Chapter 1: Prologue
Chapter Text
The firmament is far too vast to believe that a phenomenon is meant to occur in just one galaxy, to a single planetary system. There are forces that transcend the architecture of the known universe, forces that reach beyond the edges of time itself. The delicate weave of space-time does not bend to mere human guesses or foolish assumptions: it answers to ancient, unfathomable, and inexorable laws.
And so, fate, utterly inevitable, becomes an absolute constant. Every minor variation, every barely perceptible shift, opens a parallel line of a reality slightly askew. Time can fold, overlap, and converge in extraordinary ways, and still there exists no plane, no sky, no dimension where the World’s Finest do not belong.
There is no universe where they do not find each other...
No world where their souls are not bound, sealed, and protected in the touch of their intertwined hands.
Because Bruce Wayne and Clark Kent are two halves of the same truth, a bond the multiverse cannot sever. And no matter the name of the sky they walk beneath, they will always, inevitably, find their way back to one another.
The first meeting may change its form, but never its essence.
There will always be a pull, a ghostly nudge, a haunting thought, a looming threat, a destructive force, a warning, a genuine curiosity, a headline, a game of shameless flirting, an inevitable encounter.
Once in a while, it's Gotham’s burning dock, the crunch of a boot on the ledge of a besieged building, just as a red and blue figure cuts across the sky like a falling star.
The ballroom of Metropolis’s most extravagant restaurant, the gala where the heir to the Wayne fortune inevitably arrives late, only to feel that warm, unmistakable presence across the room.
Other times, it’s the gaze of a curious reporter following a shadow darting between gargoyles, convinced that something ancient and aching hides beneath that cape.
It’s the ringing in Clark’s ears when the noise of the world goes still at night… because someone is watching from above. Silent. But visible from his apartment window.
It happens now and then in the skyscraper of a billionaire company that lets its Chief Executive Officer fall into the void, only to be saved by a benevolent alien.
Perhaps it’s just an ordinary night at the Daily Planet when Clark, distracted, finds his eyes drawn to the new majority shareholder he’s inevitably attracted to.
A man in a robe, glass in hand, unmoved by a god floating just beyond the windowsill of a gothic mansion.
An open window in the middle of the night.
A dark apartment.
A stolen file from a government database.
A lost comm signal, carrying a British accent into the ear of a billionaire.
A meeting on a rooftop under the rain, no words, just the sound of a racing heart.
Bruce investigates; he always does. He isn’t called the world’s greatest detective for nothing, tracking impossible flight patterns with surgical precision. Connecting dots where no one else sees a pattern. Following the heat trail of a solar body all the way to a modest farm in Smallville, where an old dog barks from the porch and a kind mother asks if he’d like to stay for dinner.
Clark suspects; he always does. He notices the anomaly in the shadow and feels the weight of a brilliant mind challenging his instinct. Flying to Gotham without knowing why… only because something pushes him to search among the rooftops and the screams until he finds him. How could he not go looking for the man who dresses like a bat to protect his city?
They might learn each other’s identities by accident, or they might discover the truth in silence, without needing confirmation, or by running to prove what they already suspect. In the way one says the other's name. In the brief tremor when their fingers brush. In the way they trust each other with a kind of desperate fury, even without knowing why.
Two souls searching, recognizing each other even when everything is different. Even when they shouldn’t meet, even when the world is in ruins or hasn’t even been born yet. And every time the multiverse expands, every time reality unravels and begins again, the thread ties itself back together.
There are worlds where those signs are even clearer.
Where the evidence is empirical and verifiable, soulmates aren’t a myth but a standard. Societies that grew up understanding this phenomenon are not the exception; they’re the rule.
Sometimes, it’s marks on the skin. A name that appears at birth, a symbol like an invisible tattoo, a phrase that means nothing… until someone else says it, word for word.
In other worlds, color doesn't exist until they lock eyes for the first time. Or it’s a touch, just the brush of fingers, that reveals everything. A spark, electric and undeniable.
And this Earth…
Well, this Earth has its own Clark Kent.
It has Superman.
And the so-called ‘Justice Gang’ and the Hall of Justice.
But something went wrong.
He knew it the moment reality, his reality, began to unravel.
First came the light.
The colors he knew—the clear blue of the sky, the wind-whipped red of his cape, and the metallic gold of the crest on his chest—began to flicker, as if the world were blinking. They grew brighter, then faded… and finally shattered, each hue breaking like stained glass into a thousand fragments.
Then came the sound. Mr. Terrific’s voice, Metamorpho’s too, distorted, echoes of themselves bouncing through an endless hallway. The air vibrated. The ground was no longer ground but a liquid limbo where the horizon pulsed and recoiled like a ragged breath.
Clark tried to anchor himself, to fix his position, to find the axis of the world, like he had done countless times in space or inside solar storms.
But this time… there was no axis.
Everything was tearing apart.
The lines of the universe—those invisible threads that kept things in place—pulled taut around his body, as if they meant to tear him apart. And then they snapped, breaking in a flash of white. A brutal tug in his chest. Like a force had yanked him inward while simultaneously flinging him somewhere else.
And suddenly…
Silence.
Cold.
Darkness.
And rain.
When his senses finally settled, he was no longer where he should be. He was no longer home.
He was in…
Gotham.
Not with the roar of a meteor crashing down, nor the drama of a forced landing. He just… appeared. Shifted like a misplaced piece on a cosmic chessboard. His powers were intact, but something about this world didn’t quite fit.
He recognized the city, partially. Gotham was Gotham across most corners of the multiverse: dark, gothic and cracked from the inside out. But here, there were details that felt… wrong. Streets he didn’t remember. Signs with unfamiliar names. Architecture that looked newer, as if time had moved too fast here.
And then he saw it:
Arkham Asylum.
That name; he knew that name.
He was standing in front of the wrought iron gate when he heard it. Blows. Voices. A choked, ragged scream. A man laughing, but not with joy. Laughing like something inside him was breaking apart. Clark floated up, just enough to peer over the wall. He saw a figure collapsed on the ground: pale skin, thin frame, wracked with spasms of laughter that sounded more like sobs. He was hurt. Someone was hitting him.
Clark didn’t hesitate. He dropped down at once.
“Hey! Stop!” He called out, stepping forward with open hands, no threat in his posture, his voice calm but firm. “It’s okay. Superman’s here to help.”
The man on the ground looked up at him, glassy-eyed, delirious, and laughed harder, as if the words «Superman’s here to help» were the funniest joke he'd ever heard.
And then he felt it.
The gaze.
Cold. Precise. Calculating.
Clark turned his head.
There he was.
Standing in the shadows, cape billowing in the wind, knuckles stained. Silent. Motionless. Watching him as if every cell in his body were a potential threat.
The Bat of Gotham. The urban myth.
The cowled figure didn’t move, but his mind was already working. A man with powers. Flying like it was the most natural thing in the world. Speaking with authority. Interrupting an active operation in Arkham.
Too dangerous to ignore.
Clark has five words etched into his skin, burnt into his shoulder like a promise. He waited half his life to hear them aloud. And when he finally did… it wasn’t in his universe.
And it wasn’t gentle.
It wasn’t anything like he imagined.
Though, to be fair, what else could he expect with those words?
“Superman? I don’t know you.” The voice was low. Rough. Sharpened like a warning. The man in the cowl glanced at him, serious, controlled, and suspicious. You're an unknown menace, that look said without words. “I don’t know who you are.”
Five words.
The same ones that had burnt on his skin for as long as he could remember.
Bruce didn’t move. The man was suspended in the air. No wires. No platform. No visible tech that could explain it. He was simply there, suspended in midair, defying gravity like it was nothing. Bruce didn’t blink. The internal sensors in his cowl were already scanning the intruder: approximate height, body mass, vocal pressure, temperature. He observed him with surgical precision. Everything about this man screamed anomaly.
And yet, what disturbed Bruce most wasn’t what he could see.
It was what he felt.
Something… felt misaligned.
There are rules in the multiverse. Not carved in stone, but followed with the quiet certainty that governs the birth and death of stars. Every Superman has his own Batman.
Rules that aren't questioned. Rules that don't break.
Until, one day… they do.
Chapter 2: I
Summary:
Bruce now has one more problem to solve. Unfortunately, the problem seems to come from another world. He's going to have to check that out.
Chapter Text
The man was floating. There were no wires, no platform, no visible tech to justify it. The figure, if he could even be called a man, was simply there, suspended in the air, defying gravity as if by whim alone. He wore a blue suit and a red cape, with a gleaming “S” emblazoned on his chest. Bruce didn’t blink. His internal sensors, integrated into the cowl, were already analyzing the intruder: estimated height, body mass, vocal pressure, temperature. He observed him with the precision of a scalpel. Everything about this man was an unexplainable anomaly, radiating danger. He needed to be neutralized.
And yet, what unsettled Bruce the most wasn’t what he could see.
It was what he felt.
It felt out of place.
Something… felt misaligned.
An unfamiliar tension settled between his shoulder blades, like his body, that body that rarely betrayed him, recognized something before his mind could. Something different. An urgency without name, a emotional alert he couldn’t categorize. The man descended slowly, hands open, trying not to appear hostile. His voice was steady, calm. He was trying to soothe the Joker. Clearly, he didn’t know what he was doing.
“Easy there. Superman’s here to help.”
Superman.
Bruce cataloged the word; it meant nothing to him, but something about it rang—like a tone he’d revisit later.
The Joker—Bruce knew without a doubt that the man, contorted on the ground, laughed even harder, as if that single word was the greatest joke he’d ever heard, one he would cherish forever.
Bruce didn’t laugh.
He just kept watching this so-called Superman. Every second was a tactical assessment. Every movement from the other man, a potential threat. No one with that level of power showed up in Gotham without leaving traces. Without a trail. Without a past. Without explanation. And yet…
When his eyes met the stranger’s, unnervingly blue, Bruce felt a jolt. An irrational pull in his chest. Something primal, misplaced, like his instincts were urging him to do something he didn’t understand: move closer. Speak. Maybe even remember something he didn’t recall.
He blocked it. Threw it deep into some mental abyss. Forced his voice to harden.
“Superman? I don’t know you,” he said, with surgical coldness. The man’s eyes widened, surprised, maybe, but he seemed to shrink inward. Just for a second. As if those words had wounded him. “I don’t know who you are.”
Bruce held the stare.
But something, deep down, didn’t add up.
Not with the Arkham security feeds.
Not with the biometric data.
Not with the asylum’s medical records.
No, it didn’t add up inside him.
That name—Superman—was something he’d never heard before, and yet he could swear he had. Not in a report. Not in a dream but in a nightmare.
Bruce clenched his fist just inches from the Joker’s face, but instead of striking him, he grabbed him by the shoulders and dragged him through Arkham’s dark, dimly lit hallways. When he finally shoved him back into his cell, the maniac pointed his scarred fingers behind him, laughing, a sound that began as a sharp whimper, almost a whisper, but soon morphed into a chant of madness, posing the question Bruce had to answer.
He tried to leave without looking back.
“Wait… you’re Batman, right? Gotham’s vigilante. I’ve heard of you but never found the right moment to approach. I’ve always been curious.”
The floating man, that so-called Superman, offered no resistance. He didn’t interfere. He said nothing but soft, uncertain things. Too gentle for someone so apparently powerful.
Bruce felt it before he heard it.
That subtle shift in air pressure.
That something, that invisible tug, told him he wasn’t alone, even when his sensors gave no alerts. The man flew at a respectful distance, not invading his space but never letting him go, silent and persistent.
Bruce hated not having answers.
He hated even more not being in control.
But above all, he hated the part of himself that didn’t feel uncomfortable with the man’s presence.
“What are you doing?” he asked, his voice tight, never breaking eye contact.
“Following you,” the other replied calmly. “I don’t know how to explain it yet. I just… need to be near. And I need to talk to you. Urgently.”
Bruce clenched his jaw and stepped back, still watching him.
“I can’t let this continue. You’re not from here. I don’t know what you are or what you want. I don’t know your intentions. But if you show up again without a damn good reason, I swear, I will stop you.”
The man nodded, head bowed.
“I’m not here to fight. I just want answers.”
Clark’s hands trembled, barely, but enough. The same hands that could hold a burning star were now slightly unsteady, as if even the act of floating demanded more from his body than it should. His eyes, still so vividly blue, scanned the surroundings. Suddenly unsure. Almost childlike.
The air smelled different, denser, dirtier, like the aftermath of a flood. There was a trace of something burnt in every breath, and a constant hum, electric, urban, tense, crawled across his skin like a silent warning.
Clark knew this was Gotham.
He knew it.
He could recognize it.
But it wasn’t his Gotham.
The outline of the buildings was in the right place. The streets were similar. Even the lights, almost familiar, but everything felt off. Like a broken reflection in a filthy puddle.
Bruce hesitated.
For the first time in a long time, he had no plan, no answer. And worse, he couldn’t deny that something about this man, apparently, mattered to him.
“Leave,” Bruce warned as he turned away. “Get out of my city.”
As he walked away, that strange sensation lingered—the sense that the man, that stranger with the ability to fly, recognized him. He felt like he’d been waiting, not for the Bat exactly, but for him, for some reason.
He knew who Batman was.
He said it with a kind of confidence too precise to be fake.
And yet, he looked almost pathetic standing there, so soft in front of a mere human. Bruce realized, belatedly, that he wouldn’t leave easily.
Not without answers.
Superman didn’t interfere. He didn’t speak again, but he didn’t leave either. He flew at a careful distance. Not invading Bruce’s space, but not letting him go alone. Like a lost dog who’s found something familiar without knowing why.
“What’s he doing?” Bruce asked quietly through the comm.
“Following you, sir,” Alfred replied, not even lifting his eyes from the monitor. “Seventeen minutes and forty seconds now. He hasn’t said a single word. Merely watching, floating five metres behind you. His apparent weightlessness is… deeply unsettling.”
Bruce exhaled sharply through his nose, jaw clenched.
He should have been terrified. The laws of fucking gravity were being reduced to dust behind him.
“Is he interfering?”
“Not in the slightest. He's simply accompanying you. Like a very polite shadow.”
“Any trace on the systems? Facial match? Voice recognition?”
“Nothing, whatsoever,” the butler answered, a tone somewhere between resignation and wonder. “According to the data, he doesn’t exist.”
The figure descended a few meters, landing softly at a respectful distance. He didn’t speak. He didn’t ask questions. He just… waited. As if he knew Bruce was the only compass in this new, unfamiliar world.
“This isn’t a game,” Bruce said at last, without turning to look. “You’re not from here. I don’t know where you came from or what you want, but I won’t tolerate interference in Gotham. Get out of my city.”
Superman didn’t reply.
He just stood there in the rain, soaked as if he didn’t notice. He didn’t shiver. He didn’t move. But his hands were clenched into fists, and his breath, though quiet, wasn’t calm.
Bruce glanced sideways once more.
This wasn’t an attack.
It wasn’t an infiltration.
It wasn’t manipulation.
It was worse. It was a silent plea.
And for some reason he couldn’t explain, didn’t want to explain, he didn’t kick him off that rooftop.
Not yet.
The silence stretched, tight, nearly unbearable. Bruce turned his head, just slightly, just enough to meet those blue eyes staring back at him.
There was no challenge in them.
There was something worse… Hope. Clumsy and misplaced… hope. As if he were waiting for something from Bruce. Something Bruce didn’t know how to face or had long forgotten how to give.
"Why are you following me?" Bruce asked, more annoyed at himself than at the other man.
The man hesitated. He looked down, as if something had just clicked. As if he’d been caught doing something wrong.
"You’re my…" He faltered, swallowed hard, choking on a word he couldn’t bring himself to say. "I think you can help me."
"Help you with what, exactly?" Bruce crossed his arms, his voice ice-cold. "Your hallucinations?"
"I’m not crazy," Superman replied, without raising his voice. "I’m lost. And you… you seem familiar. I don’t know how to explain it without sounding insane."
Bruce didn’t respond. Not yet.
"Look, I know how this sounds," the other man added, stepping forward. "I do. But this isn’t a trick, I’m not a menace. I didn’t come here to fight. I was just… somewhere else. Another world. Something happened, and I ended up here… But this isn’t my reality."
Bruce narrowed his eyes.
"I know it sounds insane. I hear it, and even I think, this doesn’t help. But… I literally fly, right? That should count for some credibility."
Bruce didn’t even blink.
"Okay. No credibility. Got it. Fair enough." Clark ran a hand through his rain-soaked hair, visibly torn between desperation and the desire to not look like a complete floating disaster.
The rain kept falling between them, slow and steady, drenching everything. The silence stretched. Not because there was nothing to say, but because he didn’t trust what would come out if he spoke.
The man spoke with a quiet kind of desperation, one that wasn’t fake. That made him harder to face than any direct threat.
Then Bruce looked away, frustrated with himself.
"He’s getting attached to you, sir," Alfred commented later over the comm, tea in hand. "That man, whatever he is, seems more like a confused young boy… than a threat."
Bruce inhaled slowly and deeply through his nose, like trying to exhale a thought before it could fully form.
"You can’t get attached to someone you don’t know," Bruce muttered under his breath, unsure if he meant it for Alfred, for himself, or for the man standing in front of him.
The other man didn’t respond. He just stood there, red boots dripping onto wet stone, like he had nowhere else to go.
Even without floating, he was still taller than Bruce.
"Are you certain of that, sir?" the older man asked, raising a brow. "Because he seems more sure of you, and with you, than most who’ve actually met you."
Bruce didn’t answer because he had no idea how to answer that.
The Bat was supposed to be a symbol of fear for Gotham’s criminals. Not… a damn babysitter. And deep down, Bruce was starting to fear that maybe, just maybe, the stranger actually did need him.
This was a terrible idea. Stupid. Dangerous.
And yet, against his better judgment, against every single security protocol he himself had written, he turned slightly, without looking directly at the man, and said in a low, measured voice:
“Follow me.”
He flies. Literally flies. And still manages to look like a soaked puppy that doesn’t know where to sit, just following his steps.
Chapter 3: II
Summary:
As far as this world was concerned, Clark Kent was a name without a body, a ghost story wrapped in skin
Notes:
(See the end of the chapter for notes.)
Chapter Text
The rain fell like shrapnel on the rooftops of Gotham, striking rusted metal and dirty glass with the insistence of a city that never sleeps… nor forgives. Beneath the cloak of night, two figures crossed the threshold of oblivion. Bruce walked ahead, his black cape clinging to his body in the storm, his silhouette cut like a shadow with purpose. He didn’t bother to look back. He knew Superman was following him. Floating. Silent. Like a lost specter.
“This way,” Bruce growled, without turning, as Superman followed behind.
Clark said nothing; hovering a few inches off the ground no longer seemed all that impressive when facing a man who looked him in the eye as if it meant nothing. As if he weren’t the phenomenon.
“And what's ‘this way’?” he finally asked, his voice barely louder than the steady patter of the rain.
Batman didn’t answer. Instead, he raised his arm beneath the cape in a precise, almost theatrical motion and fired his grapple toward the adjacent building. The cable hissed taut, and a second later, Batman launched himself into the void without a second thought. Clark followed him with his eyes, watching him swing with the wild grace of someone who had done this thousands of times. Then, without warning, he fired the hook again, this time toward a more distant tower, hidden in the mist.
Clark hurried to follow. It was impossible to reach that place without effort… unless you could fly. Clark wasn’t sure if Batman was trying to kill himself with him watching or if he was truly leading him somewhere. He saw Batman then, clinging to the edge of a ledge, twisting his body with precision and sliding down with controlled elegance.He landed on both boots in a puddle in the alley between buildings, splashing some dirty water, but never lost his balance.
A couple of dying streetlamps flickered above his head, casting an elongated shadow over the wet bricks. A second later, Bruce heard the disturbance of air behind him again. Clark landed softly, without a speck of mud, without a sound.
Bruce walked to the end of the alley. A metallic screech marked the entrance: an old steel hatch, camouflaged at the far end of a forgotten alley behind the financial district, invisible to anyone who didn’t know where to look. Bruce pushed it with effort. The structure shuddered and gave way, revealing an industrial elevator that smelled of rust and old oil.
“Come,” Bruce said, his voice low but firm. “Don’t touch anything.”
Bruce watched as Superman nodded silently, drenched, black strands of hair plastered to his forehead. Though he didn’t seem affected by the cold or the rain, something in his eyes still trembled.
They descended.
The elevator slid into the bowels of the city, rattling as if every meter could be its last. Through the grated walls of the freight lift, brick walls passed by, arched corridors and the forgotten tracks of a station that no longer appeared on any map. Why does Gotham have an underground train station? Clark wondered.
Then he heard the roar of an engine beside him. Batman had mounted a motorcycle and was speeding away, the sound of the engine rumbling through the tunnels like thunder. At this point, Clark assumed he was being tested. To see if he could keep up, what else could he do? Clark figured it was only fair to give Batman that satisfaction, his apparent soulmate.
As he took off, columns of dirty marble blurred past on either side, forgotten relics of another era. The air reeked of rust, moisture, and gasoline. Below ground, the metallic echo of wheels and the swift disruption of air crossed beneath the central arch of the old Wayne Terminus. The space opened before them like a cathedral fallen from grace. One by one, the automatic lights flickered on, triggered by their presence, industrial lamps hanging from thick cables illuminated the operations center.
The motorcycle came to a screeching halt on the concrete. Bruce dismounted without pulling back his cowl. Alfred was already there, reckless, Bruce thought immediately. A few monitors blinked with Gotham’s surveillance footage. The computers cast flickering reports across the area, and in the back, beneath a tarp, the Batmobile lay like a dormant beast.
