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Bruce was tinkering with his grappling hook when he heard it.
A small, smothered sound—the noise of a hurt animal—suffocated before it could reach anyone’s ears. It came from behind him, and sounded like something torn from the throat of a wounded beast, unmistakably inhuman. So, despite what his agitated instincts told him to do, he didn’t whirl around to throw a batarang at the source of the noise. Instead, he casually picked up a wrench and positioned it to glance at the reflection shown in its chrome surface. A smear of blue, red, and gold.
Superman.
Bruce exhaled, most of the tension leaving his body, though several other considerations shot up his list of immediate concerns. He set the wrench down in its designated spot on his tool pegboard, and started undoing the straps of his work gloves.
“I thought I told you to tell me in advance whenever you wanted to visit the cave,” Bruce said, tossing his left glove onto the table. He moved to take off his right one as he turned around, saying, “I presume you learned of Mannheim crossing the bay. He was—”
Bruce cut himself off. Clark was far closer than he’d expected him to be, barely a foot’s distance away from him, and with an indistinct blur of motion, he was wrapped around him, nose shoved into the crook of his neck. The force of his embrace wasn’t exactly crushing, but it was certainly stronger than the limits of perfectly firm yet gentle, which Clark tended to never exceed in moments of physical contact—even in emotionally compromising moments. Bruce suppressed the instinctive twitch of his hand towards the lead compartment on his belt, and froze in place. A belated gale of wind blew his hair into disarray.
“Superman,” Batman said sharply, mind flicking through possible circumstances and mind-altering substances that could affect a Kryptonian. Poison Ivy was in Arkham Asylum, all the silver kryptonite known to him was in his vault and kept well under lock and key, Superman’s last recorded activity was of him visiting sick children at Metropolis General Hospital six hours ago, and his parents were healthy and busy with the upcoming harvest, the last Bruce had—
“Bruce,” Clark whispered, voice cracking and splitting his one-syllable name into two, immediately derailing his catastrophizing in favor of triaging.
“Kal,” Bruce responded in kind. He placed his hand on the nape of his neck, wordlessly asking for him to let go. Some part of him noted the presence of fabric under his fingers where there should be none—new high collared suit?—and wisps of silver in his peripheral vision.
Slowly, Clark stepped away, taking his warmth with him. He held his hands behind his back like he was falling into parade rest, but it seemed to Bruce that he was rather restraining himself from reaching out.
“Sorry,” he said softly, his conflict clear to the eye in the twist of his lips. His eyes glittered—with unshed tears or some other unreadable emotion, Bruce was unable to discern. “I'm fine. Sorry for startling you. I'm—sorry.”
Three apologies in a row. Dangerous territory.
He knew immediately that somehow, without his noticing, something had happened to Clark.
In the span of a heartbeat, Bruce’s eyes flicked over him, and he was able to discern this: Clark’s uniform was altered. Higher collar, darker hues, streamlined design—only the golden crest remained unchanged. A few streaks of silver shot through the hair at his temples, standing out starkly against the black. Despite the gray in his hair, there were no wrinkles on his face; his face was largely the same—glowingly brilliant blue eyes, strong chin, defined jaw. The only real difference was the presence of a minute tightness around his eyes, which created an impression of tiredness, of fatigue.
“You're not Clark,” Bruce realized. Then, before he could flinch, he revised: “No. You are. Alternate universe or time travel?”
Clark dipped his head a little, a wry smile playing at his lips. The tension around his mouth eased as he closed his eyes, hiding that unmistakable blue from view. “Could be either. Or both, even.”
“So what was it? Darkseid? Justice League gone off the rails?” A pause. “Luthor?”
Bruce hadn't made a face, per se, but the complete flatness of his expression spoke volumes. The corners of Clark’s lips rose, almost involuntarily.
“None of the above,” he said. “I was hit by some red kryptonite.”
“Red kryptonite,” Bruce muttered sourly, and rolled his eyes. He would take silver over red, any day.
