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It was two in the morning, and even with the let-down from the adrenaline, he was restless. Usually, he would be out doing rounds by now, flying around Metropolis and interrupting whatever crime its citizens could muster in the middle of the night. It wasn't like Gotham; the city didn't come alive at night in quite the same way. There was crime, there were muggings...but sometimes, for a few hours, there was quiet.
There was nothing more disappointing than being depowered after a drawn-out fight with three separate villains, Lex Luthor, and a band of kidnappers. A nasty handful of Kryptonite to the face and he was down for the count. Human, at least for the next four hours. Useless to the exhausted League-not much of a leader when he couldn't even stand up straight without a massive headache.
That was a long, roundabout way of trying to rationalize how he'd found himself in...whatever he was doing right now. He was still sort of stunned himself. Was it boredom? Curiosity? A latent rebellious streak his mother would no doubt disapprove of?
Metropolis slept on twenty stories beneath him; this building was his favorite for storing a few extra suits. No rooftop activity; a good place to meet up when they were doing joint exercises in the city. Quiet. Secluded.
The small dime bag of weed sat in his hand, fairly innocuous for all of the fuss his teachers and parents had made about it in high school. Without his enhanced senses, he could still smell it from a few feet away. It dug into his nose, only serving to deepen his curiosity.
"Okay," he told the empty rooftop, "So I know I have to, uh, break this apart. Chop it? Is that why people say they're chopped when they're high?"
The wind whistled through the gutters nearby, startling him. He shook his head and opened the bag, sniffing.
A few moments later, he had the weed crushed into tiny pieces with the side of his ID. He grabbed the paper from his pocket, eyeing it in confusion.
"Square? Triangle?" he crinkled it slightly, feeling the weight. "I didn't get cigarette wrappers. Should I have gotten wrappers? Is there a big difference?"
It wasn't like smoke inhalation could hurt him, anyway. He grabbed the scissors and cut a large square, depositing the weed into the center.
He was four minutes into a complex burrito-fold when the sound of footsteps reached his ears. He looked up, his eyes catching on a familiar shadow to his left.
"Right," Clark said, the hand holding the half-rolled joint dropping a little. "This, uh. This...isn't what it looks like."
Bruce continued to stare. Even with the cowl on, Clark could sense the obvious disapproval.
"It really isn't what you think," he tried again. "I-"
The wind whipped at the paper in his hand, small bits of green flying out of the half-rolled joint. He swore under his breath, shuffling the scraps together with a hand, shielding them from the sudden breeze.
"And by that, I mean, yes, this is weed. But I'm not some sort of...I don't have a problem, okay?"
Batman's face had gone carefully blank. Clark felt himself fidget under his stare, growing more and more uncomfortable as the silence continued.
"Let me get this straight," Batman said after a lengthy pause, "You're using wrapping paper, of all things, to roll a joint on top of a skyscraper, all alone, depowered, at two in the morning."
"Yes," Clark said emphatically, then frowned. "Wait. No. It sounds really bad when you say it like that."
Batman quirked an eyebrow.
"It's craft paper," he said, growing sheepish, "I couldn't find anything else."
"Craft paper," Batman repeated, monotone. Clark cringed, ducking his head. "Clark-"
"I know, I know," he said quickly, feeling his cheeks heat up. "Just-save the lecture for later, okay? I'm tired...this was a mistake. I know."
Bruce didn't break eye contact, lifting a hand up to the cowl. With a barely-perceptible sigh, he removed it, fingers brushing against hidden catches and buttons. Blue eyes met his, red-rimmed with exhaustion.
"I meant," Bruce settled onto the concrete next to him, stretching his legs out. "You're rolling that completely wrong. It's spilling out."
Clark felt his eyes bug out as a pair of gloved hands overlaid his, taking the joint from him. With a hint of a smirk at his lips, Bruce unrolled it, tucking the weed back into the paper.
"Like this," he said with a nod towards Clark, re-rolling the paper. He pinched off the joint, handing it back to him with a sarcastic tilt of his head. "Now you might even get high...if you didn't buy oregano, that is."