Without a word, Bruce walked toward a workbench, calmly removing his cape. Clark was, to say the least, too surprised to speak, a mixture of ruin and technology. Now fully descended, he walked softly, as if afraid he might break something just by being there. Bruce noticed something reverent in the way Clark looked at every corner. It was reminiscent of a cave. Clark took a few more steps, looking up toward the towering dusty ceiling as if hoping to find stars. The only glimmers in that darkness were the eyes of countless bats.
Clark then noticed the man seated beside a rusted boiler, legs crossed, a newspaper in hand. He watched Clark over the rim of his glasses with the unshakable patience of someone who had seen everything already. He looked around. He didn’t ask. He just observed.
The man closed the paper calmly and stood up.
“Welcome,” he said, with a crisp, impeccable British accent. “Alfred Pennyworth, at your service.”
There was a brief silence. Clark hesitated. He glanced sideways at the Bat, then looked back at the butler. Alfred didn’t ask anything. He just waited with that kind of patience one only earns by surviving wars and long nights.
“…Superman,” Clark said at last, as if the name cost more than it should. Then he lowered his gaze, shoulder tense beneath the still-soaked suit. A pause. The echo of the rain still throbbed at the tunnel entrance, and somewhere in the cave, a persistent drip kept time with surgical precision
“But… my name is Clark. Clark Kent,” he added in a low voice, almost like a confession.
From across the room, Bruce lifted his gaze just slightly from the worktable. He didn’t interrupt. He said nothing.
But he listened.
He listened to everything.
And something in him, a small, long-forgotten fiber buried beneath layers of logic and control, tightened.
Not because of the name.
But because of the way he said it.
As if Clark were shedding armor without knowing whether he’d be welcomed or crushed for doing so. That kind of surrender, that unguarded honesty… it wasn’t part of the protocol. It didn’t fit the threat profile Bruce had constructed so carefully.
And yet, there he was Superman. Clark.
Soaked, exhausted, vulnerable.
Not demanding trust, but offering it.
Bruce didn’t move, but his body betrayed his mind: he took one second longer than necessary to remove his glove. As if something in the carefully ordered structure of his judgment had begun, very slowly, to tilt.
Alfred nodded, calm.
"A pleasure, Mr Kent," he replied without a hint of surprise, as though men falling from the sky were simply part of the usual inventory. "You’d best change out of those wet clothes. You’re about to leave a puddle on the floor, and I refuse to believe you flew all the way here just to short-circuit something."
Bruce said nothing, but his fingers were already moving over the console, powering up dormant systems. Clark watched him from the corner of his eye. The dim light flickered across the edge of the keyboard; the screens buzzed with raw, contextless data. Bruce looked unshaken.
But Clark wasn’t the only one who had learned to listen beyond the visible.
Bruce Wayne had just registered something he hadn’t expected.
Alfred was already moving with practiced ease between the old cabinets and hidden compartments of the station. He returned with a change of clothes, neatly folded: black trousers, a lightweight cotton shirt, and a soft, neutral coat without any logos or marks. The entire outfit was simple but well-made. Comfortable. Human.
He handed the clothes to Clark without another word, as if keeping spare outfits for lost aliens in a Gotham basement were the most natural thing in the world. Then Alfred turned toward the hooded figure by the console.
He paused. Stared at him, as if he could see straight through fabric and armor.
“I’ve prepared a change for you as well, in case you’re interested in not catching a cold,” Alfred said, gesturing to another neatly folded set of black clothing on a nearby table, before starting to walk toward an adjacent exit. “If you need me, you know where to find me.”
The sentence fell like a stone into water. Bruce flinched, just slightly, as if Alfred’s voice had reached him in the middle of an inner storm. His hands paused over the glowing screen. He said nothing. Bruce clenched his fists against the console. The metal responded with a faint creak.
He couldn’t afford to trust. To remove the cowl. Not just because that unknown being looked like a lost puppy in the rain, or because he seemed more human than he had any right to. That wasn’t enough. Gotham didn’t forgive naivety. He couldn’t afford that luxury.
And Alfred… Alfred knew it.
Bruce’s fingers resumed their movement across the keyboard, regaining control. Every line of data, every line of code, every stroke of the map projected in front of him was real. Measurable. Verifiable. Unlike what the storm had brought.
Clark, still standing, blinked. He wasn’t used to this kind of welcome.
“I didn’t expect… this,” he murmured, a mix of wonder and a smile that barely masked his boyish joy. “I never could’ve imagined you had something like this.”
“I don’t usually invite visitors, and Gotham doesn’t give second chances,” Bruce replied, walking toward the central console without looking at him. “It only lets you stay alive if you learn to use the first ones.”
A thunderclap split the sky above them, as if the city itself were responding.
The man behind him, the lost being, the one who claimed to be called Superman, who introduced himself to Alfred as Clark Kent, who said he was far from home; stood still for a moment. And then, for the first time since their journey began, he took a step toward Bruce.
“Thank you,” Clark said, lowering his gaze briefly, the soft clothes still in his hands. “I know you didn’t have to let me in.”
He moved toward a bench and sat down. Nearby, he could see scattered pieces of all kinds, forgotten and stained with engine oil. And beneath the distant echo of trains that no longer ran, Gotham finally welcomed him.
"I didn’t let you in out of kindness," Bruce said, voice calm but unyielding. "If you really come from another world, another universe, or whatever you want to call it, if you are what you claim to be, and you're lying... then keeping you down here is a hell of a lot safer than letting you roam free."
Clark nodded, unoffended. In fact, he almost seemed grateful for the honesty.
“I understand,” he said, a faint smile touching his lips. “Still… thank you. Even if you don’t believe it, this means a lot to me.”
Bruce turned his head just slightly, just enough to meet his gaze. Then he spoke, dry and direct:
"What are you, Clark?" Bruce asked, his voice low and razor-sharp. "Not where you're from. What you are."
Clark didn’t need to satisfy any basic functions. He didn’t need to breathe to survive, he’d discovered he was closer to a sunflower than a man. And yet, he swallowed hard, and something in his posture tensed. His feet were firmly planted on the concrete. He looked down for a second, then raised his eyes again with an expression Bruce was already starting to recognize: not fear, but the resignation of someone about to say something that would sound insane.
“I’m not human,” he said quietly. “I was born on another planet.”
The answer fell heavy in the silence of the room. No embellishments. No dramatics. Just the truth.
“My birth name is Kal-El. I come from a planet called Krypton. But I was raised on Earth, in a small town in Kansas, by a family who taught me simple values: hard work, honesty, helping those in need.”
He paused. Held Bruce’s gaze.
“And I also… come from another universe. I don’t know exactly how I got here, or why. But I didn’t come to cause harm. I just want to understand what happened. And if possible… go back home.”
In truth, those last words were only half-true. Clark didn’t really know if he wanted to return. There was something in this world, and in the man standing in front of him, that held him back, something undeniable. The words that had lived on his shoulder for as long as he could remember. But Clark didn’t know if Batman carried the same mark. He didn’t know if those first words spoken to Batman had echoed within him with the same weight they carried for Clark, if that spark had caught fire inside him, too. That uncertainty was both his torment and his hope.
From the very first moment Batman chose to call him Clark instead of Superman, it had felt like an anchor, an indelible trace of a unique bond with his soulmate. And even though Batman had given no clear sign of recognition or response to that invisible connection, Clark was willing to stay to find out.
Bruce, for his part, didn’t answer right away. He watched him with the focused attention of someone no longer searching for inconsistencies but for something harder: motives.
“If what you say is true… how did you get to my world?” Batman asked at last.
Clark thought for a moment before replying. Then he smiled, faintly.
“I guess I’ll have to start from the beginning… even if I sound completely insane.”
Bruce didn’t respond. He just stared at him with that tense stillness that said go ahead without uttering a word.
“I was on a mission,” Clark began, rubbing the back of his neck, as if searching for the best place to begin, “with Mister Terrific and Metamorpho. I don’t know if those names mean anything to you…”
Bruce gave the slightest nod, an invitation to continue.
“Mister Terrific… he’s one of the smartest people I know. And I don’t mean the ‘finished my homework early’ kind of smart. I mean really smart. He builds impossible things. He’s got these floating spheres, like mini-computers that follow him everywhere… they’re like… an extension of his brain. And Metamorpho… well, he can turn into any element on the periodic table. Literally. I once saw him become tear gas, and another time a wall of lead to shield us from solar radiation. Pretty useful, if you ask me.”
He paused, then let out a sigh.
“The point is… we were investigating a pocket dimension. A strange place, like a little room outside the universe. One of those tiny spaces that form when the fabric of reality bends or twists for some reason. And this one had… strange vibrations. Not physical, more like… how do I put it? Like the place was breathing unevenly. Like something was stitched wrong.”
Bruce tilted his head slightly.
“What were you looking for?”
“To understand it. Or seal it off, if it turned out to be dangerous. Sometimes those things open suddenly, swallow things they shouldn’t, and spit them out somewhere else. So we went in carefully… but…” Clark rubbed his palms together, unsettled “…but something went wrong. I knew it the moment reality started to come apart. First it was the light. Everything started flickering, the colors went weird. Not weird like when you’re dizzy, artificial weird. Like the whole world was changing channels.”
Bruce narrowed his eyes, focused.
“What happened next?”
“The sound,” Clark said, more quietly. “Voices that weren’t voices. Like distorted echoes. And the floor… stopped being a floor. It was like floating, but without space around me. I didn’t know if I was going up, falling backwards, or just… coming apart. Like my body didn’t know which reality it belonged to.”
“And how did you react?”
Clark shrugged.
“I tried to anchor myself, something I’ve learned over the years, especially after spending so much time flying or out in space. You have to keep a clear sense of your gravitational center, what ties you to reality, you know? But this time… there was nothing. Everything was breaking apart.”
He looked at Bruce again.
“And then… a pull. Like being torn from the inside out. A flash of white. And then… darkness.”
“You landed in Gotham,” Bruce murmured.
“Exactly.”
Bruce crossed his arms, though he didn’t move much.
“Do you know why you appeared near Arkham?”
“No. Maybe it was the weakest point. Or the closest one. Or… I don’t know, maybe the universe has a sense of humor,” Clark said with a sad smile, though a different thought lingered in his mind: maybe it was because he was here, his soulmate. That maybe this wasn’t a cosmic crisis but something that was meant to happen.
“And the urgent thing?” Bruce repeated, patient but firm.
Clark met his gaze directly.
“The urgent thing is… I don’t know if I’m stable here. I don’t know if this will last. If I’m okay… or if this is like a fracture that keeps widening. Maybe I’m not the only one who could fall through. Maybe something else is coming after me. Or maybe I’ll collapse myself,” Clark said, gripping the soft beige fabric in his hands, looking toward the opening in the cowl, Batman’s blue eyes fixed on him. “And… well, I’m not exactly the best with science,” he added with a nervous laugh. “But I know how to recognize trouble when I see it.”
Bruce remained still for a moment. Then he spoke, methodical, as always.
"You knew I was Batman, even coming from another universe. How?" The question wasn’t just a simple inquiry, it was a statement, delivered with the kind of focused intensity that seemed to measure every tick in Clark’s face, every breath, every microexpression. Searching for a crack. A lie. A weak spot, any gap he could slip through.
Bruce didn’t look away for a second; his brow furrowed and the silence stretched, thick and slow, while his eyes drilled into Clark.
“That’s not something you can hide,” he said, voice low and steady, almost like a warning. “You may not understand where you are, or how things work here… but there’s something. It’s not intuition. It’s experience. I’m someone who’s learned how to survive in the dark. And it seems… in your world, I have too.”
The silence grew heavier as Bruce lowered his chin slightly, jaw clenched.
“So tell me,” his tone sharpened, like a freshly honed blade poised to cut, “if no one here looks like you, if I’ve never heard a damn thing about a Superman, what the hell are you doing here? And why does your arrival feel more like a warning than a coincidence?”
His eyes sparked with a mix of challenge and suspicion, the world’s greatest detective ready to tear every word apart until the hidden truth revealed itself.
Clark looked at him in silence for a moment longer. Then lowered his gaze.
“I don’t want to be a threat, Batman.”
“Threats don’t always want to be,” the Bat replied, gaze still locked on him. “But they are anyway.”
For the first time since he fell into this world, Clark had no answer.
Nine hours had passed since his arrival. During that time, Clark listened to Batman in silence, letting every word settle in his mind: they needed information, the point of origin, to track spacetime behavior, and to find any energetic traces, anything that could prove he wasn’t lying.
He nodded, though he wasn’t sure he could offer that much. Batman glanced at him briefly; that raised eyebrow beneath the cowl said more than any threat: pure, precise, contained distrust. He was going to investigate, of course but not for him. Not because he believed the story, but because he considered the possibility that it was all part of something bigger. Clark understood.
Deep down, he feared it too. He said thank you, though the gratitude felt awkward on his tongue. Batman didn’t respond. He turned to the console with the surgical coldness of someone who had no time for unnecessary gestures. He said he was doing it for the implications, not out of trust. If this was only the beginning, they needed answers. Fast.
Clark asked what exactly he was looking for. The answer was simple, logical: a rupture, energy residue, a mark on the world that would prove he wasn’t a threat. And if there’s none? Clark asked silently. Batman took a second to consider. In that case, he would have to convince him another way. Clark watched him silently. There was something unsettling in the way Batman looked at the world, as if he always expected the worst, as if the weight of his mission had hardened his skin and soul. He didn’t blame him. In fact, he respected him for it. But he also knew earning his trust would be harder than any battle.
To Bruce’s misfortune, there were no energy traces. No spacetime anomalies. No signal, rupture, or mark indicating the arrival of an entity from another reality. Only silence. Silence and emptiness. Bruce checked every sensor three times, compared readings, cross-referenced data with external aircraft and satellite logs. Nothing.
That forced him to change strategy. If he couldn’t follow the trail, he would investigate the man.
Clark Kent.
The name was too common, too clean. And at the same time, too careful to be a coincidence. Bruce didn’t trust coincidences.
It took him a couple of hours to dismantle him alongside Superman who cooperated with the interrogation. From the supposed moment of his arrival, he constructed a timeline that shouldn’t exist. He reviewed trajectories, scanned testimonies, searched for patterns. What emerged was an improbable but consistent story: a childhood in Kansas, on a farm, raised by humans. An adolescence marked by the gradual discovery of abilities that isolated him from others. An adult life devoted to journalism and justice, in more direct ways.
The birth of a hero, one who has no origin in this world, but who in another seemed to have been important.
Everything fit too well. Too human. Too noble.
Bruce had seen masks before. Some were nearly perfect.
Bruce hadn’t slept. The name Clark Kent still hung in the air, useless, without echo.
The monitors stayed on, flickering with fragments of information that never quite fit. Cross-referenced searches overlapped like faceless ghosts: names that didn’t exist, coordinates leading nowhere, records that were never created.
And one constant: Clark Kent was nowhere to be found.
Not in Kansas.
Not in Metropolis.
Not in any damn corner of the earth.
Bruce rested his fingers on the keyboard. His body was exhausted, but his mind remained sharp as a blade. He reviewed what he did know:
Flight. Superhuman strength.
Absolute physical endurance. Heat vision.
Enhanced hearing.
Superman speaks English... with a strong Midwestern accent.
Bruce expanded the search. Maybe the name was fake. Maybe he wasn’t really Clark Kent, but someone, somewhere, had to have known him. First, he tackled Smallville, Kansas, the supposed starting point.
He checked school, medical, and census records. Scanned rural clinic databases, hospitals, parish archives, police stations. Every mention of the Kent surname was followed by DNA analysis, financial history, satellite data of the property.
Martha and Jonathan Kent existed, and still lived on a farm on the brink of foreclosure. A childless couple. No recorded adoptions. No birth certificates. No child had fallen from outer space.
No rural witnesses had ever reported a miracle fallen from the sky. No suspicious cars, no accidents, no sealed files. Just dirt, cornfields, and years of routine.
Then it was Metropolis’s turn.
Bruce typed: Daily Planet. He clearly knew the building existed, and the newspaper too. He himself had been interviewed countless times as Bruce Wayne. But there was no trace of Clark Kent on the staff.
Not as an intern.
Not as a freelance columnist.
Not even as a visitor.
He searched for those who, according to vague fragments from Superman’s testimony, should have been there.
Perry White. Editor-in-chief. Alive. Working.
Lois Lane. Star correspondent. Award-winning articles but Lane had also lost several Pulitzer nominations. Zero ties to Clark Kent.
Jimmy Olsen. Active photographer. Regular social media presence, no recorded connections. Cat Grant. Ron Troupe. Steve Lombard. All existed. None knew him.
He reviewed archive photos, in-depth articles, and security camera footage from the last ten years. Tracked every public event, every press conference, every image with location metadata. Used reverse facial recognition across the entire digitalized Planet archive. Nothing. Clark Kent appeared nowhere, as if he had never set foot in that newsroom. As if, on this Earth, he had never existed.
But Bruce didn’t stop there. He tried typing Justice Gang into his encrypted search engine, and though reluctant, also tried Superman. Neither name yielded any results. Neither as hero, threat, nor conspiracy theory.
Conspiracy forums: empty.
Abduction testimonies: none.
Unexplained phenomena linked to a flying man: total silence.
In this reality, there was no public figure with his abilities, symbol, or story.
No UFOs. No spaceships. No shooting stars between 1980 and 1990. Not even blurry photos of a cape-wearing savior. Nothing. The silence was absolute. A meticulously inexplicable void.
Bruce leaned back slightly. He didn’t blink. The screen in front of him continued projecting lines of failed searches, ownerless data, identities that never formed. Clark wasn’t lying. Not entirely.
I’m not human. I was born on another planet.
He had said it without drama or spectacle. Like stating a biological fact, something obvious. Bruce believed him. Not because it was trustworthy, but because he had no other choice.
And because, if it was true, everything else made even less sense. Bruce arrived at the only answer that could explain Clark Kent’s absence on Earth.
The astronomical records were clear. The orbital telescopes of this Earth had been tracking the sky for decades. The data on the Rao system and its inner planet were available, at least to those who knew how to decrypt government servers.
Krypton.
He found the reports, one after another. Cold, clinical. Emotionless truths. But they weren’t in public astronomical databases. Not at NASA. Not in international observatories.
He found them buried in the Pentagon’s black servers. Not under intelligent life , not even as a threat. They were classified as constant gravitational anomalies. Bruce took exactly eleven minutes to break the encryption.
Why would the Pentagon hide this information? Because for over thirty years certain orbital patterns hadn’t matched projections.Because a planet of that size and thermal signature should have exploded… but it hadn’t. Because the only logical answer was that the information was wrong… or someone had quietly corrected it.
Military satellites don’t look at the sky for beauty. They hunt for threats.
And Krypton —that bright, intact point that didn’t vanish as the legends said— was, by definition, a threat without context.
Bruce didn’t find it by chance. He found it because he was the only one paranoid enough to look there. And meticulous enough to understand what he was seeing. Bruce found the other reports.They all told the same story:
Failed exploration.
No sings of war activity.
Technologically advanced, yet peaceful.
Alive. Intact. Hadn’t exploded.
The cursor blinked on the screen like a silent question. Bruce remained still. Krypton had never been destroyed. Which meant Kal-El, son of Jor-El and Lara, was never sent to Earth.
Therefore, Clark Kent was never raised in Smallville. No one grew up human, no one became Superman .
Bruce let that conclusion fall like a stone into a dry well. It sparked no reaction, neither in his memory nor in his databases. Clark stood in front of the console, not touching anything. Waiting. Bruce slowly lowered his gaze before speaking:
“There’s no record of you,” he said, without changing tone. “And that’s not the strangest part.”
Clark looked up, expectant.
“The strange thing is that… if you existed, you should be everywhere. You can’t hide if you can fly. If you can do what you do. There’s no way to go unnoticed. Not in this world. Not in any.”
Clark nodded. But not with resignation— with sadness.
“Your planet is alive,” he finally said, turning to face him. “Krypton. It never collapsed. In this reality… it’s still there.”
Bruce returned his gaze to the screen. Data began to flow: three-dimensional maps, thermal records, distortion waves detected over recent days.
Notes:
The chapters are getting longer and longer, expected from me. I hope you liked this update; maybe I should tag it as slow burn, though I think the slow part only applies to Bruce.
On another note, I already have my seat reserved for Superman, and the best part is that the showing is next Wednesday the 9th, I don’t have to wait until the 11th!! ╰(´︶`)╯
Chapter 4: III
Notes:
I want to give a special thank you to NoodleDragon324 for all the love, support, and amazing suggestions on this chapter!!!
Honestly, this chapter wouldn’t be what it is without your help.This chapter contains spoilers for Superman 2025. I highly recommend reading it after watching the movie, if you haven’t seen it yet, go! It’s excellent. It’s everything Superman stands for.
With that warning, don’t say I didn’t tell you. If you still decide to read on, it’s at your own risk (´-﹏-`；)
(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)
Chapter Text
He genuinely doesn’t know which feeling hit him first. Maybe it was confusion, he must have misheard, caught a word out of context, or perhaps his mind, trained for years to filter out the noise of the world, simply decided it was better to be elsewhere. Somewhere among the hundreds of voices and sounds from the outside world that, at some point during his adolescence, had been torture to learn to silence.
But Clark had heard it perfectly. His home planet was alive and as if that revelation alone weren’t enough to make him drop to his knees., three-dimensional models were being projected over Batman’s desk. The monitors on the main console displayed a rotating holographic model: Krypton. Slowly spinning, suspended on an axis of light, unmistakably aquamarine with that polished, clinical glow all holograms seemed to have. It looked beautiful, almost serene. And he couldn’t have felt more detached. A deep, instinctive revulsion began to bubble up inside him. He felt it rising from his stomach like a dense fog, a visceral repulsion so overwhelming that his body seemed unable to bear the weight of that image. He could’ve collapsed right then and there. Thrown up, even.