“Mm,” Clark hummed in agreement, warmth suffusing his voice. “At least I don’t have an ant head again?”
“The dragon was much more difficult to clean up after,” Bruce sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose. He paused when a cool touch pressed against the side of his face—Clark’s fingers, made cold and soothing through his control of his thermoregulation, rubbed gentle circles into his right temple, pacifying his mild headache. Easily, casually—without thought, as if this was something that he’d done so many times, it was more muscle memory in the face of a conditioned stimulus.
Then, Clark’s eyes met his, and he pulled away so quickly that the sound of his retreat whipped through the air. His face, for a moment, was startlingly open, and naked grief cracked harshly through his expression like a fist shattering the surface of a frozen lake. Then, it was gone, and the slate was wiped clean as though there had been nothing but a mild smile there since the very beginning.
But Bruce knew what he’d seen.
“How long?” he asked.
Clark’s mouth twisted. “I don’t know why I thought I’d be able to keep it from you,” he said softly. “You know me too well. Was that even five minutes?”
“Clark.”
Clark’s lips turned up into a smile, fracturing his face, his eyes glittering shards of lapis lazuli. “How long for what?” he asked. “For how long we were married? Or for how long it’s been since you died?”
Bruce’s lips parted, but he could say nothing. Clark watched him patiently, his gaze an unwavering weight. The silence between them was drawn taut, vibrating in the air like a plucked violin string.
He swallowed roughly. “Since I died.”
“One hundred and twenty-six years,” Clark replied steadily, back straight and unbowed. “It was our anniversary last month. I visited your grave with Dick’s daughter. I got you gladioli, your mother carnations, and your father forget-me-nots.”
Carnations, traditionally Mother’s day flowers—and forget-me-nots, representing his resolve to never, ever forget. The flowers he placed in front of his parents’ headstones every year.
(The gladiolus. Meaning strength of character, sincerity, and moral integrity.)
Bruce’s throat worked.
“You were mine for sixty years. You passed at ninety-two, outliving every non-meta on the League’s main roster.” Something terribly fond softened his eyes. “So stubborn.”
One hundred and twenty-six years was a very, very long time.
“But you had Kara. Kon,” Bruce said. Not a question in tone, but one in spirit. Clark stared, and then shook his head, stepping closer until he could feel the warmth of him closing in on him. Later, Bruce would say he didn’t know why it was that he didn’t move away, but he would be lying.
“Yes, Bruce,” Clark murmured, tipping Bruce’s head up with a gentle finger under his chin. His eyes were unforgivably blue, warmer than the touch of a brand, and cumulatively all sorts of breathtaking; he was smiling, very slightly. Bruce’s pulse stuttered a little, and the curve of his lips broadened by the most infinitesimal of degrees, dimpling his cheeks. “I wasn’t alone.”
He closed his eyes, long eyelashes dipping low, and pressed his lips gently against Bruce’s.
Bruce kissed back immediately. He deepened it, turning it into something slow and languorous and lingering with their mutual longing. Because it’d been sixty-two hours since he’d last slept and he was running almost entirely on autopilot, because his heart ached very quietly at the thought of a Clark Kent without a Bruce Wayne—because it was Clark, and he always, always wanted Clark, even if he knew he wouldn’t ever have him, and that this wasn’t his Clark.
It was evident in the ease of his movements. The complete confidence that his touch would be accepted, the obvious familiarity of his hands skating over Bruce's skin, as if he'd memorized every square inch of his body. Clark dragged a thumb over a sensitive spot behind his ear, and then down the column of his throat; Bruce managed to half-stifle the involuntary noise of want he made against Clark's mouth, all the breath rushing from his lungs at once.
“What,” Clark said, “the fuck.”
Bruce pulled away instantly, tearing his hands away from the solid breadth of Clark’s shoulders; the absence of the heat of his arms around his waist was nearly shocking, but Bruce ignored it. There, hovering in the air, was another Superman, staring down at them with an indecipherable expression.
It was his Superman. His Clark. And his eyes were beginning to glow red.