"I didn't buy oregano," Clark said, mortified. He took the joint back, still in disbelief. Bruce settled back against the wall, letting his eyes close. "I….uh…"
"Please tell me you didn't forget a lighter," Bruce said, eyes still closed. This close, he looked absolutely exhausted, the events of the past 24 hours wearing on him tangibly. They both had to look like shit by now, if he was being honest.
"No, I did," Clark said, reaching for the small bic in his pocket. "What are you-what are you doing here, anyway?"
Somewhat hesitant, he held the joint up, then lit the end. It sparked, but didn't catch. Bruce's eyebrows went up, sensing his struggle. He handed both items to the billionaire, frowning.
His disbelief only got worse as Bruce put the joint to his lips, inhaling as he lit the end. Smoke poured out of the paper, spiralling past their faces, whipped into the sky by the wind a moment later.
"Here," Bruce handed the joint back, his voice a little hoarse. He exhaled slowly, tilting his head back. Clark took it, watching him.
"Should I-"
"Don't ask," Bruce muttered, leaning back and closing his eyes again. "You've got less than three hours until you're powered up again. Might as well...get to it."
Holy shit. I'm smoking pot with Batman.
Clark watched him for a moment, then hissed as the joint began to burn his hand. He grasped it farther back, lifting it to his lips. He inhaled cautiously, only to cough furiously, choking on the smoke.
"Breathe," Bruce said from his position on the wall, not looking up. Clark continued to cough, feeling the smoke burn his throat. "Serves you right."
"Thanks dad," Clark said, eyes watering. The humiliation burned almost as badly as the smoke still sticking to the back of his throat. Bruce waved his hand for the joint, and he passed it over quickly.
"Like this," Bruce said quietly, inhaling slowly. He held his breath for a moment, then released it, smoke pouring from his lips. It seemed to sit between the two of them, curling upwards lazily. "See?"
Clark grabbed the joint, replicating his actions. He held the smoke for a moment, then exhaled, struggling not to cough.
"I'm not feeling anything."
Bruce rolled his eyes. "You're not supposed to, yet."
They smoked together in silence for a few minutes, passing the joint between the two of them, watching the city below. Clark bounced his knee, full of awkward energy.
"I came to check in on you," Bruce said after a long pause, turning his head to look at him. "See if Metropolis would be okay until you got your sea legs back."
"I'm fine," Clark said, frowning. He took another hit, feeling moderately successful as it became easier. A car alarm went off below, and they both flinched. When he looked over, Bruce seemed doubtful. "Really."
"Most people smoking weed on a skyscraper at two in the morning using-" Bruce cut off, squinting at the joint as he held it to the light. "-christmas wrapping paper-" Clark ducked his head, groaning, "-are not, by definition, fine."
"Maybe I was just curious," he defended, feeling like he was talking too slowly, his tongue sluggish. "You-you don't get it. I'm not like this most of the time."
Bruce's eyebrow quirked, lips twitching. "I'd hope not."
"You know what I mean."
"I do."
Clark waved a hand at the skyline, struggling to find the words. "I-I don't even-I have no idea what the hell I'm doing. You're right."
"I never said that."
Bruce was smiling, though, only the flash of his teeth and the cherry end of the joint visible in the low light. He disappeared completely into the shadow behind him; without super senses, Clark never would have known the man was there.
"Actions speak louder than words, however…"
"Oh, shut up," Clark said, a burst of fond irritation going through him. He grinned at his friend, getting a tired nod in return. "Stop laughing at me-I know this is probably the funniest thing ever-"
"You underestimate my sense of humor." Bruce interrupted, accepting the joint and inhaling deeply. He exhaled a moment later, gesturing at Clark. " ...but this might make the top five. If only the League could see you now."
Clark felt his cheeks flush, crossing his arms. "Human, you mean?"
"No, without the stick up your ass."
Clark laughed loud enough to startle himself, getting another flash of teeth from Bruce as the joint was passed again. "Does Dick know?"
"Know what?" Bruce said plaintively, looking out across the skyline. A longer pause this time, long enough that even Clark could feel the shift in moods. "I...haven't done this in a while, if that's what you mean."
"What's wrong?"
Blue eyes turned on him, boring into his head. The man's mood seemed to shift again, mercurial. "Nothing."
"I know that look, mister," Clark said, waving a hand at the vigilante. It took more effort than he wanted to admit. "I'm fine. More than fine, actually. I feel great."