There it was his planet. Not destroyed, not in ruins. Not a tragedy lost to time. Not a memory turned to stardust. It was there, intact. Alive. And it felt utterly foreign to him, so deplorable. Cold and unrepentant.
Clark took a step back without even realizing it.
A knot closed tight in his throat. There were no tears, just a slow, muffled suffocation, as if his chest were caving in under the weight of a revelation that didn’t just break him, it humiliated him.
His biological parents. Jor-El. Lara. They weren’t what he had believed them to be for the past thirty years of his life. They weren’t martyrs. They weren’t enlightened sages who sent their child away as a last hope to do good. They had sent him as a conquest, an invasive seed meant to take root in another world. Here, in this universe, they were still alive, watching from the shadows, their presence a constant threat and a haunting reminder of the legacy Clark fought so hard to deny.
It would be dishonest to call the overwhelming feeling that hit him like a freight train merely sadness, not when the very thing he felt the most in that moment… was pity. A deep, aching sorrow. He felt profound compassion for that version of Kal-El—one who had never been cast into the void with nothing but a set of coordinates and a mission of redemption on his shoulders. Who had never needed to become the best version of himself, because he had never been torn away from his world.
He doesn’t envy that Krypton that never collapsed. What he feels is the sorrow of a planet Earth that managed to go on… without him. Indispensable, like a cruel joke.
Bruce didn’t say anything for several seconds. His eyes ached from lack of sleep, and his shoulders were tight with tension.
The screens continued to display data, maps, and reports buried by the government, evidence that only someone paranoid enough would have uncovered, proof no one had ever meant to see the light of day. But he stared through them, seeing without seeing, like a wound that never quite healed.
And yet, what kept Bruce in that chair wasn’t the evidence on the screen. It was the silent presence behind him. Clark hadn’t stepped back again. He was still there, standing, hands clutching the dry clothes Alfred had offered him the moment he saw him, as if he didn’t know whether he was allowed to change, or even to stay in the cave.
"There’s no Clark Kent here," he said at last, and his voice sounded like it had to be dragged from his chest. "I don’t even exist as an echo… and…" Clark’s shoulders were slumped. Not in defeat, but… suspended, like he didn’t know if he was allowed to stay standing. "This is terrible..."
Bruce gave the faintest nod, his eyes still fixed on the console.
"But there is a Kal-El," Batman added, his tone neutral, almost clinical. "Somewhere, twenty-seven light-years away."
Clark lowered his head. His fingers clenched the dry sweater tightly, not enough to tear it, but enough to wrinkle it without noticing. When he spoke, his voice sounded different. Not like Superman; it sounded tauter, more human.
"Yeah."
Bruce turned around very slowly and studied him, as if trying to read between the Kryptonian’s muscles and bones.
"It hurts you."
Clark let out a short laugh, but there was no humor or joy in it.
"That bothers you," Bruce concluded, still monotone.
The same dry, humorless laugh escaped Clark’s lips again. Something inside Bruce instantly went on alert. He straightened up just slightly, as if his body recognized a familiar pattern in Superman’s cracks.
It took Clark a few seconds to speak. When he did, it was like opening a Pandora’s box he’d been keeping sealed by force.
"Bother me? No. It’s just that…" he paused and drew a breath, like he was trying to fill an unreachable void. His eyes locked onto the darkness of the floor "It’s just that he… what you’re about to hear is…" he hesitated, just barely "I just hope you won’t judge me for it. Even though I already told you about my planet, my name, my biological parents… and the message I used to hear every time, my conviction. That other Kal-El… he didn’t have to become a lie to survive. He didn’t spend his whole life believing he was sent to do good. He didn’t spend decades shedding tears for a planet that, in the end, didn’t deserve him."
Bruce said nothing. Clark felt the weight of his own voice and still, he didn’t stop.
"He didn’t bury the memory of his parents as martyrs. He didn’t idealize them. He didn’t have to learn to love a dead world by pretending it was a legacy... when in truth, it was an empire. He is part of it.”
He rubbed at his forehead with a trembling hand, like the words themselves hurt. Bruce was starting to see where this was going.
"I remember the exact moment everything fell apart. It was when I heard that part of the recording, the one I told you about. The one that was corrupted when I first arrived. An engineer back home managed to recover it... and after that, the entire Earth hated me for what it said." Clark swallowed hard, his voice unsteady. "Jor-El wasn’t talking about hope. He was talking about expansion. About breeding. About genetic domination. He told me I should grow up among humans—not to become one of them, but to rule them. He spoke of tyranny. Of spreading Krypton like I was... a seed."
‘The people there are simple and profoundly confused. Weak of mind, spirit and body. Lord over the planet as the Last Son of Krypton. Do us proud, our beloved son. Rule without mercy.’
‘Dispatch of anyone unable or unwilling to serve you Kal-El. Take as many wives as you can, so your genes and Krypton's might and legacy can live on in this new frontier.’
His jaw tightened with a spasm.
"It wasn’t a legacy. It was a plan for conquest. And I didn’t know. With every decision I thought was noble, with every good deed… without meaning to, I played right into it. I didn’t follow it. But the world believed I did. That I was manipulating them.”
Bruce glanced away for a moment, toward one of the screens. But he wasn’t reading it. He was avoiding it. Clark clenched his teeth. Batman was now staring at him intently, and he couldn’t bear to meet the vigilante’s eyes. Not yet.
“I believed I was proof that something good had survived.” Clark let out a heavy breath. “I felt... contaminated. I felt like a lie. Like nothing I’d done really mattered, because I was saved to fulfill a purpose I didn’t even know about... until it was too late.”
He fell silent for a few seconds, the kind of silence that drags itself in after the pain.
“I don’t envy that Krypton that never collapsed. I hate it. I hate what it stands for.” His voice cracked. “The only thing that hurts... is this Earth. Thinking it could’ve gone on without me. That maybe I was never essential. Just a mistake. One... necessary for someone else. Shit.” Clark went quiet again, letting the weight of his words settle between them. “I might’ve been their instrument,” he said, voice suddenly louder. “Their perfect virus. Isolated, cultivated... released. The prodigal son of a lie.”
The image of Krypton kept spinning, bright, pristine, as if admiring its own creation from afar. Clark looked up toward the vaulted ceiling of the old station, but he wasn’t really seeing anything; he was lost inside himself.
And still, the doubt stays with him. If he had known the full truth from the start, if Krypton’s cold, ruthless plans had been laid bare when he was a young boy, would he have turned out the same? He doesn’t know. He might never know.
But what he does know, what he clings to even now, is this: the Kent's, not the ones who gave him life but the ones who gave him love, are the reason he is who he is. They raised him with kindness, with patience, with humility. They taught him how to be human. The voices from Krypton, no matter how loud or noble they once sounded, were never stronger than the steady, quiet strength of two farmers in Kansas who chose to call him son.
“I don’t know how many worlds have already fallen,” he murmured. “But if Krypton is still alive, if it thrived… then the Rao system no longer holds autonomy.”
The Pentagon files spoke of a peaceful planet, with a stable atmosphere and gravitational anomalies detected in its orbit. Supposedly harmless. But now… Bruce understood. They were all wrong. Twenty-seven light-years away, it was impossible for them to reach Earth or the nearest yellow sun in the neighboring galaxies.
He ran a hand over his mouth, thoughtful. Then he spoke.
“It makes sense,” Bruce said suddenly, cutting in with a steady voice, still not looking at him. “If their planet was dying... if their resources were running out, then genetic exodus was their only viable option. To seed Krypton on other worlds. To spread their legacy by any means necessary. Including their children.”
Clark lifted his gaze, confused, but Bruce was already a step ahead, as if speaking to an inner echo.
“It wouldn’t be a direct act of war. It would be biological. Cultural. Invisible across generations.”
He paused. Then slowly turned his eyes back to Clark.
“But you were the last son of Krypton. The plan stopped with you. There’s no evidence it ever happened again, no capsules detected in orbit or entering any atmosphere. The satellites would have spotted them decades ago.”
Clark nodded, barely. But not with relief.
Bruce sensed the tension and, for the first time, his tone softened. It became clearer, gentler. Reassuring.
“It’s not an immediate threat. Not yet,” he said, looking back at the monitors. “But that doesn’t mean there aren’t variables. A planet that survives and hides for decades… is always a latent possibility.”
Clark let his fingers tighten again around the clothes.
“So… you think I was just a tactic? A weapon that went wrong?”
Bruce looked at him for a moment, expressionless. Then slowly shook his head.
“I think you were a contingency. But what you did with that contingency was your choice. And I’m not going to judge you for someone else’s plan. If this Earth hasn’t needed it all these years, it can’t be that terrible.”
“So… in this world, I’m not…” Clark stopped himself. “I’m not necessary.”
Batman turned his face slightly, barely.
“I didn’t say that.”
Clark let out a bitter laugh.
“No need to. It’s obvious.”
Bruce frowned and was silent for a moment longer.
“That said… I’ll have a protocol ready. In case anything changes while we work through your interdimensional uncertainty.”
Clark gave a dry laugh, with no humor, but no pain either. As if accepting Batman’s inevitable logic.
“Sure…”
Clark watched as Batman stood and walked toward one of the side corridors of the cave. He stopped in front of a barely noticeable door set into the rock, and spoke without turning.
“This way. There are more dry clothes, if what Alfred gave you doesn’t suit you. You can change.”
Clark followed without a word. And just before disappearing down the hall, Bruce said calmly, without emphasis:
“Stay as long as you need.”
‘The last son of Krypton’ It was as close as he ever came to saying, ‘I understand your sense of loss. I’m an orphan too.’
But what good would that do?
Saying he understood felt... hollow, just empty words. It wouldn’t bring back Thomas and Martha Wayne, wouldn’t erase the blood in the alley, or the echo of the gunshot that still lingered in certain dreams. It wouldn’t change the fact that, for years, the only place he could see their faces was in old headlines... or in the mirror reflections he avoided.
Telling Clark he understood would be a half-truth at best. Because Bruce hadn’t grown wise from losing them. He had only grown dangerous. And now, this man standing in front of him—this impossible being, this broken visitor—spoke of his own loss with a kind of honesty Bruce had never allowed himself.
Bruce could recognize that pain. But he had no idea what to do with it.
His pain had turned him into Batman. Clark’s pain had made him more than Superman. It had made him human.
And somehow, to Bruce, that was the most terrifying thing of all.
Superman had yet to return from the locker room. The thermal sensor picked him up every five minutes with mechanical consistency: human shape, continuous movement, body heat elevated but steady.
Bruce, meanwhile, said nothing. He kept his thoughts still as he carefully unlocked one of the hidden drawers with a key. At the very back, the black leather-bound notebooks waited, untouched. Over the years, he’d moved away from analog methods, but never completely. He had always recorded each year of the Gotham project in his own hand. Six notebooks in total.
Bruce was no longer the man undone by rage. Not in the same way. Six years had passed since Gotham first heard his footsteps echo through the dark, and while the city hadn’t changed as much as he’d hoped, he had changed. He was no longer the sleepless youth of twenty-five, the one who lost himself in the mask because he could not bear the weight of his own face. No longer did he hurl himself into every fight as if his body were disposable. He still patrols until dawn like an addict, but he has learned—through bruises, wounds, and losses—that obsession kills too, and that sometimes fear isn’t enough to deliver justice.
He was still Batman, but not the way he used to be. He no longer needed every night to be a crusade against his own ghosts. His rage was still there, yes, but now it was a tool not an anchor. And slowly, painfully, he had begun to make peace with the truth that Bruce Wayne still existed as a part of him, and that not everything touched by sunlight had to rot in its shadow.
The line between mask and man was no longer a bleeding wound, but a long-healed scar, one Bruce had stitched closed with time and effort, careful not to let it fester. It still ached, sometimes. It still opened, now and then. But never all the way.
Superman had proven not to be a threat, but that didn’t mean Bruce knew how to handle him. He could face down killers, mobsters, lunatics, even nuclear weapons but not Superman. An alien lost, sitting silently in his operations base... that was something new.
Cautiously, he wrote in the blank pages the hours and events since Clark’s arrival. Gradually, his handwriting loosened, unconsciously distancing him a little more from the man who had landed in the city with a soaked cape and the wide, bright eyes of a lost puppy. Bruce noticed Clark was wounded, angry and terribly human.
And the worst part was that he didn’t want him to leave. Not for tactical reasons, but because there was something about him that felt less unsettling than it should have.
The door creaked softly open, and Clark stepped inside, awkward, clearing his throat.
“I hope you don’t mind that I took a shower” he said, his voice a little tense.
Bruce looked up, caught off guard and momentarily speechless. Clark was... stunning. The clothes, stretched tight across broad shoulders and defined muscles, traced the outline of a body undeniably alive beneath the fabric.
A feast for Bruce Wayne’s weary eyes.
His hair, free from the usual gel Clark applied before donning his suit, fell in loose waves across a damp forehead. In that moment, Clark was more than just a stranger or a lost visitor, he was a tangible man, and Bruce felt the weight of that presence in a way that stirred something dangerous beneath the mask.
Had the circumstances been different, had Bruce Wayne known Clark Kent instead of Batman knowing Superman, they would have already slept together. A refined dinner. Gentle conversation. Fingers brushing in the dark before surrendering to desire.
But things didn’t turn out that way.
Clark shifted uncomfortably, tugging lightly at the fabric of the shirt.
“This… it’s a bit tight,” he murmured, with a brief, almost embarrassed laugh. Then he added, with a laugh that sounded a little foolish, “I’m not really used to wearing clothes that aren’t mine.”
Bruce blinked, regaining control of his expression, and closed the notebook carefully, like he needed a physical excuse to look away. He didn’t lift his gaze again. An almost imperceptible flush passed over his cheeks as he replied, voice steady and soft, with his usual calm demeanor:
“There are more clothes in the room.” Then, almost in a whisper, he added, “Something might fit you better.”
Clark nodded slowly but didn’t move. He kept watching him, as if he knew there was something more beneath that iron surface of composure.
And maybe he did.
“Does this make you uncomfortable?” he asked gently. There was no teasing in his tone, no provocation. Just a direct, honest question.
Bruce looked up. Their eyes met.
And there it was: understanding. Clark knew. Not everything, but enough. Clark could read people, even if no one ever gave him credit for it. Especially when they were trying so desperately not to say what they were thinking. But this time, the feeling was even more intense, almost ravenous. It had to be the bond acting up.
Bruce held his gaze just a second longer than necessary, then looked away.
“You’ve got twice my shoulders. It’s tight. Not exactly rocket science.”
Clark gave the faintest smile.
“No. It’s not.”
Clark approached the desk where Alfred had been reading earlier. He didn’t know if he was allowed to linger, but Batman had yet to set any rules or boundaries on the matter. So he picked up the newspaper left atop a stack of clippings. They were, of course, from the Gotham Gazette, mostly empty quotes and stories lacking any real substance. That year, Gotham had endured the worst cold snap in over a decade, and the Gotham Knights had once again defeated the Metropolis Meteors, securing the championship for the fourth year in a row. Some things weren’t so different from his world.
Among the headlines, a few managed to stand out: Harvey Dent Suffers Another Breakdown During Corruption Trial, with details chronicling the fall from grace of the former district attorney, now known as Two-Face.
On another page, a report from Arkham Asylum caught his attention: Escape Attempt at Arkham Foiled by GCPD Special Unit; Containment Measures to Be Reinforced. Clark read through the list of the most dangerous inmates—several of them, names he recognized from his own world—still mentioned, still very much a constant threat to the city.
A third article, smaller, but no less alarming, reported on an environmental protest at Gotham’s Botanical Gardens that had ended with several police officers poisoned: Biotech Doctor and Eco-Terrorist: Pamela Isley Reemerges Among Poisoned Roots, read the headline. The piece detailed how the woman, previously arrested on charges of bioterrorism, had manipulated the irrigation systems to release a paralytic toxin. No fatalities were reported, but three officers remained in intensive care. The accompanying image showed a ruined greenhouse, engulfed by an eerie green overgrowth.
What caught his attention wasn’t just the usual chaos of Gotham but what was missing: no mention of metahumans. No references to superpowered vigilantes, no heroes in bright suits, no world-ending disasters. Just humans. Dangerously human. Gotham seemed to resist anything metahuman, as if the world beyond its borders didn’t exist.
Clark frowned and slowly set the newspaper down. It was too strange.
But an older headline drew his interest entirely, if he was following the timeline correctly, it would be at least nine months old.
𝕿𝖍𝖊 𝕲𝖔𝖙𝖍𝖆𝖒 𝕲𝖆𝖟𝖊𝖙𝖙𝖊
𝙵𝚛𝚒𝚍𝚊𝚢, 𝙾𝚌𝚝𝚘𝚋𝚎𝚛 𝟷𝟷, 𝟸𝟶𝟸𝟺 / 𝙲𝚕𝚘𝚞𝚍𝚜, 𝚌𝚑𝚊𝚗𝚌𝚎 𝚘𝚏 𝚛𝚊𝚒𝚗, 𝟷𝟶 / 𝚆𝚎𝚊𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚛: 𝚙𝚊𝚐𝚎 𝟸𝟽 — 𝚠𝚠𝚠.𝚐𝚘𝚝𝚑𝚊𝚖𝚐𝚊𝚣𝚎𝚝𝚝𝚎.𝚌𝚘𝚖
ＢＲＵＣＥ
ＷＡＹＮＥ
ＡＲＲＥＳＴＥＤ
ＦＯＲ ＳＴＡＧＧ
ＭＵＲＤＥＲ
By Victoria Vale and Joey Day
𝚂𝚑𝚘𝚌𝚔 𝚝𝚘𝚍𝚊𝚢 𝚊𝚜 𝚋𝚒𝚕𝚕𝚒𝚘𝚗𝚊𝚒𝚛𝚎 𝚋𝚞𝚜𝚒𝚗𝚎𝚜𝚜𝚖𝚊𝚗 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚙𝚑𝚒𝚕𝚊𝚗𝚝𝚑𝚛𝚘𝚙𝚒𝚜𝚝 𝙱𝚛𝚞𝚌𝚎 𝚆𝚊𝚢𝚗𝚎 𝚠𝚊𝚜 𝚊𝚛𝚛𝚎𝚜𝚝𝚎𝚍 𝚘𝚗 𝚌𝚑𝚊𝚛𝚐𝚎𝚜 𝚘𝚏 𝚖𝚞𝚛𝚍𝚎𝚛.
𝚃𝚑𝚎 𝚊𝚛𝚛𝚎𝚜𝚝 𝚏𝚘𝚕𝚕𝚘𝚠𝚜 𝚊𝚗 𝚒𝚗𝚟𝚎𝚜𝚝𝚒𝚐𝚊𝚝𝚒𝚘𝚗 𝚒𝚗𝚝𝚘 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚖𝚞𝚛𝚍𝚎𝚛 𝚘𝚏 𝚏𝚎𝚕𝚕𝚘𝚠 𝚋𝚞𝚜𝚒𝚗𝚎𝚜𝚜𝚖𝚊𝚗 𝚂𝚒𝚖𝚘𝚗 𝚂𝚝𝚊𝚐𝚐, 𝚠𝚑𝚘 𝚠𝚊𝚜 𝚏𝚘𝚞𝚗𝚍 𝚍𝚎𝚊𝚍 𝚘𝚏 𝚊𝚗 𝚊𝚙𝚙𝚊𝚛𝚎𝚗𝚝 𝚙𝚘𝚒𝚜𝚘𝚗𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚆𝚎𝚍𝚗𝚎𝚜𝚍𝚊𝚢 𝚎𝚟𝚎𝚗𝚒𝚗𝚐. 𝙶𝚘𝚝𝚑𝚊𝚖 𝙶𝚊𝚣𝚎𝚝𝚝𝚎'𝚜 𝚘𝚠𝚗 𝚅𝚒𝚌𝚝𝚘𝚛𝚒𝚊 𝚅𝚊𝚕𝚎 𝚑𝚎𝚕𝚙𝚎𝚍 𝚒𝚗𝚏𝚘𝚛𝚖 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚙𝚘𝚕𝚒𝚌𝚎 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚌𝚘𝚗𝚝𝚛𝚒𝚋𝚞𝚝𝚎𝚍 𝚝𝚘 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚊𝚛𝚛𝚎𝚜𝚝, 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚍𝚎𝚝𝚊𝚒𝚕𝚜 𝚘𝚏 𝚠𝚑𝚒𝚌𝚑 𝚊𝚛𝚎 𝚋𝚎𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚠𝚒𝚝𝚑𝚑𝚎𝚕𝚍 𝚏𝚛𝚘𝚖 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚙𝚞𝚋𝚕𝚒𝚌 𝚠𝚑𝚒𝚕𝚎 𝚆𝚊𝚢𝚗𝚎 𝚊𝚠𝚊𝚒𝚝𝚜 𝚝𝚛𝚒𝚊𝚕.
