No small wonder why they were late.
The Cave's scanners beeped softly as he entered, slowing to a hum as they sensed his biorhythms. The first level was empty and silent, not unusual for Bruce. Clark settled down quietly and made his way to the computers, dragging the alien robot behind him. Ahead, he sensed someone typing, shifting on their feet ever so slightly. Bruce.
He reached the side of the monitors and turned, opening his mouth to greet the standing figure. Bruce turned slightly, peering at a monitor over his head, and the sound died in his throat. No. No way.
A pair of glasses were halfway down Bruce's nose, dark frames disappearing behind grey-flecked hair at his temples. They were elegant and understated, but full of sharp angles, just like the Bruce standing in front of him now. He was squinting at something on the screen, mouth shaping numbers as he wrote something down on his notepad. He looked-he just-
"I-"
Bruce looked up briefly at the noise, raising an eyebrow. He took off the glasses, rubbing the bridge of his nose. Clark just stood there, dumbstruck.
"Just put it in the corner," he said without glancing at him, massaging between his eyes. Nursing a 15-hour headache, no doubt.
"Kent?"
Clark swallowed as Bruce put the glasses back on, treated to a fully-magnified Bat glare. God, but his eyes were so blue, but there was also grey in them-cool and calculating, with a hint of exhaustion. They were both exhausted, and he was just standing there, wasting time-
"If you're about to pass out," Bruce said irritably, like they both weren't already dead on their feet. "Don't do it on my tech. J'onn needs scans."
"Right, in the corner," Clark said suddenly, hefting the robot. He barely looked as he threw it into the container, not imagining Bruce's wince as the metal hit the ground with a thud. "How're the scans going?"
"We're not out of it yet," Bruce grunted, which was Bat-speak for I'm doing sixteen things at once, but they're all going really well. Or so Clark thought. His Bruce-translating was a little rusty. The billionaire didn't look up from his scans, but the line between his eyes deepened. "Can I help you?"
Clark realized he was staring again. He couldn't help it-the way Bruce's hair fell across his forehead, like he'd taken the cowl off in a rush just made him stare more. He looked….studious. No, that wasn't the right word. Intelligent? That was just insulting. Just...different. So different. Softer, somehow, but more real. More human, if that could be said for the famed Bat.
Did Bruce even do casual appearances? They were almost at war, he supposed. He realized he still hadn't answered the question. "Um. No. I-"
But Bruce had already re-addressed his attention to his monitors, humming under his breath in a way Clark knew meant he didn't need company for this next step. Baffled, he backed out of the Cave and flew away, shaking his head.
He thought over their conversation at least a dozen times that night, the image of Bruce in glasses burned into his mind.
The next time he saw Bruce Wayne in public, he looked closely at his eyes. There was a slight sheen on the curve of his eyeballs, almost invisible to normal eyes. Contact lenses. Bruce wore contacts? Bruce was wearing contact lenses.
Since when? And why hadn't he noticed?
"Does Bruce Wayne wear glasses?" he asked Cat Grant the next day, feigning nonchalance. The gossip columnist blinked, then grinned.
"Not your little crush again, Clark." She picked at a nail. "Ask me about something interesting."
Clark felt the blush in his cheeks and tried to hide it. "What are you talking about?"
"Wayne, glasses…" she put a finger to her lips, thinking. "Not that I know of. But wouldn't that be sexy!"
"Uh-sexy?"
Cat looked at him like he was crazy. "Earth to Clark. Bruce Wayne is in his prime right now. Have you seen those shirtless pics from the Caribbean last month? He's like George Clooney but so much richer."
"Are we talking about your little Wayne obsession again?" Lois said as she approached the cubicles, tapping him on the shoulder. Clark sighed and ducked his head. "He can't help it, Cat. He isn't immune. None of us are."
Clark turned in his seat and pointed at her. "I am not crushing on Bruce Wayne."
"Of course you're not," Lois said, wisely not arguing with him. Her lips twitched. "So. What's this about glasses?"
"Clark thinks Bruce would be sexy in them!" Cat cut in, looking meaningfully at Lois. "Really sexy. Maybe that should be our next investigation, huh?"
Lois made a cooing noise and ran for her notebook.
Clark just sighed.
"Did you know Bruce wears glasses?" He asked Hal Jordan the next monitor shift. "I mean. Has he ever mentioned it to you?"