"You'll sleep well tonight, that's for sure," Bruce muttered, looking away. There was a smile tugging at his lips. "C'mon, finish it up, or you'll burn your fingers."
Clark looked down, startled to see the remains of the joint between his fingers. He took one last pull, watching the wrapper crumble away into a cloud of ash. The small source of light disappeared, leaving him in the dark.
The night seemed to stretch out around him. He lost track of time for a moment, leaning his head back like Bruce had done. He didn't want to move, safely pressed against a wall, close to Bruce. Safe. Warm.
"I'm going to be really honest here," a voice said, startling him.
He looked up to see Batman standing in front of him, biting down on a shout. His watch read three-thirty A.M. Had it really been that long?
"...I have no idea how I'm getting you back to your apartment from here." Bruce finished, hands on his hips. He sounded more dad-like than ever. "You weigh more than I do, and I doubt you can walk."
"I'm fine," Clark said, putting a hand underneath his legs. He pushed up, only to stumble forwards into Bruce's chest. His head spun. "Okay...I don't wanna move, you're right."
Bruce swore under his breath, helping him down to the concrete. Clark closed his eyes, smiling and leaning back. Bruce was very warm. Nice.
"Clark."
"Mhm?"
"You need to get off of me."
Clark shook his head slowly, frowning. "Noooo." he moaned.
"There's a mugging a block away," Bruce said, pushing at him. "Clark."
"No there isn't," he said, waving a hand, "I can hear everything. You're lying."
"You don't have super hearing right now, Clark."
"...Right."
A pause.
"There wasn't really a mugging, was there?"
He could practically hear Bruce's teeth grinding. "No."
"So we don't have to move."
"I have to move."
Clark closed his eyes, leaning his head on Bruce's chest. "Nope. Not...happening."
"Clark-"
They both looked up as a shadow descended in front of them. Diana put her hands on her hips, her boots touching down on the concrete. Her mouth opened to speak, then closed abruptly.
"This is not what it looks like," Bruce growled, prompting a chuckle out of Clark. "Diana-"
Clark threw his hand in the air. "What he means is, this is way more refined than it looks. I chose the wrapping paper, for the record. It was stupid, Batman already yelled at me, but he wasn't that scary so it was okay. Wow, am I high right now? I feel kinda high. Bruce? Wooooooowww-"
Bruce made a choked noise, a hand going to his head. "Jesus fuck-"
"No thanks." Clark said, crossing his arms. He leaned back against Bruce. "I like you right there. Don't move. I'm comfy."
"You're leaning on kevlar."
"Well, it's very comfortable!"
Diana was watching them both with a small smile. She raised an eyebrow at Bruce, who muttered some other choice words under his breath.
"I'll just...leave you to it, then."
She was gone as soon as she came, disappearing into the shadows. Clark felt Bruce groan near his head and couldn't stop the chuckle that escaped. Then maybe he laughed a little too much, because he got a small pinch a moment later.
"We'll see how funny you think this is in the morning," Bruce grumbled by his ear, "I don't have to be at work at six A.M."
"You need to chill out," Clark said, slapping his shoulder lightly. "Seriously. You're so tense."
That earned him a truly wonderful sound: Bruce Wayne's genuine, real-deal, laugh. Deep, wonderful chuckles that made Clark's head swim; a sound unlike any he'd ever heard before.
"Superman just told me to chill out," Bruce said, as Clark closed his eyes again, drifting dangerously close towards sleep. "Dick is never going to believe me."
A few minutes later, and a hand prodded at his ribs, growing more insistent.
"He fell asleep," Bruce muttered above him, sounding irritated. "He actually fell asleep on kevlar. Jesus Christ."
Clark let himself bask in the triumph of irritating Batman for a moment, features carefully relaxed. He nearly jumped out of his skin when a hesitant hand rested on his hair, stroking softly.
"You unbelievable idiot," the billionaire said, a hint of fondness in his voice. "I'm going to kill you when you wake up."
The grumbling eventually tapered off, Bruce's voice replaced by steady breaths. The hand continued to stroke his hair, tracing circles in his curls. Finally, he felt himself let go, deep asleep in seconds.
THE END