𝚆𝚊𝚢𝚗𝚎 𝚑𝚊𝚜 𝚖𝚊𝚍𝚎 𝚑𝚎𝚊𝚍𝚕𝚒𝚗𝚎𝚜 𝚢𝚎𝚊𝚛𝚜 𝚊𝚐𝚘 𝚠𝚑𝚎𝚗 𝚒𝚗𝚑𝚎𝚛𝚒𝚝𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚊 𝚖𝚞𝚕𝚝𝚒-𝚋𝚒𝚕𝚕𝚒𝚘𝚗 𝚍𝚘𝚕𝚕𝚊𝚛 𝚎𝚖𝚙𝚒𝚛𝚎 𝚏𝚛𝚘𝚖 𝚙𝚊𝚛𝚎𝚗𝚝𝚜 𝚃𝚑𝚘𝚖𝚊𝚜 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝙼𝚊𝚛𝚝𝚑𝚊 𝚆𝚊𝚢𝚗𝚎, 𝚠𝚑𝚘 𝚠𝚎𝚛𝚎 𝚖𝚞𝚛𝚍𝚎𝚛𝚎𝚍 𝚘𝚗 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚜𝚝𝚛𝚎𝚎𝚝𝚜 𝚘𝚏 𝙶𝚘𝚝𝚑𝚊𝚖 𝚒𝚗 𝚊𝚗 𝚊𝚙𝚙𝚊𝚛𝚎𝚗𝚝 𝚖𝚞𝚐𝚐𝚒𝚗𝚐. 𝚆𝚊𝚢𝚗𝚎 𝚠𝚊𝚜 𝚝𝚒𝚐𝚑𝚝-𝚕𝚒𝚙𝚙𝚎𝚍 𝚊𝚜 𝚑𝚎 𝚕𝚎𝚏𝚝 𝙶𝙲𝙿𝙳 𝚑𝚎𝚊𝚍𝚚𝚞𝚊𝚛𝚝𝚎𝚛𝚜 𝚎𝚗 𝚛𝚘𝚞𝚝𝚎 𝚝𝚘 𝚑𝚒𝚜 𝚎𝚡𝚝𝚛𝚊𝚍𝚒𝚝𝚒𝚘𝚗 𝚝𝚘 𝙼𝚎𝚝𝚛𝚘𝚙𝚘𝚕𝚒𝚜, 𝚠𝚑𝚎𝚛𝚎 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚌𝚛𝚒𝚖𝚎 𝚘𝚌𝚌𝚞𝚛𝚛𝚎𝚍.
𝚂𝚘𝚞𝚛𝚌𝚎𝚜 𝚌𝚕𝚘𝚜𝚎 𝚝𝚘 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚆𝚊𝚢𝚗𝚎 𝚘𝚛𝚐𝚊𝚗𝚒𝚣𝚊𝚝𝚒𝚘𝚗 𝚙𝚛𝚘𝚌𝚕𝚊𝚒𝚖 𝚑𝚒𝚜 𝚒𝚗𝚗𝚘𝚌𝚎𝚗𝚌𝚎, 𝚎𝚟𝚎𝚗 𝚊𝚜 𝚎𝚟𝚒𝚍𝚎𝚗𝚌𝚎 𝚒𝚜 𝚖𝚘𝚞𝚗𝚝𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚝𝚑𝚊𝚗𝚔𝚜 𝚝𝚘 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚒𝚗𝚟𝚎𝚜𝚝𝚒𝚐𝚊𝚝𝚒𝚘𝚗 𝚋𝚢 𝚘𝚞𝚛 𝚗𝚎𝚒𝚐𝚑𝚋𝚘𝚛𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚗𝚎𝚠𝚜𝚙𝚊𝚙𝚎𝚛, 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝙳𝚊𝚒𝚕𝚢 𝙿𝚕𝚊𝚗𝚎𝚝.
Stagg.
A name he knew all too well.
In his world, Simon Stagg was an ever-present figure: owner of Stagg Enterprises, one of the largest industrial giants following the fall of LuthorCorp, with far-reaching tentacles in technology, science, and defense. He was also the face behind the Justice Gang. Clark had worked with the group of vigilantes more than once, and Stagg had tried to recruit him several times, offering paychecks that could have bought entire countries.
Clark refused every time. Because he knew what lay at the bottom of that cliff: ego, unchecked power, ambition disguised as innovation. He knew Stagg wasn’t a fair man. Not a good man, not with what he’d done to Rex.
But Bruce Wayne… a murderer?
Clark studied the photograph again. It had been taken by Jimmy, he knew that immediately from the framing, from the gaze that sought not merely to capture a moment, but the drama woven within it. Bruce Wayne filled the front page.
Clark wouldn’t have recognized him if not for the name emblazoned in the headline.
He was different from the Bruce Wayne of his world, just a little.
The age seemed to match—thirty years old, give or take—and physically they were nearly identical, like two faces reflected in the same cracked mirror. The blue eyes were unmistakable, yet something about this Bruce Wayne’s presence felt different. He didn’t have the short hair with a side part and flawless playboy veneer that Clark despised every time Cat waxed poetic about the man. In this world, it seemed, he didn’t wear his usual sharp, tailored suit or sport the signature unbuttoned shirt.
This Bruce Wayne carried himself with a more sober, refined air. His hair was meticulously slicked back, tucked neatly behind his ears with an almost clinical precision. The Bruce Wayne Clark knew was a showman, larger than life. But the Bruce Wayne in the photograph looked like a shadow, someone who’d rather vanish than step into the spotlight.
There was something genuine about him, raw and unpretentious, and to Clark, that held an appeal that went beyond the physical.
Wayne had his hands cuffed behind his back, flanked by two police officers. In the background, blurred but unmistakable to his eyes, stood Commissioner Gordon, unusually similar to the one from his world. Clark had spoken with him once, when he’d intercepted rumors about a shipment of kryptonite bound for Gotham.
The Daily Planet had been so certain of Bruce Wayne’s guilt in Stagg’s murder that Clark couldn’t help but think of his own world, the bullpen, his colleagues, and what it meant to practice journalism responsibly.
He approached Batman, the newspaper still in hand.
“Did he take any legal action? Sue the Daily Planet?” Clark asked, genuine concern threading his voice. Maybe it didn’t matter in this universe, but Clark loved his work. Being a journalist was part of who he was. And the thought of the Planet being dragged to court by an angry billionaire churned his stomach.
Batman looked at him like he’d grown another head. Then his gaze dropped to the headline Clark was holding. Shit. The Stagg case had been a real pain in the ass, a whole month where Batman couldn’t move because Bruce Wayne was under constant, twenty-four-hour scrutiny. That’s what you get for pretending to be a spoiled playboy, the type who flits from one gala to the next, signing million-dollar deals with that empty practiced smile.
He didn’t commit the crime, of course. But neither did he have a solid alibi. What the Gotham Gazette thought when they published that garbage forced him to keep himself in the public eye almost constantly. Disappearing at night—even if just to patrol or investigate—would have only reinforced his presumed guilt.
The pristine image in the article was a far cry from his usual appearance. His shirt was neatly ironed. His hair was meticulously slicked back, each strand tucked neatly behind his ears. The makeup was applied sparingly, just enough to conceal the shadows under his eyes, but never enough to hide the weariness etched into his resigned expression.
He paused for a moment.
“He can’t take legal action. And he didn’t. They speculated about motives, sure, but nothing they wrote was untrue.”
Clark frowned.
“That doesn’t necessarily stop a billionaire.”
Bruce raised an eyebrow under the cowl.
“Clark, listen to me,” he said, measured but firm. “The Daily Planet followed the facts. That’s what good journalists do, right? And they did their job well. From everything I’ve heard… Bruce Wayne is a reasonable man. I doubt he holds grudges, especially when this happened nearly a year ago.”
The newspaper crackled between Clark’s fingers as he carefully closed it, but he didn’t let go.
Clark had only ever seen Bruce Wayne from a distance at galas and charity events. Always surrounded by models and champagne glasses, smiling as if life were some private joke only he understood. A playboy without direction, without burden, with no real reason to change his carefree lifestyle. The kind of man who bought entire museums just to turn them into party venues.
The mechanical sound of the elevator broke the cavernous silence. The metallic screech was brief but sharp enough to cut through the tense air. The gate slid open with a final thud, and after a few deliberate steps, Alfred’s figure emerged from the shadows of the rock.
He carried a cup of coffee in his hand, his expression as always a balance between silent judgment and impeccable composure.
“Are you going to remain down here like a wayward bat?” he said, not addressing anyone in particular, though he set the cup a few paces from Bruce.
Neither Bruce nor Clark responded immediately. Bruce wore a carefully neutral expression, while Clark stood near the tool bench, arms crossed and eyes steady. Clark had changed clothes—something that hadn’t gone unnoticed.
Alfred turned to him, a single eyebrow raised.
“I see at least one suggestion hasn’t fallen on deaf ears,” he said, casting a brief glance at the new clothes. “Something a bit less tight would suit you better.”
Clark, slightly uncomfortable, lowered his gaze but smiled kindly. Alfred was already redirecting his attention back to Batman.
“I could prepare a room for him.”
“He’s not a guest,” Bruce replied without looking their way.
“No? And what would you call him, then?”
Bruce clenched his jaw. Alfred sighed, the kind of sigh reserved for speaking to a child who refuses to admit he’s tired and hungry. Unfortunately, the man he’d raised not only kept denying it… he was probably feeling both at that very moment.
“Because if he stays on that bench much longer, he’s liable to start rusting right alongside your forgotten prototypes.”
Silence.
“And if you’re not going to kick him out, you might consider offering him... oh, I don’t know. A cushion, perhaps?”
Clark raised an eyebrow discreetly.
A cushion? Preparing a room?
He looked at Alfred, then at Batman, and for a moment, tried to make sense of the dynamic between them. The man spoke with a kind of disarming familiarity. Not only was he not intimidated by the figure of the Bat, he addressed him with the exasperated patience of someone who had raised the man behind the mask.
Batman had someone who looked after him?
Clark had expected… well, he wasn’t sure what. Solitude. Silence. The cold, paranoid reflection of what was said about the Dark Knight in his own world. But this… this was something else. It was personal. Almost domestic.
And Alfred’s words—those seemingly offhand remarks—weren’t as vague as they sounded. Clark narrowed his eyes slightly, piecing it together. Because Alfred wasn’t speaking to Batman, the symbol, the myth. He was speaking to someone with a name. A history. A home.
The silence stretched just a moment longer, until Clark, still standing by the workbench, spoke, his voice quiet, measured:
“So… is Batman your son?”
Alfred went completely still. Just for a heartbeat, but Clark noticed. A blink that didn’t quite finish. A pause in his breathing. Like the question had brushed up against something deeply personal.
“No,” Alfred said at last, his voice calm, but firm enough to end the conversation right there. “He is not”
Bruce’s fingers tightened against the edge of the keyboard.
Clark didn’t push.
Notes:
The article about Stagg’s death was originally written by Clark Kent and Jimmy Olsen in World’s Finest issues #12 through #17, if I’m not mistaken. It’s from the Elemental Man arc. I’ve been rereading my comics and I couldn't help that Stagg Enterprises is the main sponsor of the Justice Gang ( ꈍᴗꈍ)
Chapter 5: IV
Summary:
Bruce seems more resolute when it comes to Clark Kent. But his decisions now feel reckless, almost self-sabotaging. As if there’s something in Clark that unsettles him, that pushes him to act against his own instincts.
Notes:
(See the end of the chapter for notes.)
Chapter Text
Clark wished he hadn’t said anything. He felt like a jerk, completely out of place.
Not because of the question itself, it was reasonable, even logical, if he considered the kind of relationship that seemed to link Alfred and Batman. But because of the way he’d said it, and the timing. Because he hadn’t caught the shadow that crossed Alfred’s face, and now the silence was now filled with something left unsaid.
He stayed still, hands at his sides, as if moving might make things worse. Batman wasn’t looking at him. He remained at the keyboard, fingers frozen, jaw tight.
“I didn’t mean to be disrespectful,” Clark said at last, his voice low, ashamed. “I was just trying to… understand.”
There was no immediate reply. Only the soft hum of the computer and the muffled sound of rain outside, tapping against the glass of Gotham’s dark buildings.
“There are things that don’t need to be understood,” Alfred said then, not harshly, but with a precision that could cut deeper than any raised voice.
Clark nodded, swallowing. It was a graceful way of telling him to shut up. And he respected that more than he understood it. He took a step back. Then another. And without saying anything else, he walked away from the workbench, heading to where he’d left his suit neatly folded, red boots lined up beside it.
Bruce didn’t move. But as Clark passed him, he noticed his knuckles were still pressed tight against the edge of the keyboard, white, as if letting go might unleash something dangerous.
Bruce stood up abruptly. The chair scraped against the floor with a sound that cracked through the station like a gunshot. Clark barely had time to lift his gaze before Batman was already walking away, his footsteps hard, determined, driven by some old ingrained instinct, automatic, toward the side compartment where he kept the essentials. Where the light was dimmer, colder, almost grim.
With quick, almost furious movements, and without ceremony, he began stripping off the Batsuit. The cape had already fallen earlier, back when they arrived at the old station, exposing the full weight of what he wore. Now, one layer at a time, the uniform came off each piece dropping with a dull, deliberate thud: the belt, the chest armor, the hardened plating molded to his body, all the Kevlar that shielded him. As if his body itself needed to be free of that second skin.
From where he stood, Clark could barely make out the shadow of his movements but the movements were precise, practiced, mechanical.
Last came the cowl. Bruce held it for a beat longer, just barely. Then he placed it gently on an old rusted cart pushed against a forgotten shelving unit. The gesture was surprisingly gentle for a man who moved with such hardness. As if, in that fleeting moment, the bat-shaped piece might shatter under anything less than care.
Clark watched in silence, breathing slow and steady, taking in every detail—every fleeting trace of humanity that slipped through the hunched figure in front him. Right there, just a few steps away.
And then he saw it.
The hair beneath the cowl, now exposed. It wasn’t what he expected. Nothing about this man was. And even without having formed any real expectations, Clark found himself caught drawn in, unexpectedly moved.
A dark, tangled mess of hair fell over the back of Batman’s neck and across his brow, damp with sweat, snarled from hours beneath the cowl and the heavy moisture clinging to the station’s air. There was no control, no composure to it, just something wild, almost vulnerable. Not the image of a flawless tactician. Just a man who had carried injustice for too long.
Batman didn’t turn. He offered no explanations. He simply bent to unlace his boots, and in that angle, his body remained wrapped in shadow. Outside, the rain struck the walls with steady rhythm, like the ticking of a slow, indifferent clock.
Clark felt like he was seeing something he shouldn’t, something he was only able to see because his body worked differently. Because he wasn’t human.
His vision was extraordinary, impossible to explain, even to himself. Trying to describe how Clark sees would be like trying to explain color to someone born blind. It wasn’t just what he saw. It was what he perceived.
If he wanted to, Clark could focus on the back of Batman’s neck, trace the faint scar hidden beneath his hair, read the exact curve of his jaw, even in the half-light. He could lift his gaze just slightly and see what no one was ever meant to see: the real face beneath the mask. The identity of the man who had spoken the words that still lived in him.
But he didn’t look.
Because to uncover it like this, without consent, without offering, without trust, would have been a kind of ingratitude. A quiet betrayal. And that wasn’t something he was willing to do to his soulmate. Clark closed his eyes for a moment, forcing himself to resist what had always come naturally to him. Not to look beyond what Batman was willing to show.
There was something sacred in the restraint. Something that felt like reverence or maybe repentance.
Clark hadn’t been looking at him directly, but the sound made him turn his eyes toward him. A thin layer of black compression fabric slipped to the floor with a soft whisper. Out of the shadows, Batman’s bare torso emerged, etched in cold, dim artificial light. The body was lean, compact, trained and covered in marks.
Old scars, some barely visible like pale furrows, others fresh, still tinged red. Cuts, burns, bullet wounds, jagged lacerations that formed a map of violence. There was no symmetry in them, no pride. Just a constellation of damage carved into flesh.
To Clark’s eyes, they were more than records. Each wound was a memory, a cost. Proof of what Batman had lost so that others wouldn’t have to. There was something tragically beautiful in that.
Clark couldn’t stop staring not out of morbid curiosity, but because of the brutal honesty in what he saw.
That body was a map of every battle Batman had faced alone.
Without help, and above all, without powers. For years, Clark had believed Batman was a metahuman, someone like him: hidden, powerful, operating from the shadows with some exceptional gift. But the truth came not in a sudden revelation, but through something colder, more systematic: the signs.
Dozens of traffic signs nailed along Gotham’s borders, like cold and unyielding warnings:
“No Metahumans Allowed.”
"Human Only Beyond This Point."
“Keep Out, Metahumans.”
Gotham left no room for doubt. It was a closed city—wary, brutal at its edges. Metahumans were not allowed in Gotham. Yet Batman remained. Untouchable. Respected. Feared. And that could only mean one thing: he was human.
Clark had struggled to accept it. Because that made him all the more impressive. All the more unfathomable. And now, watching him silently strip off his suit right in front of him, Clark finally understood. Batman had no powers, no armor beyond his own will—just a trained body. A tired body. Wounded. Marked.
Clark couldn’t see his face, and he didn’t know his name. But that body spoke more loudly than any confession and what it said was unbearable.
And in that marked skin, Clark found no words. He searched without really searching, his eyes lingering on the shoulder, the collarbone, the curve of the shoulder blade—places where people often bore phrases, names, dates: the first words their soulmate ever spoke to them.
But there was nothing. Only scars.
It wasn’t unusual for the placement to differ. But in the universe Clark came from, those words always appeared, like a rule, in the same spot. Clark knew exactly where the words Batman had spoken to him were engraved.
And for a moment, a fleeting second, he hoped to see there, on that pale skin, the awkward words he had once spoken.
But they weren’t there.
Batman turned slightly away and opened an old metal locker, pulling out what looked like a pile of worn, shapeless clothes darkened by use and age.
Before Clark could look again, a gray shirt was thrown over the bare skin with an almost symbolic brusqueness. Clark felt a cold emptiness open beneath his sternum.
For a moment, Clark hesitated. He narrowed his eyes, wondering if maybe there was something hidden elsewhere, concealed in shadow, or beneath the pants, or beneath that gray shirt that now slipped down Batman’s torso like a final curtain.
Bruce moved quickly. The gray shirt was buttoned up and in place, the collar slightly misshapen from wear. Then, over it, a black work jacket with worn seams at the elbows and frayed cuffs, one of those jackets that soaks up Gotham’s grime and never really gets clean again.
He pulled on a pair of beige cargo pants, reinforced at the knees. The fabric was already faded in spots from constant wear. Then came the dull boots—thick-soled and without any visible scuffs—slipped on and fastened with a single, effortless tug.
Then, as a final gesture, he grabbed his red baseball cap, worn and dirty. He pulled it down over his head, tipping it low enough to hide the edges of his eyes completely. The dark strands of hair still visible twisted like stubborn tendrils beneath the brim. Next, he raised the hood of his jacket, concealing everything else. The black makeup was still there—dark, smeared by sweat and rain—clinging to his skin like a mask he had no intention of removing. He wrapped a dark gray scarf around his neck, covering his jaw and part of his mouth.
Bruce caught his reflection briefly in a mirror fogged by humidity. He was no longer Bruce Wayne, nor was he Batman. Now, he was reduced to a wandering drifter.
Bruce paused for a moment, avoiding Clark’s gaze and especially Alfred’s. He moved to the workbench, grabbed his worn tactical backpack, and with mechanical precision folded his Batsuit and packed it inside. Then, with a single motion, he slung the bag over his shoulder.
He slid a pair of fingerless gloves into a side pocket and began wrapping the knuckles of both hands with worn bandages, each movement quick and deliberate, as if bracing for a fight. Stepping closer, he tossed a field bag toward Clark with a sharp motion. His voice was low, rough, and clipped as he said without looking:
“Put your suit in here.”
Clark didn’t say anything. Not because he didn’t want to, but because he didn’t know how. Still, he obeyed immediately, his fingers fumbling awkwardly.
Bruce then turned to Alfred.
“Don’t follow me. This isn’t a trip for three.”
Before Alfred could open his mouth to reply, Bruce had already disappeared into the darkness of the tunnel. The sound of his motorcycle’s engine broke through a few seconds later—deep, heavy. Clark barely had time to zip up his bag before Batman gave a sharp hand signal. A wordless command.
Get on.
Without looking, he tossed a black helmet to Clark over his shoulder. Clark caught it awkwardly, holding it with both hands, unsure whether he should say something, thank him, or just where to put his hands.
Bruce didn’t bother to look at him. He simply waited.
Clark stared at the helmet for a moment, then awkwardly placed it on his head. The strap clicked shut against his jaw with a sharp snap. When Bruce leaned forward, ready to start, Clark climbed onto the bike behind him, still unsure—his hands clutching the field bag pressed between his chest and Batman’s back.
Where was he supposed to hold on?
Finally, he gingerly placed his hands on the edges of the seat, just behind Bruce’s frame, not daring to touch him.
Bruce felt the shift the moment Clark climbed on. The bike’s suspension sank lower than usual, forcing a rough groan from the shocks.
Heavy. Too heavy.
Bruce tightened his jaw, running through the center of gravity, the added weight, the tighter turning radius, all in his mind. He’d have to compensate on the curves.
“Great,” he muttered dryly, the words barely more than a dry rasp between clenched teeth, with an irony that bordered on annoyance. “Of course Superman weighs like a damn tank.”
Clark didn’t respond. He wasn’t sure if it was a joke or a reprimand, so he chose to believe it was neither—just a mechanical observation. A fact. Like Bruce was sizing up a load, not a person. Clark adjusted his helmet more securely and lowered his gaze, uncomfortable.
The bike roared again. Together, they disappeared into the dark mouth of the tunnel. A gate groaned open with a hydraulic creak—like a hidden slab sliding slowly aside in the damp stone wall, revealing a narrow passage to the outside. The bike roared to life immediately, the engine growling beneath the relentless rain pounding the asphalt.
Clark barely had time to adjust his helmet, as if forgetting he was invulnerable, when the wind slammed against his chest before the darkness of the tunnel fell behind them. Light filtered timidly through the heavy clouds—still early in the morning.
Behind them, the entrance shut automatically with a metallic clang, disappearing once more into the rock. No trace remained that anyone had passed through, as if Batman’s secret sanctuary door had swallowed every sign of their passage.