Hal looked dumbstruck, which was a first for the talkative Green Lantern. Clark felt heat rise in his cheeks and thought desperately to himself, not again.
"I….wow, that's a...weird question," Hal said after a moment. "Batman wears glasses?"
"No! no, " Clark said too quickly, "I was just asking. You know, for recommendations. Frames."
"Uh…" Hal swiveled back to his monitor, tapping the countertop with his ring. "No offense, Supes, but I don't think you can afford his optician."
"Right," he said, turning his attention back to his own screen. "Forget I asked."
"Sure," Hal said, leaning back. "Hey, so you catch that game last night?"
The Green Lantern was too polite to say anything else, which was strange. Clark felt his eyes on him for the rest of the night, curious.
So maybe it had been a fluke-even twelve hours of non-stop fighting and tactical research was enough to wear out Batman. Maybe he needed them to concentrate, or see something microscopic in his scans.
It didn't explain the contact lenses, though. It also didn't explain their glaring absence the next time Clark snuck a peek at Bruce's eyes during a Founders' meeting. He seemed to have no difficulty reading their maps and handing out assignments, either.
It was a mystery, that was for sure. Good thing Clark made his living as a reporter.
He made a point of stopping by the Cave and the Manor when he normally wouldn't, spreading out his visits at random intervals. He helped Alfred re-tile a small section of the greenhouse one morning, then swung by to help Bruce with a small file from Oa an hour later. No glasses, a patented Bat-glare, and three semi-successful hours of off-world deliberations later, Clark was stumped. No contacts. Not even a sign of strain.
A few weeks later, he found himself with Bruce in his study, trying to pass time like they'd used to, small grins growing into full-blown smiles as Clark shared a beer with the only other original founder. There was a reason the rest of the league referred to their relationship as a "bromance"-on an intrinsic level, they complemented each other.
Clark kept a careful eye on Bruce as he paced his study, reenacting a hilarious encounter with the Riddler earlier that month. They had each had more than a few beers at this point, but Clark couldn't get drunk, and he suspected Bruce wouldn't. It would take a force far greater than a few IPAs, that was for sure.
The billionaire was still in work clothes from earlier, but seemed relaxed in a starched white shirt and slacks that probably cost more than Clark's monthly rent. The night seemed to invigorate his friend, the shadows lending to his charm and mystery.
They also made reading and distinguishing movement difficult, which helped his investigation. On a calculated guess, he hefted his empty beer bottle. Without a warning he threw it at the other man, almost faster than the eye could see.
Bruce didn't look away from Clark's face, plucking the bottle from the air with a frown. He made it look effortless.
"Something you're not telling me about Alfred's beer choices?" Bruce asked quizzically, placing it on the table. He was staring at Clark now, who had blushed bright red. "Clark?"
He's not blind, you idiot, Clark thought to himself furiously, frozen. Even if he didn't have perfect vision, he probably could have caught that. It would just be blurry.
For someone who wears glasses almost 24/7, you sure don't know anything about them, the Bruce in his head muttered, sounding irritated.
"I….was testing your reflexes." Clark said eventually, pasting a smile on his face. Bruce looked nonplussed. "Worried you're getting soft in your old age."
This time he didn't see the bottle as it winged towards his face, shattering into a thousand pieces across his cheekbone.
"Testing your reflexes," Bruce said when he looked up in outrage, covered in beer. He grinned at Clark. Not getting soft, indeed.
So random visits hadn't worked. Public reconnaissance had only turned up questionable observations. In the end, it infuriated Clark that the answer wasn't found after a series of clues, but after a horrible, panicked accident. But, he supposed, Bruce wouldn't have had it any other way.
He woke up face-down, breathing in dust. His hands burned with a cold fire, digging at his bones. He could barely move.
The last thing he remembered was pushing a meteorite away from earth, a routine job he did on the Watchtower every now and then. He remembered smirking, talking to J'onn through the comms just as he touched the rock, not noticing how the radiation underneath had leached at him until it was too late-
Clark coughed, rolling over. He almost threw up at the sight of his hands. All around him, kryptonite had splintered into shards, embedded in the earth. Nausea rolled through him again as he saw slivers of it under his skin, thrumming along to the beat of his heart.