He slapped a hand over them before Bruce could open his mouth to say something, touching down to the ground. The silence in the air thickened with tension, as Bruce and the future Clark—Kal, he supposed—watched Clark struggle to master himself.
“Seems like an alternate universe,” Kal said, sotto voice. “I don't remember this happening to me when I was at his age.”
Bruce leveled a glare that could strip paint at him. Kal beamed at him, clearly unconcerned with his alternate past self having a crisis not even three meters away from them—the years had only served to make him more of a nosy meddler. Bruce jabbed at his stomach with a palm strike, and Kal swayed with and away from the movement so he wouldn't break his hand on his invulnerable skin. The considerate ass.
“You knew he was coming,” he accused.
Kal's eyes were bright with laughter, round and falsely innocent. “I plead the fifth.”
All Clark Kents across time and space were born specifically to make his life more difficult. Bruce looked back to his Clark and found him crouched on the floor, hands still pressed against his eyes. He made a ridiculous picture: Superman, hunched into himself like a child, scarlet cape puddled on the floor behind him.
“Are you brainwashed?” Clark asked his palms, voice small.
Bruce stared. Of the twenty hypothetical responses that'd passed through his mind, this had not been included in them.
“No,” he said slowly.
Kal, next to him, made a noise of realization. “Ah,” he said. “So you aren't— Darn. Whoops.”
“This is another you from another universe,” Bruce explained needlessly, ignoring him. Fucking whoops? “I suspect the intersection of parallel lines at separate points is the reason behind the temporal difference.”
Clark moved his hands away from his face; his eyes flicked away when he saw Bruce standing next to Kal, but only for a scant second. He didn't say anything.
“I didn't realize red K could manipulate spacetime as well as reality—though I should have at least considered the possibility. My oversight,” Bruce—for lack of a better word—rambled.
“Why were you…” Clark shook his head, closing his eyes again as he rose to his full height. “Did he... Did he force it on you.” His inflection was flat.
Bruce would rather be talking about literally anything else, but he hoped his stare sufficiently conveyed his incredulity. “Clark. He's you.”
“Your trust means a lot to me, B,” Kal said earnestly, in that tone of his that he knew gave him hives. Bruce repressed the desire to try for a nerve strike this time, for all that he knew it would be ineffectual.
“You shut up,” Clark said shortly, glancing glare scathing. He turned his gaze back to Bruce, softening. “B.”
Bruce briefly contemplated the potential causes behind his irritability. Considering seventy percent of the Supermen they'd encountered from other parts of the multiverse had been evil or some variation of a world conqueror, perhaps it wasn't so uncharacteristic or unreasonable for him to be so tetchy.
“He didn't,” Bruce assured briskly, though he truly didn't think there was any need to. He'd known it the moment he'd seen him—he wasn't from a universe like the ones that housed the Justice Lords or the Injustice League. Those Supermen carried themselves with a certain... lack of care. Like the unshakable self-control Clark leashed himself with to be able to touch and be touched by the world was set aside, leaving only an unreachable Kal-El, drifting high and untethered above the Earth in the stratosphere. This future Superman was Clark in every way that mattered. He cared, like it'd kill him if he didn't.
“You know Bruce wouldn't put up with something he didn't want to do,” Kal chimed in. He was also, it seemed, just as much as a secret asshole.
“You don't know him at all, if that's what you think,” Clark bit out. Bruce momentarily felt an uncontrollable burst of discomfort at the sensation of being so terribly perceived, before he slammed a lid on it.
“Fine; if I'd done something Bruce hadn't wanted me to do, he'd have found no issue with shoving a chunk of kryptonite down my throat.”
Bruce briefly experienced a cocktail of mixed emotions, but at this, Clark reluctantly made an expression of acquiescence. Then, something flickered in his eyes—most likely the realization that this implied kissing his future-alternate self who was nearly physically identical to him in every way was something Bruce had wanted to do.
Bruce tipped his head up to the Cave’s ceiling so he wouldn't have to look either of them in the eyes. He felt the purposeful absence of Clark’s gaze on him like a missing weight one had grown accustomed to.
