Chapter Text
Clark stares at the email, willing it to make sense.
He knows his abilities are unparalleled.
They’ve allowed him to save the lives of those he loves—hell, allowed him to cheat death, himself—to circumvent natural disasters, to stop a self-proclaimed destroyer of worlds.
There’s a reason so many cults have sprung up around The Superman, though it makes Clark shutter to even think it—he’s just some guy, after all—but what he can do? Well, it treads dangerously close to divinity.
Despite his superior strength, his flight capabilities, his nearly unparalleled speed (Clark still thinks that he and Barry tied their race), the heat and x-ray vision, Clark can’t make the words in front of him into any sort of reasonable sense.
He tries reading it again. It doesn’t help.
The funny thing is, is that it’s written in such a matter-of-fact way, so succinct and business-like it leaves no room for confusion. It plainly states what it is. There shouldn’t be any room for misinterpretations or misunderstandings. There shouldn’t be a need for clarification.
Clark narrows his eyes.
It suddenly clicks that its blunt nature is purposeful—a defense mechanism of sorts. Bruce wrote it like this so Clark wouldn’t have a need to come and speak to him in person about it. He says as much at the end.
Clark leans back on his couch, wiping a hand down his face. He can imagine Bruce drafting the email, certain Clark will read it, make his decision, and the matter will be settled either way, and shelving it quietly.
Clark huffs a laugh, shutting his laptop and gets his boots on.
The thing is, as much as Bruce is an enigma, once Clark knew what to look for, realized Bruce has tells, he became startingly simple to read.
Clark finishes lacing his shoes and stands up, extending his hearing and vision out across the bay. Filtering past the, frankly, alarming amount of petty crime, smog, and aggressive yelling in the city that Bruce loves, he quickly finds the lake house. Clark can see Alfred preparing dinner, some hearty soup to match the cold fall evening, his heartbeat steady and sure. Clark smiles to himself, noticing the older man is humming something while he works in front of the range.
One resident accounted for, Clark’s awareness flicks down to the sublevels, filtering through the assortment of metals and tech, flinching against the sheets of lead covering any number of Bruce’s secrets, when he finally finds the man. He’s not in his suit for patrol yet, probably waiting to eat before he heads out, but he’s in his under-layer—a form-fitting black Kevlar bodysuit, working on some case in front of his comically large computer.
Clark thinks for a moment about just sending Bruce a text about the email, or maybe even calling—he knows Bruce still gets tetchy about any Metas popping up in his city without an invite.
The Hall, of course, being a distinct exception; once the building was finished, Bruce had stressed to Clark and the others that any member of the League was always welcome to use the Hall’s facilities, Meta or not. It didn’t escape Clark’s notice what a big deal that was for Bruce.
The one piece of Gotham that Bruce had handed over unequivocally was his family home.
Clark realizes he’s stalling, watching as Alfred brings a steaming bowl of stew down into the Cave, as Bruce thanks Alfred even distracted as he is by his work, and knows this is a conversation that—if it needs to be had—it really should be in person.
He doesn’t change into his Superman suit, though he knows Bruce will be annoyed Clark has been flying in his civilian clothes, but this doesn’t feel like a Superman and Batman type of talk.
Clark pulls his awareness back as he leaves his apartment, locking the door and heading up to the roof access. Clark shook his head as he pushed off, making his way toward Gotham.
Clark had tried to refuse it, at first, the apartment Bruce had bought for Clark in the wake of his resurrection but eventually practicality beat out pride. Clark had to appreciate its convenience—the building was new enough to have roof access but not so trendy that anyone in the building outside of Clark actually used it. It wasn’t centrally located so it didn’t see a lot of traffic which meant Clark could come and go without worrying about being seen, and all of his neighbors were rich loners who traveled a lot. Nicer than anything Clark could hope to afford on a low-level reporter’s salary, the apartment itself it wasn’t flashy or sleekly modern but cozy and charming with historic little details that made it feel like a home.