He didn't think rationally, surrounded by glowing green light. This time was no different. He stumbled to his feet in what looked like cold, remote desert-land, and flew while he still could, shivering.
The Watchtower was too far away, or at least too far up. His comm had splintered into dust in the crash through Earth's crust. His heart thudded painfully as he began trembling, urging himself to go faster, just a little faster-
He lost the ability to fly halfway up Wayne Manor's drive, slamming to his feet in the gravel. He limped instead, pushing one foot out in front of the other until he was in front of the door. With superhuman (ha!) effort, he opened it and stumbled towards the stairs.
It was three in the morning. Clark knew Bruce's schedule had sleep underlined instead of patrol, because he'd written it himself. He prayed the other man had listened to him, swaying on his feet as he entered the master suite.
"Bruce…"
The man was awake instantly, rising from the obscenely large bed. He peered at Clark, closing the distance between them quickly in the dark room. "What happened?"
"Kryptonite," Clark gasped, feeling his legs go out beneath him. Bruce's arms were like vises as he caught him, lowering him to the floor. "Hands…"
"Jesus," a light flickered on above him, and a hand was touching his face. "You flew here? What were you thinking?"
Clark looked up as the hand prodded him again, blinking against the pain. Bruce was haloed by the soft light, grabbing something from his nightside table. "Glasses," he murmured, eyes drooping.
"What?" Bruce asked, voice rising as he examined his hands. He adjusted the frames, leaning in. He looked unfairly gorgeous in sleep pants and nothing else. Clark wanted to pout. "Stay conscious, Kent, we're going to-"
The next thing he was conscious of was a pulling sensation in his hands. The nausea was slowly dissipating, as was the pain. He heard a clinking noise to his left and blinked open his eyes. Bruce looked down at him through a pair of tinted glasses.
"Don't move."
Clark sighed, feeling the breath rattle in his throat. "Wasn't planning on it."
"You're seriously injured," Bruce said as way of conversation, gesturing with a pair of wicked-looking tweezers. He was bent over Clark's right hand. "How you survived being smashed into the Earth at a gazillion miles an hour after touching Kryptonite astounds me."
"Gazillion…" Clark murmured, turning his head to look better. His vision swam, so he settled back. "Is that an exact calculation?"
He got a quick rap on the cheekbone for moving and winced. Bruce carried on, pulling out slivers of Kryptonite from his hands and depositing them in a metal bowl aside his head. "You have a fractured tibia and some internal bleeding."
"Had," Clark said quietly, shifting his leg slightly. "I can feel the bone knitting itself back together."
"Fascinating," Bruce replied after a pause, and Clark couldn't tell if that was sarcasm or not. "Start thinking about coordinates."
"Coordinates?" he asked after a second. Bruce pulled out a particularly large shard and he barely bit down on a moan. "Where?"
"Where you crashed," the billionaire said, lenses shielding Clark from seeing his true expression. He realized, looking at the glowing bucket by his head, that they were for the radiation. "I'll need to collect the Kryptonite."
Clark was silent for a second, processing the nonchalant way Bruce had delivered that. "...of course."
He got a grunt, and another large shard was tugged out of his skin, as gently as Bruce could. With his flickering vision, he could see the complex motions of the other man's hands, each tendon pulling and twisting slightly, his grip gentle and deft.
"You wear glasses," Clark finally said, when most of the Kryptonite was gone and Bruce had taken the container away. He sat up on the examination table, noticing he was in the Cave's medical bay. How Bruce had gotten him down the stairs by himself baffled him. "I'm sorry, I just-it's been driving me crazy."
"It's three in the morning," Bruce said grumpily, taking off the lenses and rubbing his eyes. He was still shirtless, a pair of loose cotton sleep pants low on his hips. "Anyone would need optical assistance to deal with...this."
"No, I mean-" Clark smiled a little as Bruce replaced his tinted glasses with the pair from earlier. "I saw you in the cave, a few weeks ago. You were looking at scans with them on."
Tired blue eyes blinked at him. "Gives new meaning to the phrase, 'farsighted businessman', doesn't it?"
"You're farsighted."
"Slightly hyperopic, yes," Bruce said, raising an eyebrow. "Not enough to worry about for combat purposes, if that's what you're worried about...but for reading and signing things when I'm tired, yes, they help."