The lull in conversation lengthened like a held note, steeping the atmosphere in an irrepressible awkwardness. Clark was staring fixedly at the wall, Kal was watching Bruce with an unconcerned smile on his face, and Bruce was trying to recall the technique to astral projection he'd learned back in his early twenties.
“I should focus on getting him back,” Bruce decided abruptly, shattering the uncomfortable silence, and strode forward to the computer.
“Right,” Clark's faint voice said from behind him. He lifted off the floor and floated over to the main floor, passing Bruce easily, Kal following closely after him.
By the time Bruce had reached the computer, Clark was leaning a hip against the desk, studying the sleek black keyboard with undue interest. Kal, on the other side of the chair, was standing in exactly the same position, only perfectly mirrored. It was uncanny.
He didn't look directly at either of them as he took his seat and began to bypass his many, many security measures. He pulled up a blank incident report and started to fill it out, fingers flying over the keys.
“Who?” Bruce clipped, still typing.
“I don't think you've met him yet,” Kal said thoughtfully, unfazed by his brusqueness. He leaned in to read over his shoulder, drawing closer—not excessively, or particularly overtly, but noticeably. Because this was Kal, Clark, Superman—he didn't touch anyone or anything without deliberate consideration. Bruce could feel warmth radiating from the glancing points where they touched, the heat of his unignorable presence between the spaces where they didn't; his fingers halted for a terribly revealing beat before they returned to typing.
Kal glanced down at him, blue eyes bright with humor. From his peripheral vision, he could see Clark uncross his arms and sidle closer to his left.
Damn.
“Name,” Bruce demanded, pretending the past thirty seconds hadn't happened.
“A criminal called Mysteria,” Kal admitted finally, apparently willing to let it pass without comment. He scratched his jaw. “Well, I suppose that's giving him too much credit. His record only lists a few accounts of petty theft—shoplifting. It's only when he came across a kryptonite meteor and nicked the thing that he became notable at all.
“He was fighting Kara and giving her a fair bit of trouble. Not even because of the kryptonite—we've been exposed to it often enough by now that we've learned to fight through the discomfort; apparently, his banter is about as good as your Condiment King's.”
Bruce slowly exhaled a silent sigh through his nose. Both Clark and Kal smiled an identical flash of pearly whites—the same one that always crossed his face when Bruce externally expressed his reluctantly amused exasperation.
“I lent a hand once I wrapped up some flood recovery in Florida, but he happened to have some red K on hand. Kara was too far away for her to feel the effects—last I saw of her, she was fine,” Kal concluded.
“Red kryptonite,” Clark muttered under his breath, with the same surly undertone to his voice that had underscored Bruce’s not even ten minutes ago. “Of course.”
“Quantity?”
“Barely a sliver,” Kal said, holding his index finger and thumb a short distance apart illustratively. “An inch long, half a millimeter thick. It's a wonder he managed to nick me with it at all when he threw it.”
Bruce tapped out the last of a paragraph, swiveling in his chair to face him. Wordlessly, he reached out a hand, palm upturned.
Kal's gaze was heavy as he easily placed his hand in his. Bruce observed the superficial wound that lay near the lateral edge of his palm, tilting it to the overhead lights. It was already clotted; he was sure that if the dried blood was washed away, only a pink line would remain as evidence that a cut had been there at all. A little sun to overpower the kryptonite, and even that would be gone.
Kal's fingers curled against the middle of his palm slightly, prompting Bruce to raise his eyes. Kal stared down at him, gaze an almost tangible caress as they swept slowly over Bruce's features like a painter's brush over a canvas. Memorizing.
Then, there was a sort of—sound, behind them. A subvocal hum, deep and rumbling—like the vibrations one felt through the floor, reverberating through their bones, when a freight train passed closely by. Abruptly, it was cut off.
Clark cleared his throat slightly, an awkward expression on his face as he rubbed at his Adam’s apple. “Ahem. Excuse me.”