All considerations so perfectly calculated it screamed Bruce.
When Clark had realized just how much thought Bruce had put into it, into making sure it was some place Clark would like, Clark had finally accepted it—on two conditions.
The first being, Bruce couldn’t continue to self-flagellate about almost-killing Clark. It had made Bruce’s jaw clench when Clark had said it. But Clark was firm, had said if Bruce was going to pay his rent for the foreseeable future than they were as even as two people could get. Bruce had obviously wanted to argue, though, thankfully, Bruce’s desire to know that Clark wasn’t living in some cramped and damp studio apartment won out.
The second condition was that Bruce could never, ever tell Clark how much it was costing him.
Spotting the lake house, Clark drops down and floats above the lake’s surface, waiting. He knows Bruce’s sensors will have picked up on his form, can hear Bruce sigh and say—
“You can use the front door, you know.”
There are a series of mechanical clicking and whirring underneath the lake as part of the Cave’s artificial ceiling opens up wide like a yawning mouth. Sheets of dark metal slide away as the water cascades down into the cavern below, creating an opening.
Clark rolls his eyes as he floats into the Cave, landing gently in front of Bruce.
Clark says, “Funny, coming from the guy who always comes in through the window when he drops by.”
Bruce huffs, “It wouldn’t do to have Bruce Wayne visiting some nobody-reporter—”
“Oof, harsh, B—” Clark pretends to wince and grab his chest.
Bruce continues speaking as if Clark hadn’t interrupted, “—it would raise too many questions, and we can’t—”
“—have people making too many connections between Clark Kent and Bruce Wayne, it could put both of our identities and those close to us in danger,” Clark finishes, crossing his arms across his chest.
Bruce scowls.
“C’mon, you’ve given the speech before, at least a hundred times,” Clark pauses, thinks, then amends: “Maybe two hundred,”
Bruce scoffs, pushing off from the workstation. Clark notes that the bowl of soup is only half-eaten. He points at it.
“Alfred will have your head if he notices.”
Bruce shrugs, unbothered, “I’m a grown man, Clark, I still get dessert even if I don’t finish my dinner.”
“Hey,” Clark holds up his hands, “I’m just looking out for you, Bruce.”
The other man snorts, as if the idea of anyone looking after him is hilarious.
“I appreciate it, but I can take care of myself.”
Bruce says it, but he still picks up the bowl and resumes eating.
Clark grins openly, making Bruce roll his eyes. Clark hops up onto the table, leaning back on his arms as he waits for Bruce to finish the soup.
Once the bowl is cleaned and set back down, Bruce makes a face as if to say Happy now? To which Clark can only smile wider at.
“Okay, now I’m assuming you didn’t just come by to watch me eat,” Bruce says.
He walks over to a set of cabinets, secured by what seems to be several biometric scanners, that open to reveal the rest of the Bat’s suit. A small mirror stands on one of the shelves inside.
Clark watches Bruce’s reflection pull out at jar of black greasepaint and begin putting it around his eyes, where Clark knows the cowl doesn’t cover. When Clark doesn’t jump in to explain himself, Bruce pauses what he’s doing and arches a brow at Clark through the mirror.
The thing is, Clark could be gone, out of the Cave and halfway around the world—could go to Pluto and hang around there—in a matter of seconds and he wouldn’t have to have this conversation with Bruce.
Clark sighs, rubs at his jaw.
“I want to discuss the email you sent me this morning.”
Any good humor slips off Bruce’s face like wax melting down a candle, replaced by a bland sort of gaze. It reveals nothing and makes Clark want to grind his teeth.
“I see,” is all Bruce replies as he resumes his work with the greasepaint.
This is how it is with Bruce, Clark’s come to realize; half the time he’s embarrassingly fond of the man, and the other half immeasurably annoyed at him.
“Is that all you have to say?” Clark asks, incredulous.