Clark barely had time to settle in when the city greeted them with its breath of neon and dampness. The motorcycle glided through Gotham’s cobblestone streets like a creature that knew every crack, weaving between abandoned factories and container yards. Clark noticed it, Batman wasn’t just driving, he was navigating.
There was a silent precision in every turn, every acceleration. The man’s body barely moved. It was all calculation.
The air sliced like blades at that speed, and the city began to unfold before Clark’s eyes with a clarity only Superman could fully grasp. But what truly caught him wasn’t just the view, it was everything around it.
Gotham was a living creature, scarred and crusted over, layered with wounds and a thick buildup of history like soot. The streets were empty at this hour, but the silence didn’t mean peace. The alleys yawned wide like hungry wolf mouths.
Even with his visor down, Clark saw perfectly. Rain hammered relentlessly against the surface of his helmet, and beyond that, the city was unraveling. The commercial streets faded away, giving way to older, industrial, heavier architecture.
And then, he saw it.
The bridge.
A colossal steel structure loomed ahead, its pillars rising from the river like giant ribs. Red warning lights blinked atop the towers of the elevated causeway as they climbed the ramp that led to the massive steel bridge.
Clark glanced back, and framed against the stormy sky stood a dark skyscraper like a shattered crown: Wayne Tower reigning over the cityscape.
He couldn’t help but stare.
It was Gotham’s tallest building, a spear of polished stone, a black monolith of iron and glass piercing straight into the leaden, cloud-choked sky.
The massive letters spelling WAYNE gleamed at its peak, lit by pale white lights that barely pierced the fog and rain. A monument to a fallen legacy. A name etched into the city like a claim of ownership.
Clark had flown over skyscrapers like this in his own world—symbols of power, of watchfulness. Towers that dared to look down on everything below.
They slipped past the tower’s base just before crossing the long, rusted industrial bridge that stretched from the heart of the city to Gotham’s outskirts. Clark glanced back as the skyscraper’s jagged silhouette shrank against the bruised sky. The WAYNE name still glowed faintly in the pre-dawn gloom, but with every mile, it seemed to bleed away into the shadows.
Bruce said nothing. His eyes stayed locked forward, body poised and tense, weaving through potholes and puddles with a precision born of habit—like the city itself was etched into his muscles. The motorcycle growled beneath them, trembling with each shift of gears.
Then the air shifted. The scent of the city faded.
The landscape shifted gradually. Buildings grew shorter, signs faded and worn, lights grew scarce. Vast stretches of overgrowth began swallowing the edges, and the pavement cracked with every mile. The street signs vanished one by one. Pedestrians disappeared. Until all that remained were trees, winding roads of cracked asphalt, and flickering streetlamps buzzing with unstable electricity.
And the rain—that ever-present Gotham rain—started to sound different, tapping against branches and earth instead of concrete and steel.
They moved almost in silence as the motorcycle slowed, settling into a calmer pace.
Finally, after one last unmarked turn, they ventured onto a path blanketed with damp leaves and fallen branches. The road twisted between trees gnarled by the wind until, through the fog, a silhouette emerged.
And then, after that final turn, Bruce saw it.
The old Wayne manor rose from the mist like a buried memory.
Vast. Unsettling. Silent. Dark. Abandoned.
Clark had no idea where they were. He didn’t know who the building belonged to. He only understood they were far from Gotham’s heart, in a place the city itself seemed to have forgotten.
And Batman still said nothing.
The manor was built from dark stone, with steep roofs crowned with gargoyles twisted in silent snarls, their moss-covered snouts jutting toward the abyss. The windows were tall and slender—like church spires. Many were blinded, shattered; a few still clung to shards of glass, fragile remnants.
A broad porch curved over cracked steps, darkened by years of neglect and relentless storms. The wrought-iron gate, tall and imposing, sagged over a moss-choked gravel path, hanging half-open, rusted at the hinges.
All traces of former glory were gone, no hint of aristocracy remained. Only decay, and a faint echo of something once sacred.
Clark watched it silently, the manor carrying the weight of something lost to time, a relic from another era, shrouded in a heavy air of warning and mourning.
A corroded sign still clung to a section of the gate’s stone wall, nearly swallowed by overgrowth. Its metal letters, blackened with age, barely stood out among the damp leaves: Gotham Orphanage – Wayne Family.
Clark frowned.
An abandoned orphanage.
The idea struck him as strange, almost unsettling. But he didn’t ask. He’d already learned that with Batman, sometimes silence was the only way forward.
The ground was littered with leaves and branches. Tall grass had reclaimed the land over time. Trees, like twisted sentinels, guarded the perimeter, their gnarled branches brushing against the second-floor windows.
The bike came to a stop at the foot of the main steps, and Bruce killed the engine without ceremony. Only the rain persisted, relentless, falling like a silent confession onto the crumbling roof.
Clark took off his helmet slowly, carefully… still unsure where they were or why they had come. Batman stepped off the bike, grabbed his bag from the side, and didn’t so much as glance in his direction.
In front of them, the manor that had once stood as a symbol of power and legacy, it now stood in solemn ruin—dignified, imposing, even in its abandonment.
Clark wondered if maybe it was a base. Maybe Batman used this place to hide.
What Clark didn’t know—what he couldn’t even begin to imagine—was that this building was the mansion where Bruce Wayne had grown up. And that now, after more than two decades in exile, he was returning to it for the first time.
Bruce Wayne—the man, not the myth—simply began walking toward the door, never looking back.
No longer as a son. Nor as an heir.
But as Batman.
Clark followed. The door creaked shut behind them, trapping the damp breeze outside. Inside, there was only the sound of their footsteps echoing across bare stone and aging wood. Bruce moved forward with unwavering focus, crossing the grand hall without pause.
“It’s safe,” Bruce said without turning. “No one’s been here in years.”
The walls stretched high above them, dust suspended in the air, and the furniture lay beneath gray sheets like shrouds. The air smelled of confinement… of old rain seeping through cracks in the roof. Clark lowered his voice instinctively, as if the place itself demanded it.
“Not even you?”
Bruce hesitated. Just for a moment. But it was long enough for Clark to catch it.
“Not even me,” Bruce said, almost as if to himself. Then he started walking again. “They abandoned it when the project failed. It’s not on any recent map. Not connected to any active system. For all practical purposes… it doesn’t exist.”
“Project?” Clark asked—not pressing, just with that quiet curiosity he never quite turned off. The kind of curiosity that came from someone used to piecing truth together from fragments.
“Gotham Renewal,” Bruce answered, his voice flat, stripped of emotion. “A fund supposedly meant to improve Gotham. Education, housing, healthcare... It was a Wayne initiative. Before they were murdered.”
Clark knew that story. Not just from old headlines, but because he remembered it vividly. He was nine when his mother, sitting in front of the television with him in her arms, brought a hand to her mouth at the sight of that ten-year-old boy, alone on the steps of the theater. And then—almost involuntarily—she pulled him tightly against her chest. As if she feared, truly feared, that one day her son might be left completely alone in the world too.
“How did the project fail?” Clark asked, with that blend of quiet precision and steady persistence he used with his sources. It was instinct—his most ingrained habit. A reflex that surfaced whenever something didn’t quite add up.
Bruce caught it. He clenched his jaw. Of course Clark Kent had to be a fucking investigative reporter.
“It was sabotaged,” he said flatly. “Embezzlement, corruption, broken promises.” He stopped at the foot of a wide staircase, littered with dead leaves blown in through shattered windows. “Everything this city touches eventually rots,” he added. “Even good intentions.”
Clark watched him closely, his brow slightly furrowed. Not just because of what he said but because of how he said it.
“So that’s what you believe? That nothing can be saved?”
Bruce didn’t answer. He climbed the first few steps in silence, but the tension in his back was clear.
“The manor… this orphanage,” he said at last, without turning back. “It’s the reflection of the Wayne legacy’s failure. It was supposed to be a refuge. Instead, it became a monument to neglect. To broken promises. To a system that left behind the very people it claimed to protect.”
“Is that why you stayed away from this place?” And then—before he could stop himself—Clark crossed a line, he threw the question at Gotham’s most feared man “You were an orphan here.”
Clark asked the question naturally, as if stating a simple fact. His reporter’s instinct never paused but the moment he finished speaking, he knew he’d crossed a line. He realized what he’d said. And to whom. For a brief, real moment, fear tightened in his chest. Regret hit him like a sharp blow.
Bruce stopped dead, halfway up the stairs. The shadow cast by his figure stretched across the broken steps. He didn’t fully turn, but tilted his head slightly toward Clark. The gesture was subtle, restrained. It was enough to freeze the air between them.
“That’s what you think?” Bruce said at last, slowly. “That I was just another orphan.”
Clark swallowed, suddenly feeling small in the vast silence of the empty place. Batman’s eyes—shadowed, dark—were sharper because of it, a silent scrutiny that cut deeper than Clark cared to admit.
“I...,” he began, hesitant, words stumbling as he searched for the right way to say it. “It’s just... well, if Alfred raised you but isn’t your father... then I guess legally he’d be something like a guardian, right? Like a foster dad, maybe... I don’t know. It just makes sense, doesn’t it?”
Bruce exhaled through his nose. It wasn’t a sigh, nor a snort. Just a brief, dry sound laden with something hard to name.
He glanced at Clark from the corner of his eye for just a second and knew Clark had come to that conclusion on his own. No files. No facts. Just what he’d seen and felt. And the worst part was that he was right.
“I stayed away because this place is full of useless memories. Nostalgia is a luxury I can’t afford.”
Clark watched him silently for a moment, then spoke more calmly, less nervous, more direct as if trying to reach something real. He said softly:
“That doesn’t seem right to me,” Clark began again, less a bundle of nerves and more a functional man speaking to another almost-functional man. “Maybe… It's not nostalgia. Maybe it just hurts. I think it hurts you. And that’s not the same thing.”
Bruce stopped halfway up the stairs. The dim light filtering through the ruined windows just outlined his figure, cloaked in layers of worn clothing.
“Don’t get the wrong idea,” he replied without looking at him. “Feeling something doesn’t mean I’m going to do anything about it.”
“But you feel it anyway.” Clark stepped up a rung, approaching cautiously. “...B.”
Clark felt his own heart pounding. He didn’t know why he said it. It hadn’t been planned. It had just slipped out.
“Sorry,” he murmured. “I guess you don’t like being called that.”
Bruce barely turned his head. Not fully, just enough for Clark to know he’d heard.
“B?” he repeated, his disbelief restrained.
Clark held his gaze, even though Bruce didn’t meet his eyes.
“You don’t have to say anything. Just… you don’t have to pretend now.”
There was a brief silence, heavy with something uncertain. Then Bruce spoke, his voice quieter:
“I’m not pretending.”
But something in his expression, slight and fleeting, imperceptible to most, hinted at a different kind of discomfort. Not because of what Clark had said, but because of what he thought he knew.
What Clark didn’t know, and Bruce had no intention of correcting, was that this hadn’t been an orphanage for him. Before it was a failed project, before it became ruins, this was his home. And here, he lost everything.
Unwittingly, Clark had reduced him to just another face among countless nameless orphans. And though his tone hadn’t been condescending, the assumption struck a deep chord.
Clark followed, unaware that he had just grazed something important. Something buried.
And in the air lingered that abbreviated, simple, almost intimate name: “B.”
Bruce climbed again, and when they reached the top of the stairs, he murmured, “This place has a wing that’s not completely ruined. A couple of intact rooms. You can use one.”
“And you?”
“I don’t sleep much.”
“Why not try?” Clark said, opening one of the doors down the hall.
Bruce paused before an old oak door, its knob rusted, the frame crooked. He pushed it open effortlessly, revealing a room in shambles. Without a sound, he closed it again and waited for Clark to do the same with his door. He made sure it was firmly shut before moving on.
They reached the next room. This time, the doorway stood empty with no door at all.
“I don’t need to,” Bruce said, stopping once more. This time he turned a little further. His face remained hidden beneath the cap, the scarf covering half of it. But his eyes, shadowed and sharp, locked onto Clark’s.
For a moment, something in Bruce’s eyes seemed to soften. But it was just that, a moment. He quickly became the hooded figure again, the man wrapped in layers, both literal and metaphorical, unreachable.
“Come,” he said, moving down the hall. “There’s a room in the east wing that still has doors.”
Clark didn’t push it. But as he stepped through the doorway, he murmured quietly, almost to himself,
“Sometimes it’s not about needing it.”
Bruce stood in the hallway for a moment, silent. Clark offered a brief smile—a faint flicker barely visible in the shadows across his face.
The dimples in his cheeks deepened, clear and unmistakable, like small wounds of tenderness etched into his expression.
Bruce noticed. For a moment, an unexpected warmth rose from the nape of his neck, fading beneath the scarf that covered part of his face. He felt a faint blush tint his skin, subtle, but undeniably real.
But he decided not to dwell on it. Now was not the time for distractions. He couldn’t afford to think about that. Clearing his throat, he adjusted the scarf covering half his face and, without another word, stepped toward the open door.
Clark noticed the gesture but said nothing.
He followed silently. Around them, every shadow seemed to hold an untold story. And maybe, he thought, it was okay to call him “B” again without Bruce stopping him.
Batman indicated a room after a quick assessment, it was, by all accounts, livable.
“Rest,” Clark said, the only words he spoke before lingering at the threshold, watching Batman disappear into the darkness of the hallway.
Bruce kept walking without a word, his steps muffled by the worn carpet and dust. He only stopped when he heard, behind him, the faint click of a door closing. Clark had shut the door.
Then, as if something inside him loosened just a little, Bruce carefully leaned against a forgotten table in the hallway, draped with a yellowed sheet. The furniture creaked but didn’t break.
His gaze involuntarily drifted to the far wall. There, at the end of the corridor, almost swallowed by shadow, stood the old wardrobe—tall, heavy, also covered by a sheet. No one would guess that behind that piece of furniture was still a door.
The door.
The one to his parents’ room.
Bruce didn’t approach. Not that night. Not yet. But he lingered there a moment, silent, breathing in dust and memories before turning away and fading down another hallway—like just another ghost among the many that haunted the manor.
He left the mansion quickly, his footsteps muffled by the grass thick with leaves and dampness. He headed toward the side of the building, where overgrowth had claimed the ground until it hid a metal entrance, concealed among roots and stones.
The door, covered in rust and grime, resisted for a moment before yielding to the lock Bruce disengaged with almost mechanical precision. The tunnel’s darkness greeted him, dense and silent but he knew every inch of it.
He moved confidently toward the cave beneath the manor, a refuge as old as his own secrets. The path leading to the Wayne station had been blocked for years, sealed off by a landslide that had closed the main route.
He sat down before a rudimentary console and carefully removed the contact lenses from his eyes. They weren’t ordinary contacts; they were cameras, cutting-edge devices that let him record everything he saw, store data, and transmit information in real time. It was as if his own eyes were an extension of his arsenal.
Now free of them, his eyes rested for a moment in the dimness, while the bluish glow of the console illuminated his face, partially hidden by the scarf.
He had hours of footage to sift through. Every frame, every sound could hold a vital clue. Yet, despite his focus on the screen, Bruce found the recording lingering on Clark’s face, on that smile, where the dimples carved themselves with an almost painful clarity. The clip played far longer than reason would allow. With a sharp shake of his head, he pushed the moment away, unwilling to grant it any significance. That wasn’t anyone else’s business but his own.
Notes:
For all practical purposes, Edward Nygma didn’t burn down the orphanage, nor did he leave any clues that Bruce Wayne was going to be targeted for his father’s sins at the mansion doors. So yeah, Bruce didn’t step foot in it for twenty years but he did go into the cave! I hope you enjoyed this update. Bruce did everything but rest.
I’d love to hear your thoughts on it!!
Chapter 6: V
Summary:
Clark feels a deep curiosity about this world. He needs to understand it, its rules, its history, its pain. If he can’t find meaning in it all, he knows he might lose his mind. But more than any answer this place could give him, what he really wants is to break through the walls Batman has built between them and Clark just wants to reach him.
Notes:
(See the end of the chapter for notes.)
Chapter Text
The room where Batman had left him was spacious and cold. Clark stayed in the room, reminding himself that he truly had no other choice; his plan was to cooperate as much as he could, for lack of a better course of action. Clark didn’t know how much time had passed since dawn when he lay down to sleep on a bed far too small for his body. It was uncomfortable but bearable; the mattress was covered with a sheet and, though old, it was better than the cold wooden floor. When he woke up, he noticed the rain had stopped and the light had changed, it was more golden now, more defined. The wallpaper on the walls, once elegant, hung in tatters, and sunlight struggled to filter through the dirty windows, casting a muted glow over the wooden floor. Dust floated through the air with a slowness that felt deliberate, as if even time itself refused to move forward within those four walls.
Officially, a new day was beginning, one far from his own world. But everything felt slightly off. What he knew, the light, the air, even the way the sunlight came through the window, was still there, familiar, but not quite, and maybe that was because he was being paranoid. It was like everything had shifted just a few inches out of place, like someone had tried to recreate his world from memory. Why did everything he knew seem subtly warped, like a wet photograph someone had tried to dry in a hurry?
Clark had no way to measure the passage of time, neither his watch nor his communicator with Terrific had worked since he arrived. He had no access to the internet, or any functioning electronic device. And even though it still bothered him a little that Terrific had put a tracker in his bloodstream, without even asking him, of course, he couldn’t complain too much: that small betrayal of trust had saved his life once, when he got trapped in a pocket dimension. His trail had been lost the moment he crossed that portal, but the chip kept transmitting until the signal finally faded. Thanks to that, Terrific found him.
'See why I do it?' he had said then, with a smug smile Clark had seriously considered wiping off by throwing him into the nearest ocean.
Now, he didn’t know if the tracker was still working… or if Terrific had also fallen into another world. The last thing he remembered was complete distortion. Maybe they were trapped in different realities.
He didn’t dare ask for anything that might connect to the internet, either. So far, he’d only managed to read a few issues of the Gotham Gazette. That was the most he had been able to learn about this world so far, and although the news repeated stories of crimes and scandals, one headline caught his attention: the murder of Simon Stagg, a powerful businessman, and the surprising accusation against Bruce Wayne as the prime suspect. It was ridiculous how different that was from his own world. And it made him wonder what other significant differences existed between this universe and his own.
Clark had so many questions. He needed to know more about this place; he wanted to understand, to explore, to investigate. To make sense of this world. He wanted to know how it worked, whether there were others like him. Whether anything here could help him understand why his body kept reacting so strongly to the idea of staying.
And why Batman hadn’t said a word about their connection. Of course, Clark hadn’t mentioned it either, so it wasn’t exactly fair to expect the other vigilante to bring it up first. But that didn’t mean he enjoyed the tactical silence.
Batman acted as if the tension between them as if it didn’t exist, as if he didn’t feel it. And maybe he didn’t, because he was trying hard not to. Still, Clark noticed every reaction the vigilante had when he saw him; he wasn’t oblivious to what was simmering beneath the surface between them. Not completely. But to Batman, Clark was nothing more than a stranger, someone faceless, without a past, who had appeared out of nowhere in his city with impossible powers and far too many questions.
Clearly, soulmates are strangers until they recognize each other. Clark understands this, and above all, he knows their bond didn’t begin in the best way.
There was already pressure due to his interdimensional uncertainty, adding more layers, even if necessary, would only build a wall between them. If Clark had learned anything about Batman’s personality, it was that he wasn’t willing to let others or circumstances dictate his fate.
Clark didn’t know if it was indifference, distrust, or something deeper, but that complete lack of recognition made his need for answers even more urgent.
Clark knew he had the strength and the skills to take whatever he needed, without restrictions or permission. He could access any information or device with ease if he set his mind to it. But doing so would mean crossing a boundary he had imposed on himself from the very beginning. To do it would be to reveal himself as what he never wanted to be: a powerful intruder, an unstoppable threat.
That wouldn’t just validate the lies Luthor had spread for years, it would make them true. To act by force, to impose his will, would mean crossing the line he had vowed never to cross. It would be becoming, at last, the very monster Luthor accused him of being.
That was the hardest part. Not his powers, nor juggling his life as Clark Kent. But the stark reality that, in worlds like this one, his very existence could be perceived as a threat. Luthor had crafted a cunning and ruthless narrative, fueled by fear: 'He’s not a man. He’s an alien who stands above us all.' He had planted that image in every corner of his world, and now, even here, in this new world, without Luthor’s hatred lingering, since there was never a Superman to despise, the echo of that narrative still held weight.
And Clark refused to accept it as truth. Not even in Luthor’s absence.
Being someone who imposes his will simply because he can didn’t align with who he was. He didn’t want Batman to view him as a threat; he didn’t want to come across as the kind of man who gets things done through force. What he truly sought was to earn the Dark Knight’s trust, not to inspire fear.
So, even if it would be easier to take what he needed and look for quick answers, he decided it was better to wait, to learn, and to trust that the answers would come in their own time.
Because being strong didn’t mean taking advantage of it. Clark had understood this from a very young age, and he was grateful for his outlook on the world and how he had learned to adapt to it.
And although he could have gone out on his own, used his powers, flown over the city, or simply walked through walls if necessary, he didn’t. Not because he couldn’t. But because he didn’t want his power to speak for him.
Instead, he chose to act within limits, avoiding any serious transgression. He approached one of the mansion’s windows. It was closed. Around him, the place remained cold, solid, and silent. Clark narrowed his eyes, drew a deep breath, and activated his X-ray vision.
Not to spy or invade, not to snoop without respect. But to see beyond what his eyes could reach. First, he studied the empty hallways of the mansion through the walls, the upper floors covered in dust, the abandoned furniture, the memories trapped in the objects. Then, slowly, he went further. He passed through the wood walls, the thick stone walls, and his vision extended outward, reaching the irregular edges of the city.