Clark mentally fistbumped himself. "That explains the contact lenses you were wearing the other day."
"You really take the title "investigative reporter" too far, has anyone ever told you that?"
"Lois," Clark admitted sheepishly, smiling at his friend. "Daily."
"Contact lenses are for days where I'm doing a lot of contract negotiation," Bruce turned, beginning to clear the table, storing things in drawers as Clark watched. "After a night of patrol, eight hours with a room full of lawyers can be...demanding."
"Wow," Clark said, still taking it in. "It's just...you wear glasses."
Bruce looked at him over his shoulder, dismantling what looked like a blood pressure cuff. "Did I miss some Kryptonite in your brain? I just told you that."
"I know that," Clark said hastily, backing up before he could make things worse, heart hammering, "It's just...very cute."
"Cute?" Bruce sounded horrified, turning around. "Excuse me?"
He felt himself flush, and realized he was on thin ice. That was, if he hadn't already fallen through. Sometimes, it was hard to tell with Bruce. He swallowed nervously, owning up to it. "You heard me."
"I did," Bruce said softly, suddenly much closer. It was Clark's turn to blink. "If you were a normal human, I could kill you in thirteen different ways from right here. Is that still adorable?"
Yes. Clark was mesmerized, examining every facet of Bruce's eyes before the other man could pull away. "I'm about to do something very stupid. I just wanted to warn you."
He could feel Bruce's breath on his lips as he leaned just the little bit closer. "You mean beside everything else you've done tonight?"
Clark smiled, their lips almost touching now. He gave Bruce a look, a quiet is this okay? and felt the other man's lips press against his before he got his answer, though he guessed that was answer enough.
Suddenly, Bruce's arms were around him and his own were in the man's hair, knocking his glasses off and onto the floor. Clark didn't care, grabbing the other man around the waist and hefting him onto the examination table. He swore fire was burning through him again, but this time it felt so good he could barely stop.
"You're paying for those," Bruce gasped against his lips, shivering as Clark ran a hand down his pants. God, this was hot. "Upstairs?"
There was broken glass and plastic scattered across the floor, but he didn't feel it as he stood, Bruce's legs wrapped around his waist, his hair pushed back haphazardly, pupils blown. He kissed him again, moving towards the stairs. "So bill me."
"Don't think I won't," Bruce said, muffled against Clark's neck, but he was laughing. "Those were Armani."
Clark woke to sunrise on his back, warming his skin. He rolled over, burying his face in a pillow. Instead of his crappy cotton sheets, silk slid against his legs.
"Morning," Bruce had yet another pair of glasses on, reading his tablet quietly next to him. He was wearing nothing but his boxers, and Clark could trace out his hands across the other man's skin in small bruises and marks. He had one on his throat that he couldn't look away from, entranced. "Clark?"
He smiled, blinking out of his haze. "Good morning."
"Don't tell me you're a morning person too," Bruce kvetched, mostly to himself. His attention wandered back to his tablet, and he adjusted his glasses unconsciously. "Did you see that news on Russia? This could be big."
Clark felt his grin grow wider as Bruce launched into a rant about Vladimir Putin, committing every inch of his lover to memory. A hand snapped in front of his face and he startled. "Did you what I said about Crimea? Aren't you supposed to be the reporter?"
Clark pushed himself up until he was face to face with the other man. "I heard every word. Crimea, lots of...oil problems?"
"Likely story," Bruce growled softly, but he was looking at Clark too, a smile edging onto his lips. "You have a glasses thing, don't you?"
He'd been caught. Damn. And he thought he was being sneaky. "I...uh-"
"Don't ruin it!" Clark said when the other man's hands went to the frames. "Bruce."
"You're pathetic," Bruce said, pausing, fingers at his temples. He grabbed Clark's neck instead, dragging him down towards him. "I hope you know that."
"I don't see you complaining."
"No," Bruce said, smiling up at him, "I'm not."
Downstairs, Alfred swept up a small pile of glass and plastic, frowning to himself. He gathered the dustpan and broom and went upstairs, depositing both in the kitchen. Bruce would never destroy pair of glasses like that intentionally, which meant…
He heard two distinct voices upstairs, and paused. With a smile, he closed the kitchen door and continued on with his duties, making a note to order Bruce's lenses tomorrow.
THE END