Bruce’s reflection shrugs at him.
“If you don’t feel comfortable with it, Clark, I completely understand. You didn’t have to come all the way here to say no. There was a box on the form. All you had to do was check it and then sign it.”
Clark knows about the little boxes sitting side by side on Bruce’s form, reminding Clark of those notes you’d pass in elementary school to your crush: do you like me— yes or no?
Something Bruce said finally registers with Clark, and without thinking he blurts out:
“I never said I wouldn’t do it.”
Bruce stops. He puts down the paint and finally turns around to face Clark.
“There was also a box for—”
Clark throws his hands up, “I know! I get it, the boxes! I just,” he sighs, “I just would like a little more context, please.”
Bruce cocks his head, and just looks at Clark. Clark fights the urge to do something embarrassing, like fidget—or worse—preen.
“It was an oversight on my part—I apologize.”
“B, I don’t need an apology,” Clark tries and fails to keep the irritation out of his voice, “I want an explanation why you think, this,” he says, meaning the whole email and form, “are necessary.”
There’s another pause, where Bruce just gazes at Clark, intently like he’s trying to understand something.
“I forget sometimes,” Bruce finally speaks, “that you haven’t been doing this for that long.”
Clark opens his mouth to argue; he’s not some green kid who doesn’t know what he’s doing, but then—
Bruce smiles. Something small, and private, and gentle. It’s not at Clark, like he’s making fun of him, but something else. Something kind. It makes the quick anger in Clark flare out, replaced by a smoldering warmth that fills his chest.
The moment passes and Bruce turns away to grab his gauntlets.
He fastens them to his forearms as he talks.
“In this line of work, I’ve learned to be prepared—”
“You don’t say,” Clark mutters.
“— about the eventualities of the job and the sacrifices it demands of me.”
Bruce finishes with the clasps and turns back.
“There are certain Metas I’ve dealt with in Gotham who have certain abilities that can trigger reactions like the ones I mentioned in the email.”
“Who?”
“Poison Ivy is the primary one, though I’ve gotten good at synthesizing antidotes to her pollens,” Bruce informs, “Scarecrow, sometimes, though usually they seem to be unexpected side-effects of his fear toxins. Others.”
Something like fear and dread pools in Clark’s stomach as he has a realization.
“You’ve dealt with this before,” Clark says, doesn’t ask, “with this type of…incident.”
He uses the word Bruce had used in the email.
Bruce nods, unbothered, which bothers Clark all the more.
“Of course, not in a while, but there seem to be recent rumbles in Gotham’s underbelly that speak of a resurgence from Ivy, and I want to be—”
“—prepared, yeah, I get it,” Clark says, somewhat dazed, before a new thought strikes him.
“Wait, does that mean you have had one of these contingency plans before?”
Bruce nods.
“I have, though I’ve allowed it to become woefully out of date,” then he says, to himself more than to Clark: “I don’t even know if that number works anymore.”
They lapse into silence as Clark mulls this new information over. Bruce continues putting his suit on in parts. A shin guard, then two—the reinforced plates that cover his thighs, the chest, and back pieces—until he’s fully suited up, save for the cowl which he holds in his hands.
“Okay, okay—all of that makes…sense, I suppose,” as much sense as anything in Gotham can, Clark thinks, but: “but I guess I don’t understand why you would ask me.”
For an exact heartbeat, Clark hears Bruce’s pulse fluctuate erratically before returning to its steady rhythm.
“Like I said, there is a likelihood this may be a more pertinent issue than it has been in recent years,” Bruce reminds him, “also—”
He stops himself.
“Also?” Clark prompts.
Bruce rubs at his jaw. Clark waits, a beat, then two, until:
“I know I won’t hurt you,” Bruce says quietly.
“What?”
Bruce huffs, clearly agitated that he has to clarify further.