He saw the alleys, the rusted structures, the concrete torn apart by the relentless passage of time. Empty buildings, leaning towers, flooded streets. It wasn’t a city unfamiliar with darkness—not so different from his Gotham, even as the sun began to rise above the gray clouds. He recognized Gotham. Not exactly the same as the one he knew, but enough to understand where he was. Yet, something felt off.
As he reached the city's limits, he noticed it. The difference was subtle but unmistakable: there were no signs. No warnings.
In his world, just approaching the outskirts meant to see them: massive signs forbidding metahumans entry, visual warnings marking territories, official images, cold and menacing, constant reminders that 'the others' were not welcome.
But here… there was nothing.
No sign of them anywhere.
Clark didn’t really blame himself for missing it earlier, when they had ridden out of the city on the motorcycle, he’d been far too focused on the man driving… and, if he was honest, on where to put his hands.
Still, now that he saw it, the absence was jarring. Clark blinked, confused. Did that mean Gotham accepted metahumans?The thought felt almost laughable, not out of prejudice, but because of what he knew: in any version of the multiverse, Gotham was Gotham, a city like this wouldn’t so easily embrace those it couldn’t control.
So how was it possible that there were none of those warnings? It seemed absurd to think that this city, of all places, openly accepted people with abilities like his. No looming signs, no threats disguised as law, no reminders that people like him were barely tolerated.
And yet, there were no signs of rejection.
Nor of welcome.
Clark sifted through what he’d read, tracing the silences in the words, recalled the absence, and something clicked. The bioterrorism piece hadn’t mentioned Poison Ivy by name, instead her civilian identity was referenced. The article carefully avoided mentioning the gene or mutation that gave her powers, no hint of altered genes. Just a woman. A criminal, perhaps, but not a metahuman.
Harvey Dent was Two-Face, yes. But in this world, he was described simply as a man disfigured by acid. And the inmates of Arkham? were just that: dangerous criminals, not gifted, not cursed, just human. The omission felt deliberate. Like someone had erased the line between the extraordinary and the explainable… and the world had agreed to forget it ever existed.
Clark considered the possibilities, what might make sense in a world like this. Maybe, in this world, metahumans did exist but had never stepped into the light. Perhaps they lived in the shadows, hiding what they were, going unnoticed. Maybe their abilities awakened sporadically, unpredictable, and the authorities preferred to suppress any mention, any evidence.
Or maybe… there had been a breaking point, a kind of revolution, something that pushed them to show what they were… but they were not received as they expected. Maybe they were feared. Rejected. Isolated. And now, they simply remained silent. Not because they didn’t exist but because it was safer to be invisible.
There was another possibility… one far darker. That someone—or something—was actively hunting them. Not just to silence them, but to eradicate them. A shadow government. A secret organization. Clark thought of Amanda Waller, or a version of her stripped of all restraint.. If someone like her existed in this world, it wasn’t hard to imagine a system built of absolute control: with sealed records, secret prisons, and a trap so perfect that not even he could notice it. What if they were being hunted? What if that was the reason there were no visible signs, not even mentions? Not out of acceptance, but out of fear.
It was also possible that they had never existed. That the metahuman gene, as he knew it, had never developed here. That this world had never witnessed the birth of someone like Barry, Diana, or Arthur. That nature here had taken a different path. A multiverse without miracles. Or perhaps, this world was still centuries behind, still waiting for that gene to awaken within its societies.
Or maybe they did exist, but confined to restricted zones, controlled and monitored by the authorities, reduced to a handful of classified anomalies preserved in archives, like lab subjects. Or perhaps they had their own isolated territories, segregated from the rest of the world. Maybe they lived hidden in utopias of magic and myth. Did Atlantis exist here as well? Themyscira? Or had this world buried its wonders before they ever had a chance to surface?
If Krypton was alive in this universe—and not just alive, but apparently intact—then any impossible scenario suddenly felt plausible. The unimaginable was no longer a barrier, although Clark admitted he was being a bit overly fatalistic, but… what were the odds this was happening for the wrong reasons? Especially with that persistent burning sensation in his shoulder.
And Batman… Batman didn’t seem surprised at all by his existence. He didn’t treat him like an aberration or a myth, but as just another anomaly to catalog. Batman had uncovered the Pentagon’s classified files. And if he had access to those, nothing could stop him from knowing everything related to metahumans. There was likely nothing beyond his reach. If this Batman had access to that kind of information, he’d already know more than most governments.
Rumors spoke of Batman's vast knowledge in all cultural fields, even the darkest and most mysterious ones, the arcane. Perhaps this Batman was no different. Perhaps he already knew more than Clark could imagine, either way, they might need each other more than either of them was willing to admit.
Clark drew in a deep breath. He was starting to sound paranoid, even to himself. Maybe the answer was as simple as asking Batman.
Assuming, of course, that Batman was in the mood to answer.
And if that wasn’t the most extraordinary or terrifying thing that had happened to him in the past year, then maybe he should feel grateful. After all, it seemed he had found his soulmate.
He didn’t know for sure how bonds worked in this world. If they meant the same thing, even though his body felt it… that inexplicable pull, that familiarity that disarmed him.
Clark winced and lowered his head, exhausted. Not physically—that kind of fatigue was easy to fix. This was another kind of weariness, deeper, more persistent. The kind that takes root when you don’t belong, one that not even a thousand yellow suns could ease. Because he wasn’t part of this world. He had no identity, no record, no valid name. No one had registered his birth. No one had adopted him. To this universe, he simply didn’t exist.
He was a visitor without a past. The closest thing to a ghost.
And ghosts don’t make plans. Clark tried to remind himself of that constantly, there was an entire world out there that needed him. But B… just happened to be here.
Without much conviction, he wondered what he was supposed to do now. Could he even stay? Did it make sense to try? He leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees, and let his forehead fall into the palm of his hand.
That’s when he heard it.
First came the creak of wood… a sharp, dry snap in the hallway. Then hurried footsteps. And finally, the sound he hadn’t even realized he’d been attuned to for hours now: the steady rhythm of Batman’s heartbeat.
Clark wasn’t sure when exactly his senses had locked onto it. Maybe during the interrogation, when the silence between questions stretched longer than the answers. Or during their wordless walks through the station, when Batman kept to the shadows and let the silence speak for him. But somewhere along the way, that heartbeat had become unmistakable. Singular. Whatever the reason, he could now distinguish it from any other.
And now that heartbeat… had changed.
It skipped just for a second. Not out of fear. Not from physical exertion. From something else. A brief, involuntary shift. As if something had shaken it from within.
Clark opened the door softly, still feeling the echo of the questions crowding his head. When he saw him, he took a breath and moved closer.
Bruce stood at the end of the hallway, a backpack slung over his shoulder that Clark hadn’t seen before. He wore a dark t-shirt and gray sweatpants that looked like they hadn’t been worn in years, yet somehow gave him an almost ordinary appearance. A black mask covered the lower half of his face, and his tangled, messy hair, longer than Clark had noticed before, partially fell over his eyes. Still, nothing could soften the intensity of his gaze. His eyes remained dark, as dark as when he had confronted Clark on the stairs.
Clark reacted on instinct, catching the backpack midair before it could hit the floor.
“There’s clothes and some essentials that might come in handy,” Bruce said without looking back at him, barely pausing. “I wired the third floor for electricity and running water. One of the rooms is set up. You’ll have privacy, comfort, if you’re willing to put in the effort.”
Clark followed silently,the backpack hanging from his hand as if it weighed nothing. He studied Bruce’s rigid posture, the tension heavy in his shoulders. Clark felt words rising in his throat, urgent, demanding release.
He couldn’t wait any longer.
“Are there metahumans in this world?”
The question cut through the air, clear, direct, no beating around the bush.
Bruce stopped immediately.
The hallway fell silent, broken only by the low hum of electricity and the distant drip of an old pipe. Clark saw the man’s back tense even more, if that was possible. He didn’t turn around fully, nor did he answer.
And yet, the silence was an answer in itself.
He didn’t turn completely, but just enough for Clark to see the slight movement of his jaw tightening behind the mask. An involuntary tic, almost imperceptible.
“Why do you ask that?”
“Because there are no signs. None,” Clark replied, stopping as well. “No posters, no warnings, no trace. Even in the newspapers, there’s an almost meticulous absence. In my world, the existence of someone like me is visible from miles away… you said it yourself. Something hard to ignore, in any world. In my world, people with abilities are marked on borders, on maps, in laws. But here… it’s as if they never existed. Or as if someone made sure to erase every last trace.”
Bruce held Clark’s gaze for a few seconds, saying nothing. Then, without a word, he resumed walking. Not fast, but fast enough to force Clark to follow.
“They exist,” he finally said. “But not the way you imagine.”
“They’re hiding?” Clark pressed, closing the distance. “Are they forced to? Classified? Was there a revolution? A pact of silence?”
His voice came out more intense than he intended. It wasn’t anger. It was an urgency and deep need, Clark was tired of feeling around in the dark.
Bruce didn’t answer right away and kept walking.
"Sometimes," he said after a moment. "powers appear without warning. A genetic accident. A failed experiment. A cosmic coincidence. And when that happens, governments do what they always do: they document, contain, eliminate. Some are born that way. Others develop them. But to the system, they are all anomalies. Threats. Variables that can’t be predicted."
Clark followed him, but not out of obedience. He did it because he needed to know what world he had arrived in, and what he was hearing didn’t sit well with him.
"And the people, the population in each part of the planet?" Clark asked, louder than before. "What do they do about that?"
Bruce barely shrugged.
"They fear. And forget. Or pretend to forget."
Clark pressed his lips together. It wasn’t a surprise to reach this point of no return. But hearing it like that, bluntly, hit him differently.
"Amanda Waller exists in this world, right?"
This time Bruce did stop. He didn’t turn around completely, but the angle of his body shifted just enough to make it clear the question had caught him with his guard down, and even though half his face remained covered, his eyes said enough.
"It’s not a name you should know." he said, without raising his voice.
Clark held his gaze without backing down.
"I shouldn’t know many things. But I do. And now I’m here," he paused, as if saying it out loud solidified his suspicion. "And I can’t stop seeing the signs. If she’s here, if she operates with the same goal of public order as in my world, then metahumans aren’t absent. Maybe they’re hiding. Or detained. Or being judged," Clark sighed and furrowed his brow. "I never understood their need to hold superheroes back. We do what we do to do good, we accept judgment, we understand it. But we’re not threats."
Bruce barely turned his face, just enough for Clark to catch the piercing blue eyes lurking beneath the shadows.
"It’s not your problem."
Clark blinked, caught off guard.
“Excuse me?”
“You’re here by accident.” Bruce replied, his tone now colder. “A glitch in physics, the multiverse, whatever it is. Your presence is temporary. We don’t even know how you got here, much less how you’ll get back. Whatever’s happening in this world... it’s not your fight.”
Clark held his gaze, more cautious than angry.
“So, it is a war?”
Clark held Bruce's gaze, not with anger, nor defiance, but with the kind of quiet strength that doesn’t need to raise its voice to be heard. Bruce’s silence stretched long enough to speak for itself.
“I’m not sending you away,” Bruce finally said, his voice low, almost reluctant. “I’m just reminding you this is something even I can’t fix.”
Clark lowered his eyes for a fleeting moment.
“But I can’t pretend I don’t see what’s wrong either. Nor can I ignore if someone out there needs help.” Clark paused. His gaze stayed steady, but no longer defiant. ”It wouldn’t be the first time I’ve stepped into a war.”
Bruce watched him without blinking. For a moment, his eyes narrowed, as if weighing the best way to respond to that information. It was clear the impulse in Bruce to dissect every word with precision. But what emerged was something else.
“So now Superman’s collecting geopolitical conflicts too?”
He didn’t say it with disdain or humor. It was barely a thread of ironic voice, an almost absent tease—like someone laughing just to avoid admitting something had affected them. Bruce’s hand clenched a little tighter around the stair railing.
Clark narrowed his eyes at the mention of his hero name and gave a smile that didn’t reach his eyes. It was the kind of expression he had perfected in awkward interviews, when he wanted to seem more human than he felt. It was too much like that interview with Lois, back when their relationship went south, except, of course, without the supershit part.
“No,” he said simply. He held Bruce’s gaze with the unshakable calm of someone who has made up their mind. “All I care about is the people. And doing good.”
Bruce glanced away briefly, as if that kind of answer stirred a deeper discomfort than any threat ever could. He wasn’t really disagreeing with Clark, not at all.
“And who gave you permission to interfere in a war?” he asked, his tone low and sharp, like a needle striking without warning.
Clark didn’t flinch.
“No one.”
And the way he said it wasn’t arrogant or heroic, there was only honesty. Bruce didn’t move, but his voice shifted, losing its irony and gaining reproach.
“You interfered in a war without anyone’s permission. Not even the country where you grew up. I understand your role can be global, but you were raised in Kansas and your base of operations is Metropolis. Have you stopped to consider how that looked from the outside? What the nations involved thought?” his gaze tried to be as hard as a verdict, enough to convince Clark “That sounds exactly like what the United States would do. But Superman isn’t the United States. Or is he?”
Clark stood his ground, but no longer smiled.
“I wasn’t representing any government,” he answered calmly, having been through this argument before and able to stay composed this time. “Only myself.”
“And you think that’s enough?”
“No,” he admitted. “It’s not about being enough. It was about what was necessary.”
Bruce took a step closer. The shadow of the bat fell between them, darkening the space.
“And who decides what’s necessary, Clark?” he asked quietly. “Superman? An alien with unlimited powers, unsupervised, answering to no authority, operating on foreign soil, in a conflict you probably didn’t fully understand?”
Bruce’s words were no longer just logical as he continued his reasoning:
“I don’t need to know the details of that conflict to know it was a bad decision. And you don’t need to fully understand this world to know that repeating it here would be just as dangerous.”
Clark clenched his jaw. He didn’t raise his voice, but there was a firmness in his words that didn’t require volume to command respect.
“I saw people from both nations die,” he said slowly. “I saw children who didn’t understand why their homes were in ruins. I didn’t need to understand politics to know that no one deserved to live through that.”
Bruce barely shook his head. He had to convince Clark not to get involved, to stay out of it… even if it made him look like a cynic, or worse. He didn’t feel any better about what he was about to say.
“You saw it all from above. From the sky. But from there, everything looks simpler. Black or white. Right or wrong,” he paused briefly, without looking at him. “And the world doesn’t work like that. But yours… yours is lucky to have you.”
Clark took a step forward, resolute. He wasn’t going to back down. That should have irritated Bruce, but his body language said otherwise. And that gave him away. It wasn’t condescension—it was doubt. He was trying to buy time, to entangle him. Clark knew Bruce didn’t fully believe his own words, at least not when it came to judging him for the Boravia and Jarhanpur conflict. His heart contradicted him. And if that last sentence didn’t manage to steal a smile from Clark, then it would be him who wasn’t telling the whole truth.
“I know,” Clark replied calmly. “I know I didn’t come here to impose a solution. I didn’t come to save a planet that never asked for my help.”
He paused for a moment, searching for the right words. It wasn’t the right time to talk about his soul mark: what he actually suspected was the real reason he’d ended up here.
“But I can’t just stand by when I see injustice. No matter what world I’m in.”
Bruce looked at him for a few seconds, as if trying to decide whether to admire him… or fear for Clark Kent’s very stability. He looked at him like he was trying to find a crack in that steel conviction. Like he was desperately searching for a reason to keep believing that Clark might be dangerous. And that his presence didn’t stir something in him he refused to name.
But he didn’t find it and that, perhaps, was his greatest frustration.
The silence was brief, but heavy. Bruce moved again, with that gait that felt more like calculation than motion. When he reached the bottom of the stairs, he stopped once more. This time, he didn’t look back.
“Third floor. Last room at the end. It has a lock.”
Clark stayed where he was, the backpack hanging off one shoulder, with the growing certainty that he had just hit a raw nerve. One Batman preferred to leave untouched.
“What do we do now?” Clark asked, more softly, climbing the stairs, one step at a time, until Bruce’s figure disappeared completely into the shadows of the upper floor. Clark paused there.
Bruce wanted to punch him. Not because he deserved it, but because Clark wouldn’t understand. He couldn’t. Not yet.
He answered before his voice could get lost.
“Start getting comfortable, Kent. Looks like you’re going to be here for a while.”
Clark didn’t know the fine lines between threat and survival that Bruce had walked his entire life. Clark didn’t understand what it meant for someone like him, so visible, so impossible to hide, to be loose in a city that had learned to hunt down anything it couldn’t control.
Bruce wasn’t trying to push him away out of ego, or cynicism. He was containing him, shielding Clark from his own power. Keeping him off the radar.
The first night he saw him in Arkham, he hadn’t even known what to think. He could tell Clark was part of the metahuman kind, that much was obvious. But he hadn’t seen one in years. Not since the coup d'état . Since the Hall of Justice became the Hall of Order.
But now... now the truth was far more complicated. Superman wasn’t just a metahuman. He was an alien from another Earth.
And that changed everything.
Because if Amanda Waller ever found out that someone like him, someone from another universe, with powers as vast as they were unexplainable, was living in Gotham, unregistered, uncontrolled... they wouldn’t just hunt him down. They would dismantle him from the inside. Break him. Use him. And they’d do it with the full backing of the system.
For some reason, perhaps convenience, perhaps cold calculation Amanda Waller still allowed certain vigilantes to operate. Humans. Mortals. Contained within parameters she could still tolerate… or eliminate, if necessary.
Batman. Green Arrow. Catwoman. Lex Luthor. Familiar figures. All human. All imperfect, but predictable in Waller’s eyes. None of them wielded power beyond their own bodies, their technology, their training, or their unyielding will. They were useful instruments. Or, at worst, manageable nuisances.
Bruce knew that had nothing to do with leniency or respect. It was pure strategy. Because human could still be broken. Still watched, contained, neutralized if it ever became a threat.
But someone like Superman…
That wouldn’t be tolerated.
Not without a leash.
Not without a cage.
And if Waller ever found out that Batman was protecting him—that he was covering for him, hiding him—she wouldn’t see it as an infraction.
She’d see it as a declaration of war.
Bruce knew they were all still operating as what remained of a resistance: an unofficial network of shadows and silent codes. And he knew the only miracle keeping them standing was their humanity… a condition that could stop protecting them at any moment.
Amanda Waller wasn’t a ghost in this reality. She was an institution, one whose original purpose had been to keep superheroes in check. She held absolute power over anyone who fell outside the bounds of human law. Every convicted metahuman had known her back when she was merely the public face of the Bureau of Sovereignty . Now, she ran more than programs. She was the political muscle of a global fear. People knew she existed. They knew just enough not to ask too many questions. Metahumans weren’t celebrities. They weren’t symbols. They were files. Potential threats. And if they didn’t appear in public, it was because they couldn’t afford to.
Bruce stopped in front of the closed door of the room. He didn’t go in. He heard footsteps still on the stairs. Clark was coming. He knew it.
That was the problem.
Clark could fly, damn it, could freeze things with his breath and melt others with his eyes. He could listen to conversations through walls if he wanted to. He didn’t need permission or technology. And yet... still, at every opportunity, he asked his concerns.
Bruce clenched his jaw. There was no time for that kind of kind-hearted, well-meaning man, and even though Clark could help this world break free from Waller’s absolute power, there were no guarantees. An untrained metahuman was dangerous. A well-intentioned one was even worse.
But one with alien powers, from another universe, with a deep need to do good without understanding this world’s rules… Bruce had truly tried to persuade him there. Attempts had been made before to reclaim justice from Waller’s grip and her Suicide Squad… Clark was a ticking time bomb here.
Not because he was about to explode.
But because Waller always heard the ticking before anyone else did.
And Bruce already had enough bodies on his conscience to add another for not acting in time. Waylon had been the last, and he regretted his loss every single day.
Waylon Jones. Nicknamed Killer Croc. To many, just a monster. A threat. Something to be locked up, contained, or eliminated. But Bruce had always seen something more. A man struck down by a cruel condition, by a system that had rejected him since childhood, by a world that fed him only fear and hatred.
Waylon had learned to speak without growling, to listen without needing to bite. He had made progress. Slowly, with effort, but he had done it, and he was trying to find his place among the ruins of a city that never wanted him.
Bruce believed in him. He offered him help, shelter, structure. Because everyone deserves a chance to change. To rebuild themselves. Even, especially, those the world had already condemned.
But when Waylon tried to break free from state control, to leave behind the chains, the suppressive drugs, the ‘active metahuman under surveillance’ status, they wouldn’t let him get far.
Waller found him first.
They returned him in pieces. They called it a ‘mission failure’ and buried him nameless.
Clark wouldn’t understand. And maybe he never would, maybe he’d return to his world because some other mysterious force would claim him. But Bruce wasn’t building distance out of distrust. He was building it like a wall. Because if they touched him, if they saw him, if they labeled him… it was only a matter of time.
And no one, not even Batman, could stop Amanda Waller once she decided something had to disappear.
Footsteps reached the landing. Bruce stepped away from the door before Clark could see him there. He entered the adjoining room and closed the door silently.
Bruce brought a hand to his face and removed his mask. He took a deep breath. The air scraped his lungs as if he’d been holding back more than just his voice all day. It wasn’t just physical exhaustion. It was the constant weight of maintaining an increasingly fragile balance.
Clark wanted to do the right thing. Bruce saw it in his eyes. That insistence on asking, intervening, offering himself. As if he didn’t understand that sometimes, doing what’s right meant staying still or hiding.
If the world knew what he had brought there, what he had let into the abandoned Wayne orphanage, they would never forgive him. Never.
And yet… Bruce didn’t regret it.