Bruce stared. Kal laughed.
“Sorry, sorry,” he said, at Clark’s glare. “It's just—I thought Lois had been exaggerating when she told me how obvious I was. Wow.”
Clark frowned, lips parting to speak. Bruce turned back to the computer before he could, beginning to fill in the section for accrued injuries. “If the piece was that small, it's unlikely you'll be affected for the typical 24-hour duration,” he said.
“Yes, I'm aware,” Kal said. “I can already feel the effects wearing off. I've been resisting the pull.”
“Why?”
“You know why."
A sharp inhale from behind him. Bruce didn't look over to its source.
“I'm not him,” he said, neither harsh nor gentle. His tone was nearly conversational.
“As I am him, you are still you,” Kal said, gaze penetrating. He tilted his head slightly, the small smile on his face doing little to diminish the intensity in his eyes. With a cadence of easy repetition, of a story attached that Bruce had no context for: “Every you, every me, Bruce Wayne.”
His regard burned. Bruce was the one who looked away first.
“Wait,” Clark murmured, “what?”
“You can't stay,” Bruce reminded him.
“Oh, I know.” Kal's expression didn't shift in any meaningful way, but Bruce thought something in the set of his mouth softened. “I'm just stealing as much time as I can.”
It was then that Bruce noticed a muscle in his jaw twitch as he clenched his teeth. Kal took a deep, centering breath. His hands formed fists before they relaxed, and he stepped away from him.
“It's hurting you,” Bruce realized, rising from his seat.
“What's a little pain in the scale of things?” He punctuated the question with a sweep of his fingers against Bruce's temple, brushing away flyaway hairs. His knuckles skated over his cheekbone, dragging down the curve of his cheek until they fell away from his jaw. Bruce did not chase his touch.
“Heavy,” he told him. “Too heavy.”
“Can't be heavier than the time I literally carried the world on my shoulders,” Kal laughed. He shot a glance over Bruce's shoulder to where Clark was standing. “You have that to look forward to.”
“Hold on,” Clark said slowly, stepping around Bruce's chair with long strides.
“Can't do much else, these days,” Kal replied. “That's what you do when you get to be as old as I am now. Cling to the memories.”
“He wouldn't have wanted this.”
“No,” Kal agreed easily, clasping his hands behind his back as if that would hide the way his breathing was too quick and shallow. “He would have wanted me to forget. And that's why I can't.”
“Kal-El,” Bruce said lowly. Like the whisper of steel against silk.
Kal stopped. So did Clark. Superman and Superman, one nearly two centuries older than the other—called to heel by a sharp word from Batman. There was probably something to be analyzed there. Bruce would do it later because he couldn't help but be himself, neuroticism and propensity for obsession and all, but he certainly wouldn't be the one to delve into the implications of it all.
“Moving on doesn't mean forgetting,” Bruce said, tone insinuating a silent, blistering you goddamned idiot was tacked on at the end. “Tormenting yourself with the memories out of some contrarian desire to spite him whilst ultimately languishing in grief is a waste of time—even if you have until the end of the world. You have more to live for than your loss.”
The friendly, fixedly upturned grin that crossed Kal's face was more Superman than Clark Kent. “Hypocrite,” he accused.
“Well, yes,” Bruce said, unruffled. “That's how you know I'm right. Words of wisdom from the experienced.”
Kal shook his head, the curve of his lips widening into something infinitely sadder and more genuine. The edges of his figure were becoming hazy and indistinct—despite his best efforts, he was fading from this plane of existence.
“I've missed you,” he murmured softly. “No one ever keeps me in check like you did.”
“There will be others,” Bruce said, meaning it in more than just one way.
“There have been others,” Kal said, with just as much significance. “None of them will ever be you.”
To this, Bruce could say nothing. He was very conscious of the silent presence standing behind him, listening to this all.
Kal exhaled a slow sigh, closing his eyes. He sounded tired. Worn.
Bruce couldn’t feel his breath against his face anymore. He was becoming progressively incorporeal.