“Often,” he explains, “these incidents can make the person exposed out of control, sometimes going so far as to cause adrenaline responses that make them stronger or prevent exhaustion, which typically would slow someone down. That would prevent them from causing harm or hurting others. These incidents can be dangerous, not necessarily for the sufferer, but for those around them.”
And it clicks, for Clark, why he was the one Bruce picked. Because even when discussing a potentially life-threatening scenario, Bruce’s primary concern isn’t for himself, but for others.
“I may be human, but I’ve honed my body into a weapon, Clark,” Bruce continues, voice gruff, “I’m not a small man, either, and it wouldn’t take much for me to overpower someone who—”
He cuts himself off.
Clark had spent most of the day fluctuating between disbelief and absurdity of the email and he feels suddenly sick with his own callousness. To not realize the potential ramifications of something like this happening to Bruce. To not realize how much trust Bruce was putting in him by asking him.
“Okay, I’ll do it.”
“What.”
It’s flat, not a question. Not asking for clarification.
Clark still repeats what he meant—more for himself than for Bruce’s benefit.
“I’ll—sign the form. And if something happens—I’ll be there.”
“Clark, I need to ensure that you understand what this means—”
He’s back to being annoyed at Bruce.
“I’m not an idiot, B, I do get what it means what I’d have to do if you were exposed.”
“No, I’m not insinuating—” Bruce cuts himself off, pinches the bridge of his nose and closes his eyes.
Bruce looks back at Clark, then says, “I’m just— surprised. It’s a lot to ask of someone, I realize.”
Clark softens.
On one hand, Clark gets it—it is a lot. He still feels mildly terrified at what he’s agreeing to but—
But the more terrifying thing, to Clark, is the idea that Bruce would have to do go through it alone, or that Bruce would accidentally hurt someone and would have to live with that guilt, when Clark is right there, more than willing and able to help.
“Of course, B,” Clark promises, earnest, “you call and I’m there.”
It’s the truth, and Clark thinks it’s obvious how far he would go for Bruce, but apparently, it’s a revelation of some kind because he seems stunned, standing there and wordlessly staring at Clark.
Clark chalks it up to Bruce not having many close friends.
In a fluid moment, Bruce puts the cowl over his head and flips the voice modulator on. Even after all this time—nearly two years since Doomsday—the robotic growl of the Bat’s voice still unnerves Clark.
“Make sure to fill out the form and sign it,” Batman’s voice says, walking toward the Batmobile, “if you’re serious.”
Clark huffs a small laugh as he walks with him; just like Bruce, to always need to double-triple check. He watches as the Cave’s ceiling opens once more, revealing a chilly overcast night.
“As serious as a heart attack, B,” Clark promises, as Batman gets into the vehicle, “I’ll send it over tonight.”
He nods, pressing a button that closes the car’s door. A second later Clark hears him start the engine, an oddly quiet purr for such a tanklike beast. Clark feels a strange pang of something as Batman drives off into the dark Gotham night.
Clark lets out a long breath, surprised the conversation went as well as it did. He allows himself one last look around the Cave, lingers, a moment or two, on the now-empty bowl of soup, before he’s rocketing up into the night sky to head home.
Once back in his apartment, Clark picks up his laptop—another expensive gift from Bruce—as he heads to his bedroom. He places it on his nightstand as he speeds through his bedtime routine, before shedding his clothes and getting under the covers.
Settled beneath his comforter, Clark grabs his computer and signs in. He takes a takes a breath before opening the email back up.
From: [email protected]
Subject: Potential Exposure Response Partner (PERP) Permission Request
Superman,
The contents of this email are highly confidential and deal with a particularly sensitive matter. As such, I know you understand that discretion in this matter is expected.
Clark rolls his eyes reading the opening of the email again; every League email contained “sensitive matter,” it’s the whole reason Bruce and Victor had created the insanely secure network for their communications in the first place. Besides, it’s not like Clark hasn’t spent most of his life trying to be discreet.