He exhaled and stepped away from the wall. Clark’s room was at the back. Secure. Locked. Double-insulated. With security lines he hadn’t activated, but could turn on in a second if things went wrong.
But he honestly wished it wouldn’t come to that. He just needed Clark to stay invisible. Just a little longer. Until he could find a way to send him home. Or a way to protect him forever, without Clark ever knowing.
Clark was different from anyone he’d known. Too bright in his innocence, yes… but also unstoppable in his will. Had he arrived under different circumstances, they might have been allies. Partners. Perhaps even something more.
Bruce didn’t allow himself to dwell on that last part. He couldn’t… it made no sense to feel that way, or to think it.
But if Clark wanted to understand this world, if he truly wanted to know it, Bruce would make sure to give him the tools to do so. Files. Books. Information. Bruce wouldn’t stop him from seeking answers.
He would only ask that Clark stay unseen. That he should remain in the shadows a little longer, just a little longer.
He turned off the monitor on the portable panel. He had left all the essentials active, silent sensors, energy sweeps, thermal alerts. Any intrusion would be recorded. No one could get in without him knowing.
And yet, the last thing he did was look once more toward the closed door, where Clark would surely explore what he’d left available: more clothes, this time larger, some food, mostly canned, which shouldn’t be much of a problem if Clark could heat it with his heat vision, a couple of books that might interest him, and an old music player with a playlist Bruce had put together in his adolescence.
Bruce settled on the edge of the bed. He intended to read something, to run through the sensors one last time. He planned to stay awake, as always. But in the lingering silence, his thoughts turned to Waylon; the mistake from his past that still smoldered.
He wouldn’t make the same mistake again.
This time, he’d do whatever it took.
Even if no one could know.
But Bruce’s body didn’t obey.
The moment he touched the mattress, he surrendered.
He didn’t even have the strength to pull back the sheets or turn off the faint light in the room. He collapsed onto his side, surrendering to sleep without a fight. He’d been awake for two full days straight, drinking too much coffee, making too many decisions, carrying an unbearable weight.
And yet, in the last thread of consciousness before fading out, he thought of Clark. Of how he shone even when trying to hide. Of how impossible it would be to keep seeing him as a stranger visitor.
And of how inevitable it would be to lose him.
Notes:
I’m really curious to see how Reeves will develop The Batman: Part II, because, as I see it, with the atmosphere and aesthetic he created, it’s hard for me to imagine an antagonist coming from the metahuman world. Maybe Hugo Strange, the Court of Owls, or even Black Mask would fit, but I can’t picture him dealing with characters like Clayface, Poison Ivy, or my dear Waylon. :(
I hope you enjoyed this chapter! It’s even longer than the previous ones, like a little apology for the delay. I had two weeks of intense exams at university, and the grades still haven’t been posted.
Anyway, I hope you found the world-building interesting! I promise the slow burn is going to be worth it!!! :D
Chapter 7: VI
Notes:
Hello again!! I’m back with another chapter, and it was a nightmare to translate in a single day, because I usually finish publishing in Spanish as soon as I finish writing, and I take the next day to translate it and then post it. The thing is, I had to translate 8,500 words. And I didn’t double-check, so if anything’s off, let me know!
(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)
Chapter Text
There were five books stacked on the nightstand, their spines worn and uneven. Clark let his fingertips glide over the first one: The Count of Monte Cristo , Alexandre Dumas. An old traveling companion… or so he liked to call it, to sound eloquent about eighteenth-century adventure novels. The second: Anabasis , by Xenophon. A fine layer of dust seemed to cling to every page. He flipped it over to read the synopsis; it wasn’t something he would have sought out on his own, but Batman fit perfectly with this kind of reading, as if he could just as easily be leafing through The Art of War . And really, it was entirely plausible.
Next came Hard Times , by Charles Dickens. A story he knew by heart, one that already had a place in his personal library, a small bookshelf in his apartment, now beginning to sag under the weight of too many volumes. Had B left him these books because he thought they suited his taste? Or simply because, to B, they were works worth reading? Either way, Clark had to admit it: the man had classic taste. Lifting Dickens, he uncovered I, Robot , by Isaac Asimov. Clark had first read it as a teenager, during a long, sleepless night on the farm. It was a good book; he’d probably start with that one to pass the time.
He let himself drop into the nearest chair and opened the first page, surrendering to the old stories of robots and human dilemmas. He read barely ten chapters, moving line by line… and then frowned. The Three Laws were not as he remembered them. With his eidetic memory, he couldn’t be mistaken: the words were different. He flipped through a few more pages, unable to decide whether it was a mere editorial mistake or something else, something tied to the world he now found himself in. So much so, in fact, that for a moment he forgot there was still a fifth book in the stack.
When he finally reached for it, his hand froze halfway through the motion.
The Last Day of Rao, by Jordan Elliot.
The title struck him, and for a heartbeat, he forgot to breathe.
Bruce slept deeply for five hours, in broad daylight, and awoke with a jolt, torn out of a nightmare. He bit down on the corner of his shirt, squeezing his eyes shut, covered his ears with his hands, and waited, just long enough to make sure he was fully awake, safe from fear. Silence; no longer the cries of a dying man, nor the sharp crack of bullets tearing through flesh. Not even the tinkling scatter of pearls rolling across bloodstained pavement.
Realizing he was awake, his heartbeat began to steady, though his eyes refused to stay shut. He knew all too well that soon enough his mind would begin to gallop. He felt, with little relief, that what washed over him as he opened his eyes was not fear but a surge of anger. There, standing before him, he saw the figure.
Clark.
The reporter. The hero.
Shining in the full light of day.
Bruce leaned forward, disheveled and heavy, his hair a tangled mess pointing in every direction. The light carved out every line of his face, stripped of shadow. His mind, still groggy, hadn’t yet caught up to the weight of what he was revealing.
And yet, there he was, his face laid completely bare.
Clark blinked, bewildered. He stayed frozen, the air trapped in his throat. The sudden rush of shyness that struck him made him retreat as though he’d been caught doing something illicit. His lips parted in silent astonishment.
And then he understood: for the first time, he was looking at the face of Batman.
B looked good without the mask. Unfairly good, even fresh from sleep and unkempt, his eyes glistening in a bleary, tear-bright haze.
Bruce blinked slowly, as if even that movement cost him. His muscles, stiff with sleep and memory, reacted before his mind did: his shoulders tightened, his chin lifted, and his body settled almost instinctively into the closed, vigilant stance of a fighter.
His hands sought the edge of the bed, anchoring themselves, as though at any second he might launch forward at the farmer, tackle him, or shove him aside with a single blow.
“What are you doing here?” His voice came out rough, low, laced with restrained menace.
Clark blinked, startled by how quickly the moment of vulnerability had vanished. There was no trace left of the rumpled, half-asleep man he’d glimpsed seconds ago; in his place stood the vigilante, the predator of the night, even under the light of day.
Bruce didn’t look away. His brow furrowed ever so slightly, as if trying to decipher the fixed expression on the other man’s face.
“Does my face look familiar to you?” he asked at last, his voice low, taut, each word weighed before release.
Clark opened his mouth to answer, but nothing came out. He remained caught in the moment, in the exposed features he hadn’t imagined this way: the hard line of the jaw, the shadow of a beard just beginning to show, the blue-gray eyes holding him in place, still bright from interrupted sleep, and the face streaked as though tar, not tears, had stained his cheeks.
“Or were you watching me while I slept?” Bruce added, this time with an edge in his tone, like someone intent on forcing the other onto the defensive.
Clark blinked, struggling to wrest control of his voice.
“No… I…” He swallowed, glancing aside for the briefest moment. “It’s not what you think.”
But Bruce was already straightening again, a wall of suspicion rising in place.
“Your heart sped up,” Clark said awkwardly, his hands twisting together in nervous knots. “I thought… that you might be in danger… I came as soon as I heard the change.”
Bruce frowned, wary.
He didn’t look away; there was nothing left to lose. Even so, the confession left an uncomfortable twinge in his chest. That the Kryptonian could hear things no one else could was no surprise; what unsettled him was that he did it with him. There was no logical reason for Clark to focus on his heartbeat in particular. Gotham was full of sounds, of screams, of threats demanding immediate attention. And yet, he had chosen his.
That pulse which, in a nightmare, had decided to race.
The consequence—he told himself—of spending the night in the old Wayne manor, trying to clear his own mind.
It was an irrational gesture… and, in some way, intimate. Bruce thought it, too intimate.
“Why were you listening to my heart?” he asked, his voice low but steady, searching for an answer.
Clark turned his gaze aside, feeling an unexpected heat rising in his cheeks. He swallowed several times, grasping for words with little success.
“It’s just… well… it’s not common for someone’s pulse to be that… that fast. And I thought maybe you were… in real danger.”
He paused, biting his lower lip, unable to meet Bruce’s eyes.
“I guess I reacted quickly because… I didn’t want anything bad to happen to you. I’m sorry.” His blush deepened, and with a hesitant stammer he added, “And… I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to see you without your consent. I wasn’t expecting to see you so… vulnerable. Without the cowl, you’re… different.”
Bruce regarded him with a mixture of surprise and something close to curiosity, though he kept that subtle defense in his stance, scrutinizing every word as if searching for a hidden trap.
Vulnerable. Bruce pressed his lips together hard. The word struck him like an icy needle piercing his skin. He didn’t like it. He didn’t like what the implication carried, nor what it stirred within him. He felt the urge to look away, but he stifled it with the same discipline that kept him standing night after night in the Wayne Terminus. When his voice came, it was sharp, like a blade slicing through the air, shattering the calm:
“You didn’t answer my question,” his gaze pinned Clark, challenging. “Does my face look familiar to you?”
Clark furrowed his brow, genuinely puzzled, as if the question had opened a door he didn’t know how to cross—though Bruce didn’t fully trust that expression.
“What do you mean?”
Bruce stared at him, almost daring him, with an insistence that bordered on relentless.
“Doesn’t it look familiar to you? Doesn’t it say anything to you?”
Clark blinked several times, confused, unable to find an answer.
“No… no, I don’t understand why it would.”
Bruce straightened suddenly. The defense in his posture remained, solid as a wall, but something else had slipped through his movements: a flash of frustration, of disappointment… or perhaps of relief.
“Forget it,” he said, his voice controlled, almost flat. And he turned away before Clark could ask anything more.
He crossed the room with long, measured strides toward the en suite bathroom, but the sound of footsteps following him was soon noticeable. Clark trailed him, not even trying to hide it, like a large, clumsy dog that didn’t know when to give up.
“I read some of the books that were in my room,” Clark said, trying to close the distance in a thread of a voice. “Well… in the room you put me in.”
Bruce didn’t flinch as he opened the sink. He let the water run, listening to the steady slap of the cold stream against the marble.
“And?” he asked, dryly, without looking at him.
“They’re yours, right?” Clark hesitated, more timid than he would have liked. “I’d like to think those books are part of what you read… what interests you.”
Bruce turned just slightly, his gaze falling on him like a blade. He hadn’t chosen those books; yes, they belonged to his library, but the selection had been Alfred’s doing.
“Don’t ever enter my room again.”
Clark swallowed, but gave a brief smile, as if he hadn’t heard the warning or didn’t want to take it seriously.
“Okay… it’s just that I’d read Asimov before, but… for some reason, the laws of robotics were wrong.”
Bruce paused for a moment, washing his face with tense movements. He barely lifted his gaze toward him; his eyes narrowed, a thick trace of black makeup smudging across his face.
“What do you mean by ‘wrong’?”
“Well, you see… the originals are that a robot may not harm a human being or, through inaction, allow a human to come to harm. It must obey orders given by humans, except where they conflict with the First Law. And finally, a robot must protect its own existence as long as such protection does not conflict with the First or Second Law.”
Clark tilted his head, a nearly amused gesture, trying to lighten the mood.
“But in your book,” Clark added with a small laugh, more nervous than amused, “it said something different: a robot will protect its creator above any other human, a robot will obey its creator’s orders even if they conflict with the First Law. And a robot will protect itself in order to continue serving its creator.”
Bruce sighed, exhausted. Something about those words wasn’t right… and even though he didn’t fully understand it yet, it wasn’t just a difference between books.
“Clark, you come from another world. You can’t say that what I know is wrong just because it’s different for you,” Bruce said, his jaw tight.
“I’m sorry,” Clark murmured awkwardly.
Bruce leaned forward, rinsing his hair more thoroughly, using a cloth to scrub the smudges around his eyes until he was satisfied. Still, dust and soot clung stubbornly to the mirror, muting his reflection. He could barely make out his own exhausted figure, cleaner now than the world around him.
Behind him, Clark leaned against the doorframe, silent, his expression caught between remorse and something else. His eyes didn’t fully meet Bruce’s, yet they betrayed curiosity, concern, and… something harder to read, something that seemed to bother him.
Bruce remained motionless, acutely aware of every line, every shadow of his exposed face: the mirror was streaked, yet his skin stayed untouched, bare under the light.
In the same way, every nuance of Clark’s face was etched into his mind: how the light bouncing off the mirror caressed his features, how the silence grew heavy, almost tangible, between them.
Finally, Bruce turned slowly toward him. With an almost instinctive motion, he ran his fingers through his damp hair; drops of water slid down his neck, falling lightly from his strands. Then, in a voice surprisingly soft, freed from Batman’s usual gravitas, he murmured:
“Now… does my face look familiar to you?”
Distracted, Clark took a moment to lift his gaze. But the voice—different, calm, released from the weight of the darkness that always clung to it—compelled him to look.
He blinked, caught between confusion and fascination, and before he even realized it, the words slipped from his lips:
“You’re… so beautiful.”
Silence fell completely. Bruce froze for a moment, water still running down his fingers, and for a brief instant, he seemed caught, as if his throat couldn’t process what he had just heard. The muffled sound of droplets hitting the marble seemed to amplify the tension, making it almost tangible.
Bruce felt his face heat up.
Clark realized immediately what he had said, and his own face ignited like a wildfire through a dry forest under a wave of heat. He stepped back, nearly stumbling against the doorframe, and raised his hands in a clumsy gesture to steady himself on the lintel.
“I… I’m sorry, I didn’t mean… I don’t know why I said it,” he stammered, the words tripping over each other.
Bruce watched him with narrowed eyes, a moment of silence heavier than any words. Finally, he sighed, a trace of disbelief in his breath, and in a voice calm but more restrained than before, he murmured softly:
“Don’t say it again.”
Clark nodded, swallowed hard, still flushed, and took another step back, wishing he could disappear while simultaneously unable to look away from him.
Clark looked at him, initially distracted, his attention wandering over the soft lines of dark hair falling in strands and the chiseled features—a face so perfectly formed it seemed almost carved. For a fleeting moment, he didn’t fully recognize the person in front of him. It wasn’t until the light struck the sharp line of his jaw, and the intensity of his eyes bore into his own, that his mind finally made the connection.
“…Bruce Wayne,” he finally whispered, as if saying the name aloud helped him accept what his mind refused to comprehend. “You’re… Bruce Wayne.”
The weight of the revelation made Clark step forward slightly, both hands still gripping the doorframe, eyes wide, breathing a little faster. Bruce tilted his head slightly, a hint of a smile crossing his lips. The way he looked at him neither confirmed nor denied anything.
Unintentionally, the gesture placed Clark directly in front of him, blocking the way out. The sink was behind Bruce, the exit ahead, a subtle enclosure that made the room feel too small for both of them, as if stepping closer confirmed what he already saw.
The closeness of Bruce standing in front of him, the warm, calm voice, and that strangely familiar face, it was the first time in the entire conversation that the idea of keeping distance felt unbearable.
Bruce watched him in silence, a faint smile playing on his lips, fully aware of the effect the revelation could have. Yet, at the same time, he couldn’t help noticing the physical: the way Clark’s muscles tensed as he gripped the frame, the veins tracing along his forearms, the stance making him seem even taller, solid, commanding.
A wall of a man, Bruce thought, a pang of recognition twisting through him—part discomfort, part attraction. Clumsily, unconsciously, dangerously compelling.
Meanwhile, Clark’s mind refused to accept the obvious. No. It couldn’t be. That Bruce Wayne, that superficial man with the heir’s smug smile and the arrogance of someone who never takes anything seriously—Batman? The contrast was absurd, grotesque.
Everything Clark had come to recognize in the figure of the bat—the discipline, the iron control, the darkness that radiated power—clashed violently with the public image of The Gotham’s Prince . It was ridiculous. It had to be. Some mistake, a distortion of this universe, a poorly designed cosmic joke. There was no way that man and Batman could be the same person.
And yet Clark couldn’t stop thinking: he was in another universe. In his world, Bruce Wayne would never be Batman; that clash between the reality he knew and what stood before him left him disoriented… It couldn’t be real. But it was.
Since when could Bruce Wayne look at someone and make the world itself seem to pause?
How could a man so… utterly himself… carry a weight that seemed to eclipse everything Clark had ever known?
His heart was beating faster than he liked to admit, and every fiber of his being told him to step back, keep his distance, stay rational. But there was something in those eyes, in the way he looked at him, that was impossible to ignore.
Clark bit his lip, trying to reorganize his thoughts: Okay, this is another universe. It doesn’t have to be real in my world. It’s… just a different version of Bruce Wayne. Yeah, that’s it. Nothing to do with me… nothing to do with me.
And yet, when he remembered the newspaper cover, Bruce Wayne serious and exhausted, a small spark of doubt flickered in his mind: maybe… maybe he really was Batman. But in his world, that airhead, always in the flashes and headlines, that arrogant, selfish showman, could never be the man who hides in the shadows, secretly fighting for justice. No way. He couldn’t imagine it.
And yet, every time the light fell across Bruce's face, every time that faint smile brushed Bruce's lips, Clark felt his mind surrender a little more, unable to separate logic from sensation.
“What are you thinking?” Bruce’s voice snapped him out of his own thoughts.
Clark blinked, startled, feeling his mind unravel once again.
“Uh… nothing,” he stammered, trying to compose himself, though his heart still raced.
Bruce stepped closer, his gaze fixed on him, gently pointing out the tension in his posture.
“You’re tense,” his voice was calm, assured, yet there was something in the way he said it that made each word feel charged.
Clark swallowed, aware of every movement of his body. He couldn’t lie, couldn’t hide how his breath quickened or how his heart raced.
“I… I’m not… no…” he tried, but the words got stuck in his throat.
Bruce tilted his head slightly, studying him with patience and a hint of irony.
“Yes, you are. Relax, Clark. Or at least try not to look like you’re about to explode at any moment.”
Clark tried to smile, but all he managed was a clumsy, nervous, confused gesture. Inside his mind, everything was still spinning: another universe, Bruce Wayne as Batman… How did it all fit together? And yet, absurd as it was, every time he looked at him, he felt something inside him unravel. His soulmate wasn’t just Batman, the Dark Knight—he was also Bruce Wayne: the philanthropic magnate, the man the press painted as a shallow womanizer.
And yet, there he was, his heart pounding in his chest with a will that seemed intent on destroying him.
“You look nervous,” Bruce said simply, as if pointing it out were enough to unbalance him even further.
Clark swallowed, feeling heat rising to his cheeks. He glanced around, and suddenly everything made sense: the furniture, the paintings, the heavy silence of the ruined orphanage… he was in Wayne manor. And he, who had entered with caution and a hint of curiosity, had assumed Bruce was just another orphan, another piece in his world. He had hurt the man in his own home.
“I… I’m sorry,” he stammered, his gaze dropping to the floor. “I… I shouldn’t have assumed you were… just another orphan.”
Bruce watched him in silence for a moment, weighing his words. His expression didn’t soften entirely, but there was no reproach either. Just a restrained patience, as if he expected Clark to recognize on his own what he had done.
Clark lifted his gaze, meeting his eyes. A lump in his throat kept him from speaking, but there was honesty in every silent word: he was aware of his mistake, and of how much he had underestimated Bruce.
“It’s alright,” Bruce finally said, in a low, measured tone. “Just… try not to judge so quickly.”
Clark nodded, still reeling from the revelation and the closeness of the man whose true identity he now knew, without a doubt.
Clark took a deep breath, trying to push the evidence from his mind and focus on anything else, anything that wasn’t the thought that Bruce… Batman… or whatever he was supposed to call him now.
“It’s not…” he murmured, almost without realizing it. “I don’t even know how to address you. I can’t keep calling you Batman all the time, and I… I don’t think I can say Bruce without it feeling… wrong.”
He ran a hand through his hair, nervous, and glanced at him out of the corner of his eye, offering a timid smile.
“Do you… mind if I just call you B?”
Bruce looked at him for a moment, his expression unreadable, as if measuring every nuance of that absurd yet intimate request.
“You can,” he finally replied, brief, dry… but there was something in the tone, almost imperceptible, that didn’t feel like a refusal.
“That’s… incredible,” Clark said softly, still shaking his head. “I can’t wrap my head around how you can be both.”
Bruce raised an eyebrow.
“I’m not two. Just one. The rest… is all stage props.”
Clark let out a nervous laugh, incredulous.
“Props? Bruce Wayne, the millionaire philanthropist who smiles at galas and graces magazine covers, is just a cover?”
Bruce held his gaze, as if assessing just how far Clark’s naivety went.
“No. I’m just as necessary as the cowl,” Bruce replied, unflinching, brushing past Clark and forcing him to step aside.
Clark remained silent, but his smile faded as he tried to make sense of it, feeling admiration and a disconcerting attraction twist together into a knot in his chest.
His eyes swept the room, searching for something to anchor him to reality. Then, a spark of memory: the books in the room. That memory abruptly replaced by Bruce. That particular title… the one that had made him frown from the first page, the title that had frozen him in place. There was something disturbing about it, something too profound. It wasn’t a simple treatise or a scientific curiosity, it wasn’t science fiction. It was as if the author had access to forbidden knowledge, an impossible secret.