Bruce wanted to touch him. To place his hand against the cheek of that familiar face, watch him turn into his touch and welcome it. To say, It was a miracle that you loved me. I know it’s exhausting. Thank you.
When he opened his eyes again, Kal was smiling. That sun-touched, unselfconsciously brilliant grin. Golden—in every memory, and in this instant, too.
“It really has been so long,” Kal breathed. He was glowing faintly, transparent. Ghost-like. “It was—nice. To hear your heartbeat again.”
Clark’s silence screamed.
“Goodbye, Bruce Wayne,” he said softly.
“Goodbye, Clark Kent,” Bruce murmured. And then Kal was gone, turned into wisps of light that dimmed down to motes of dust in the air, returned to his universe.
Bruce swallowed, staring into open space for a long, endless moment. Then, he turned and sat himself back in his chair. He began to type up the last of the report.
The near undetectable hum of the computer’s fans whirred faintly. Standing water from the lake connected to Gotham Bay sloshed, lapping against the sides of his boats and jet skis. Bats overhead chittered amongst themselves, their wings flapping as they flew from place to place as they liked. 10:23 PM, said the timestamp at the bottom right of his screen. This was about the time they became active every night.
“Bruce.”
A bat screeched shrilly, the sound bouncing off the Cave’s walls. It flitted out into one of the aerial entrances in search of prey. Bruce would also have to leave for patrol in a few hours. Leaders of a drug ring were congregating for a meeting in Otisburg, and Batman needed to be there to interrupt them.
“Bruce,” Clark repeated, more sternly.
Bruce spun his chair around to look at him, knowing his face was still and unreadable. “What,” he said, only somewhat testily.
Clark leaned in closer, his hands settling on the chair’s armrests. He didn’t quite loom, his body language too Clark Kent to be intimidating, but he intruded in Bruce’s space with easy imposition. His eyes flicked between Bruce’s, searching. He looked at a loss of where he should even begin.
“They were married,” Bruce said abruptly. Rip off the bandaid, Wayne. “The other you and the other me. Then I died.”
Clark’s face seemed to be trying to contain his emotions. He wasn’t quite managing it.
“He missed me, so he kissed me. I didn’t mind,” Bruce continued, more thankful that he wasn’t questioning how long it’d been since the alternate Bruce had died, especially in consideration of how unlined Kal’s face had been.
At the mention of the kiss, Clark’s gaze flickered to Bruce’s lips before they just as quickly darted back up to his eyes. Motor movement in response to involuntary autobiographical memory. There was no meaning behind it.
“It was a favor to an old friend,” Bruce said. Warningly: “Think nothing of it.”
“Bruce,” Clark said, almost helplessly. He’d drawn too close. Bruce could smell the ozone and sunlight scent that clung to Superman and nearly drowned out the light dab of Clark Kent’s cologne at his throat. His eyes were so, so blue.
Bruce placed a hand on his chest and pushed him away. Clark let himself be moved, inexplicably seeming hurt at the new distance created between them.
“Go home to your wife, Clark,” Bruce said softly. Unrelentingly. He watched his tone wash over Clark like a tidal wave of ice water. “Put your son to bed. I’ll send a case file for you to look over tomorrow morning.”
Clark’s expression shuttered closed, his wide, stricken eyes and regretful mouth disappearing behind a smooth Superman non-smile. “Thanks, B.” He couldn’t quite meet his eyes.
“Goodnight, Clark.”
“Goodnight, Bruce.”
Bruce turned in his chair to type away at the report he’d begun earlier that night—and already finished several minutes prior.
There was a beat of silence where Clark paused for Bruce to say anything else, knowing he’d do no such thing, while Bruce waited him out. A breath. Then, a crack of displaced wind echoed off the Cave’s walls, and Clark was gone.
Bruce stopped pretending to type, his hands lifting away from the keys. His fingers interlocked and tightened until his fingertips were white with the pressure, until it hurt. He let up, watching his capillaries refill.
He knocked his knuckles against his brow, and breathed.