In Gotham, particular situations have occurred which I have classified as an Exposure Incident (EI), in which a subject/s has been exposed to a particular chemical compound—often in the form of pollens or toxins—which have adverse reactions on the human nervous system.
He marvels, not for the first time, at just how mindbogglingly weird Gotham could be.
Explicitly, these chemical compounds cause the subject/s body to generate higher levels of testosterone, while simultaneously driving the subject/s to force their bodies to produce extreme levels of oxytocin. Our research indicates EI’s impact the subject/s the following parts of the subject/s brain: the amygdala, hypothalamus, anterior cingulate cortex, and nucleus accumbens.
As such, these manifest as an intense drive in the subject/s for sexual intercourse, terminating the adverse reactions via orgasm.
Clark ignores the heat in his cheeks and continues reading.
EI’s render the subject/s incapable of making rational decisions regarding their own well-being and of those around them. EI’s are highly dangerous, and as such are to be treated with severe caution.
While orgasms can be achieved alone, through masturbation, our research has shown they prove insufficient in relieving the painful side-effects of an EI, such as an erratic heartbeat, severe fever, body aches, dehydration, emotional distress, as well as others. Our current hypothesis suggests that the pheromones of an additional person are required to level out the chemical imbalance in the brain and body of the subject/s.
Bruce says ‘research,’ and it makes Clark wonder, briefly, how this research was conducted—how much Bruce had to…experiment, before coming to that conclusion.
As such, subject/s are driven to seek out a partner. Therefore, it is imperative to establish a Potential Exposure Response Partner (PERP) in advance of these EI’s. A PERP aids a subject/s in dealing with the reaction from an EI by providing a prospective contact to potentially engage in pre-approved sexual acts with the intent of aiding the subject/s in achieving the necessary body response.
Which is where I come in, I guess, Clark thinks.
You are receiving the email because I am requesting that you act as a PERP in the event I am exposed during an EI. The consent form provides an overview of specific requirements, with space for you to outline the parameters of your involvement. If you do not wish to act as a PERP indicate so on the appropriate section of the form.
I have attached the release form to this email. Fill it out as you feel comfortable.
Nothing further is required from you at this time.
-Batman
Clark lets himself absorb the information, now with Bruce’s explanation from the Cave offering a new light.
He clicks over to the attachment, written in much the same scientific and sterile style. There is a space to check yes or no on whether he wants to consent to being a PERP at all, a place to put contact information, a section to write out specific sexual and intimate acts that are not allowed during the…event.
At the end, there is a final note, after the line for the date and Clark’s signature.
Please note, that signing this form ensures that you will be notified in the event that the subject experiences an EI. As such, during an EI, you are not required, nor will you be legally liable, to engage in any level of sexual contact with the subject.
Your signature serves only as a consent to be considered and contacted as a Potential Exposure Response Partner. Your consent to any sexual contact with the subject must be given at the time of the Incident.
Clark can’t imagine a scenario where he writes “no feet stuff,” and “okay with anal,” in regards his vigilante co-worker-slash-best friend potentially to save his life, only to say nah, never mind, when it comes time to actually do it, but he appreciates Bruce’s thoughtfulness and desire to not overstep, nonetheless.
He does sign it, both as Clark Kent and Kal-El of Krypton, to leave no room for misunderstandings, and sends it off to Bruce. He shuts his laptop off and lays down flat. He stays like that for a minute, before rolling onto his left side, staying there only for another moment before switching sides again. His thoughts are racing, leaping over one another in a jumbled mess that leaves him restless and half-hard.
Clark groans, loud and annoyed. He forces himself to get up and to put on his suit; find something more productive to do than lay in bed not sleeping but thinking unbecoming things about his friend.
Pushing his awareness outside of his apartment, he catches a commotion occurring over on the West Coast.
Well, Clark thinks, hours later when he finally falls into bed, after dealing with a decently-sized forest fire—what are the odds Bruce will ever actually need help with something like that