Clark remembered the words with icy clarity: meticulous descriptions of abilities he had never confessed, weaknesses traced with astonishing precision, scenarios so specific they seemed written for him. It couldn’t be coincidence. It couldn’t be chance.
Clark blinked, swallowing hard. This is ridiculous… it can’t be coincidence… or can it? Was someone really writing about Superman’s culture in a world where he never existed? His mind wrestled between disbelief and uncomfortable certainty. That book, so detailed, so specific, felt almost… Kryptonian. As if whoever wrote it understood something no one else could.
“It’s… strange,” he murmured, trying to sound casual, but his voice betrayed his confusion. “Like they know things that… no one should know.”
Bruce watched him, impassive, though he raised an eyebrow ever so slightly.
“Talking to yourself?”
“Oh, no, I just… wanted to talk to you about something. But, well, what happened, happened,” Clark said, spreading his arms in an awkward gesture toward the space between them, as if to underline his words. “So I couldn’t say it before.”
Clark drew in a deep breath, gathering courage, and fixed his gaze on Bruce. This time, there was no hesitation: he needed answers or at least clues.
“One of the books…” he said, motioning quickly to the nightstand where he had left it before Bruce woke up. “The author knows things… things no one should know.”
Carefully, Clark picked up the book and held it out to Bruce, gripping it tightly between his fingers.
“I want to investigate it. Find out how they could write about… my culture.”
Bruce watched him with that characteristic calm that always made him seem two steps ahead, his eyes assessing Clark with a flicker of curiosity. He said nothing at first, letting Clark’s statement hang in the air.
Clark, aware of the expectant silence, swallowed and added almost in a whisper:
“I can’t ignore it. It’s too specific… too personal to be coincidence.”
Bruce sat down in front of his laptop, turning it on with precise, controlled movements, all the while keeping his gaze fixed on Clark.
“Hand me the book,” he said calmly, gesturing with his hand.
Clark frowned, slightly surprised by the natural ease with which Bruce gave the command, and handed it over, curious and a little nervous.
Bruce took the book, still watching Clark, and began reading the synopsis aloud:
“In a distant world, Rao was a visionary leader, devoted to the relentless pursuit of peace. His fate changed when he discovered the legendary Stones of Eternity, which he called the Stones of Life, relics capable of manipulating the flow of time. With them, he prolonged his existence and strengthened his mission, accepting that some of his subjects would willingly give up a portion of their remaining lifespan, which rejuvenated him and increased his power.”
Bruce briefly lifted his gaze toward Clark, gauging his reaction before continuing:
“But the initial nobility faded. Consumed by ambition, Rao used the stones to achieve immortality, stealing the lives of others and elevating himself above any being of his kind until he was worshiped as a god. He then devised a way to ensure absolute devotion passed down from generation to generation. Once his people were fully subjugated, Rao embarked on a final journey across the cosmos, determined to conquer the faith of billions in other worlds.”
“Did you choose this book because it was… fitting for my ‘science fiction’?” Clark asked, making air quotes with his fingers, trying to sound casual.
Bruce raised an eyebrow, impassive, and replied in a calm tone:
“No. Alfred chose it.”
Clark went quiet for a beat, and an involuntary “oooh” slipped out. He had honestly hoped Bruce had picked the books himself, maybe thinking of him.
In truth, Bruce hadn’t given the selection a second thought; Alfred had simply chosen that title because, as he well knew, Clark was… an alien.
“Of course…” Clark stammered. “Makes sense. Of course Alfred would know exactly which book…”
Bruce said nothing more. He simply watched him with that calm, assessing gaze, while Clark felt how every small detail of the mansion and the man in front of him confirmed that he wasn’t dealing with Bruce Wayne—but with Batman.
Bruce typed the author’s name with the same calm precision he seemed to apply to every situation.
Jordan Elliot.
The cursor blinked a few times before he pressed enter.
Clark, now seated beside Bruce, watched intently, his elbow resting on the arm of Bruce’s chair as if that would give him a better view of the screen. The name meant absolutely nothing to him, and perhaps that was what made it all the more intriguing. He wasn’t a famous author in his world, or at least, not one he’d ever heard of, but there was something in the way Bruce searched that made him feel like they were about to uncover something important.
“And who is he?” Clark asked, tilting his head slightly, eyes fixed on the monitor.
“That’s what we’re about to find out,” Bruce replied, not looking at him.
The search returned results: book covers, synopses, a few blurry photos of the author, always from behind, with his face obscured by shadows, or completely out of focus.
Clark raised an eyebrow.
“And you say Alfred chose this book?” he asked, still scrutinizing the screen.
Bruce nodded.
Clark let out a quiet whistle, turning it over in his head.
“Well… he has a good eye for the strange.”
The cover that appeared matched the physical copy on the desk. More books followed. The screen cycled through cover after cover, brief synopses, and reviews. They weren’t bestsellers, but in old forums and small communities, they were described as hidden gems of science fiction. All of them authored by Jordan Elliot.
The Last Day of Rao.
It was the story of a Kryptonian God.
Clark had no doubt.
He didn’t take his eyes off the title.
“No one should know about Rao. Not here, B.”
Beside him, Bruce barely turned his head toward him.
“Rao…” Bruce said slowly, as if tasting the sound. “Is it… your God or something?”
“I grew up in Kansas. He was the god of a civilization I learned about through kryptonian crystals.”
“I see,” Bruce paused, studying him, though skeptical.
For a moment, they just looked at each other in silence. The glow of the screen lit their faces, and Clark felt his pulse quicken.
But there was something more important now, something contained in a book that shouldn’t even exist.
Breaking the silence, Bruce typed quickly.
“Let’s see what else Jordan Elliot wrote.”
Clark settled into the chair, leaning forward to get a better view of the search engine as Bruce typed. The screen displayed an old blog, with an almost obsolete design: pixelated letters, static banners, and a gray background that seemed frozen in time. Amid the outdated interface, the author’s posts began to appear.
“The Man of Tomorrow” (1998) – The life of a man who drew his strength from the sun, capable of lifting buildings and smashing through walls… yet condemned to live in the shadows, hidden, to protect those he loved.
“Up, Up and Away!” (2000) – The story of a young woman who could fly, lift any weight, and move faster than sound, always one step ahead of those trying to control her.
“Public Enemies” (2004) – The unlikely alliance between a human vigilante and an outsider with superhuman abilities, facing a city that feared and despised them.
A knot formed in Clark’s throat. There was no doubt: these stories weren’t about just any heroes. They were about him. About Superman… a man who, in this world, simply didn’t exist.
He leaned closer to the screen, searching for a logical explanation, some detail that might allow him to deny the impossible.
“Two could be coincidence… three is strange… and this… this isn’t a coincidence,” he murmured, more to himself than to Bruce.
“They’re novels,” Bruce replied calmly, without lifting his eyes from the keyboard.
Clark glanced at him out of the corner of his eye, disbelief and urgency blazing in his gaze.
“No. They’re my life. Or… something very, very close to it.”
Clark scrolled through the virtual pages in silence… until, upon reading the third synopsis, he muttered a sharp, dry fuck —so sudden that Bruce tore his eyes from the screen to look at him.
Bruce frowned. Clark Kent wasn’t the type to curse; he’d never heard him use a word like that, even after the most exhausting situations of the past three days. Must be those Midwestern farm values he’d grown up with.
“Your life?” Bruce raised an eyebrow. “Come on, Clark. They’re fiction. Written years ago. This world is clearly different from yours. Aren’t the laws of robotics different too?”
“No!” Clark snapped, leaning in even closer. “It all fits. The powers, the choices, the way I act… even the mistakes. It’s like someone watched my life… and then put it into these pages.”
Bruce exhaled slowly, measuring each word.
“Observed or imagined… there’s a huge difference.”
Clark ran a hand over his face, frustration tightening his jaw.
“You can’t understand because it’s not your life. But this… this is too precise. It can’t be coincidence.”
Finally, Bruce lifted his gaze, studying him for a few seconds before returning to the screen.
“Then let’s say it’s not a coincidence. And what do you want me to do with that? Interpret it as a message from fate? Fate doesn’t exist.”
Clark’s voice dropped, wounded by the words, and in that moment he understood something painful, something they hadn’t spoken about yet and that probably wasn’t wise to mention, and whispered:
“I don’t know… I just know I have to find the author. If someone could… write this… maybe they can explain it.”
Bruce tilted his head, serious, eyes unwavering.
“First, you have to understand that these are books. Not people. Not parallel worlds. Not prophecies. Just stories.”
“But these are my stories,” Clark said, eyes fixed on the screen. “And someone wrote them before I even existed here.”
A heavy silence filled the room, broken only by the steady tap of Bruce’s fingers on the keyboard. Clark watched him, heart racing, feeling as if he’d crossed a threshold he couldn’t ignore.
“If they’re yours… or something far too close to it,” Bruce said, his tone unreadable, “then we need to be careful. We have to decode this before it leads us down paths we can’t control, and we’re not exactly running out of time.”
“Who else would invent Rao?” Clark pressed, intensity sharpening his voice. “Who else would write about a man powered by a yellow sun… if he didn’t really know it?”
Bruce stayed silent, eyes on the screen, letting the weight of the question hang between them.
Clark exhaled, trying to steady himself, gaze still locked on the monitor.
“And how is it there aren’t any useful photos of the author?” he asked, a hint of anxiety creeping in. “Who is he, really?”
Bruce shook his head, his usual calm intact.
“We’ve already seen there aren’t any useful images,” he said. “And even if I could make them clear, they were taken twenty years ago. He hasn’t published anything since. Jordan Elliot is a niche author and has always kept a very low profile.”
Clark blinked, taking it in.
“Twenty years… and no one knows who he is. That explains the lack of interviews, the public appearances… but still, someone wrote these stories with impossible detail.”
Bruce crossed his arms, studying him carefully.
“And that’s why we’re here. Tracking down whatever Jordan Elliot left behind.”
Clark swallowed, aware that every page they opened was pulling him closer to something he hadn’t expected… something that might change everything he thought he knew about this world.
He frowned, fingers drumming nervously on the table as he spoke rapidly.
“We have to find him, B. We need to know who he is, where he is… any clue at all.”
Bruce raised an eyebrow, his trademark calm undercutting the urgency in Clark’s voice.
“That’s ridiculous,” he said, a hint of frustration in his tone. “A niche author who’s been missing for twenty years…and you want us to go knock on his door and say hello?”
Clark swallowed, frustration mounting.
“I know you can do it. You found Krypton!” he shot back, eyes intense. “No one should know these things, and yet… they’re here. And I feel… you don’t want me leaving this place. You’ve got me trapped here, B.”
Bruce leaned back in his chair, arms crossed, his expression unreadable.
“Understand this: chasing ghosts from old books won’t give us answers… and it’ll probably get us into trouble.”
“I can’t figure out what kind of trouble, because you tell me nothing,” Clark replied, fists clenched on his thighs. “And I don’t think I can keep ignoring it.”
Bruce watched him for a moment, measuring every word, every breath. His tone remained firm, though with a faint edge of warning:
“Then you’ll have to learn to pick your battles. Not everything that seems urgent really is.”
Clark met his gaze, resolute.
“We have to try.”
Bruce exhaled, letting Clark’s determination hang in the air. He didn’t say more, but his silence was enough for Clark to understand that, at least for now, he could continue with his plan.
Bruce closed the tab and leaned back in his chair, arms crossed.
“Alright,” he said calmly. “The laptop’s yours for now. Look into whatever you want, just… don’t do anything too… strange.”
Clark looked at it for a moment, his eyes scanning the screen and the keyboard with a kind of fascination. Then, without hurry, he let his fingers glide over the keys and began to type calmly: Daily Planet.
Bruce raised an eyebrow, watching silently, saying nothing. Clark took a deep breath, focusing on what appeared in the search results, trying to stay calm while his mind raced a thousand miles an hour.
The presence of the man beside him kept him on edge, yet somehow it also grounded him. He opened the Planet’s official website.
The homepage was filled with bold headlines and striking photographs, its design modern yet cluttered: animated banners at the top, dropdown sections flickering, and a sidebar with breaking news that seemed to compete for Clark's attention.
The Daily Planet logo dominated the header, huge and golden, with the globe slowly spinning behind the letters. Just below, a row of featured news stories displayed photographs of iconic Metropolis buildings, press conferences, and unfamiliar faces, all accompanied by headlines in sleek black typography.
In the center, the main story stood out within a larger box: an imposing, gleaming building bearing the name LexCorp in metallic letters. Clark furrowed his brow as he read the brief description: LexCorp announces international expansion and new technological projects. The company’s influence grows day by day.
“LexCorp?” he murmured, almost to himself. “Luthor… he’s a thousand times more narcissistic in this world.”
“What’s the matter?” Bruce asked, his tone a mix of curiosity and fatigue.
“The front page… the company… it looks like LuthorCorp, but the name is… different. LexCorp,” Clark shook his head in disbelief, as if that explained it. “What kind of universe is this?”
Bruce let out a sigh, amused by Clark’s exaggerated reaction to something that, to him, was merely a curious detail.
“Hmm… I suppose everything here has its twisted version,” he said calmly, as if commenting on the weather. “Your surprise is… quite entertaining, by the way.”
Clark glared at him, flushed with embarrassment and frustration, his mind spinning as he tried to make sense of the impossible: everything was familiar, yet slightly off, and he was trapped in the middle of that strange and oddly amusing dissonance. He wondered how it was possible for the environment between him and B to have changed so drastically.
To the right, a sidebar of breaking news displayed headlines such as:
Metropolis Traffic: Chaos in the Financial District.
Technology and Power: LexCorp’s Expansion Under Scrutiny.
Local Politics in Controversy: Who’s Really in Charge?
Below, small sections offered opinions from columnists Clark recognized: Lombard was still the sports columnist, Cat Grant still wrote about entertainment, and Lois Lane’s name appeared in every featured article, cultural review, and upcoming event announcement. The visual brilliance of the page left Clark momentarily speechless as he scrolled down the website.
Bruce glanced at him from the corner of his eye and couldn’t help the faint flicker of a smile at Clark’s expression. The mix of confusion, indignation, and a hint of horror on his face was far more entertaining than it probably should have been.
Clark carefully scrolled through the article, trying to process the front-page information. It described how LexCorp’s president, Alexander Luthor, had signed a peace treaty with a foreign conglomerate. Up to that point, it all seemed like routine news… until the image hit him full force.
The man in the photo had hair. A reddish mane that fell heavily over his shoulders, shiny and perfectly styled. Clark froze, eyes wide as saucers. His hand shot out almost instinctively, a trembling finger pointing at the screen.
“It’s… it can’t be…” he whispered, his voice barely audible, thick with disbelief and awe. “That hair…!”
Bruce glanced at him from the corner of his eye, a flicker of amusement crossing his face. Clark’s reaction was fascinating, completely bewildered, as if he’d just glimpsed a mythological figure.
“What now?” Bruce asked, raising an eyebrow while trying not to laugh. “Luthor's… hairstyle?”
Clark swallowed hard, unable to tear his eyes away from the screen. Everything about him was familiar and, at the same time, unsettling: the presence of someone he only knew one way in his world, now appearing here with a reddish mane, polished and smiling at the camera. His mind raced, trying to reconcile the image with the man who had once cloned him and left him to die, poisoned by kryptonite in a pocket universe.
“In my world, Luthor is bald… his hair shines by its absence… and here he has hair like Samson,” he murmured, frowning. “That must be why he’s evil and hates me… he envies people with hair.”
Bruce, arms crossed and leaning against the backrest, couldn’t help but smile at the mixture of horror and fascination painted across Clark’s face. Internally, he found it amusing. But the silence that followed was far from funny. Bruce held him with that look of his, laden with suspicion. He had noticed the shift in Clark’s tone: he wasn’t joking, at all.
“So…” Bruce murmured slowly, weighing each word, “in your world, Luthor was your enemy.”
Clark looked at him, uncomfortable, as if he had said too much. Bruce watched in silence, analyzing every reaction, every gesture. There was nothing funny about it. There existed a world where one of his most trusted allies had been evil, and the variable that had made all the difference was clear: Superman. That simple certainty put him on alert. Every detail, every discrepancy between his world and Clark’s carried a weight he could not ignore.
Clark continued scrolling through the articles, each piece of news more confusing than the last, his mind spinning like a whirlwind. Finally, he decided to look for Lois in the newspaper’s journalist directory. His heart skipped a beat when the first photo appeared.
It was Lois, older now, yet still undeniably beautiful. Her black hair was streaked with gray, and her familiar smile carried the weight of experience, framed by gentle lines around her eyes. The biography alongside the photo confirmed what he couldn’t stop noticing: it was the same woman, now editor-in-chief, leading the entire team of reporters with years of expertise and unquestionable recognition in the field. Clark felt the ground shift beneath him; he let go of the laptop’s mouse as if an invisible force had yanked it from his hand.
He stayed frozen, eyes fixed on the screen, unable to look away. When he finally lifted his gaze, he searched Bruce for an explanation, an anchor amid the impossible.
“She…” he whispered, almost voicelessly. “She’s… different.”
Bruce watched in silence, arms crossed, with that calm that seemed to absorb the confusion of others. Yet in his eyes flickered a faint, barely perceptible spark: contained amusement at Clark’s reaction, so raw, so human, so utterly unrestrained. The silence grew almost unbearable, charged with tension, until Bruce finally broke it with a steady, measured voice, each word heavy with weight:
“Lois Lane-Luthor.”
Clark froze, utterly paralyzed, unable to grasp the impossible combination of names. His heart slammed against his ribs, each beat echoing in his ears; an invisible thread seemed to snap tight around him, and he stood upright so abruptly that the chair screeched in protest. His eyes widened to their limits, and his trembling hand shot out, clutching the edge of the table as if it could anchor him, terrified of being swallowed by sheer disbelief and awe.
“W-what…?!” he gasped, voice cracking, barely more than a whisper And then, he screamed. “Lois… with Luthor…?!”
Bruce arched an eyebrow, watching him with precision. There was no amusement in his gaze, only the cold, calculating scrutiny of someone used to reading every subtle cue. Every flinch, every ragged breath of Clark’s screamed volumes, and Bruce absorbed it like a predator studying its prey. For Clark, the world was collapsing: his familiar world, the people he thought he understood, and the feeling of being trapped in a distorted mirror of his own reality, where the rules had been twisted while he slept.
“Yes,” Bruce said, his tone dry, measured, unflinching, though the weight of his words hit Clark like a mental blow. “You might want to sit… before your brain fries.”
Clark sank into the chair, gasping, fingers clutching the edge of the table as his mind struggled to reconcile the impossible: Lois, his Lois , transformed into someone who exuded both authority and confidence, carrying a name he would never have imagined.
The woman he knew had changed so much, and even more unsettling, now bore the surname of one of his greatest enemies. This world had become an impossible puzzle… and he was trapped in the piece that didn’t fit. Through it all, Bruce remained unmoving, composed, a silent observer to the chaos he had set in motion.
Bruce tilted his head slightly, his eyes fixed on Clark as his voice emerged slow, measured, almost weighted with intent:
“So… you and her?”
Clark swallowed, caught off guard by the direct question. For a moment, the denial came instantly:
“No,” he said quickly, as if trying to shut down the conversation before it could go any deeper. But the silence that followed pressed down on him. His gaze fell, and his voice softened, almost vulnerable, as he confessed what he hadn’t wanted to admit: “It didn’t work out.”
Bruce didn’t react immediately. His gaze remained intense and analytical, taking in every nuance of Clark’s confession. For him, it wasn’t surprise or judgment; it was simply information, a fact to be considered.
Clark lifted his gaze, searching for some sign in Bruce, any hint of judgment or understanding, but found only that impenetrable calm that always left him feeling a little exposed in front of his own emotions.
“We tried,” Clark added, letting out a heavy sigh. “But… it didn’t work. There’s a certain dynamic in my world that just didn’t exist between us, something I knew would be temporary.”
Something in Clark’s vulnerability, the way he lowered his eyes and admitted his failure without embellishment, stirred an unusual discomfort in Bruce… and, at the same time, an impulse he wasn’t willing to acknowledge: to offer him comfort.
A subtle warmth ran through his chest, a tension that had nothing to do with the mission or logic. Bruce furrowed his brow slightly, trying to rationalize it, but the more he thought, the clearer it beIt wasn’t just respect or curiosity.
It was something deeper, something that unsettled him because he shouldn’t feel this way. And yet, there he was, watching every gesture Clark made, every breath he took, wondering how someone could disarm him with just a few words.
Bruce inhaled carefully, trying to regain control of his mind, but the reality was clear: the thought remained, insistent and disconcerting, and he couldn’t push it out of his head.
Bruce broke the silence with his voice, firm and measured:
“I hope your investigation isn’t hindered by this.”
Clark blinked, taking in the comment, then answered with a faintly teasing tone, trying to keep his composure.
“No, no… it’s just… I just found out my best friend is way older than me, that Luthor actually has hair and red hair, of all things… and that he married Lois. Nothing I wasn’t prepared for.”
Bruce arched an eyebrow, clearly seeing through Clark’s effort to appear calm.
“That calm is false,” he said, his voice dry and measured.
Clark began pacing in circles, his steps quick and short on the carpet, as if moving might help him bring order to his mind. For the first time since arriving in this world, he felt afraid to keep searching for more information. Every piece of news, every detail, threw him off balance, and he wasn’t sure he was ready to discover what came next.
“I don’t know if… I can,” he murmured, his voice tight with tension. “Everything I see… It's too much. It’s all familiar, but at the same time… it’s so twisted.”
Bruce watched him, arms crossed, studying every small movement, every ragged breath. He said nothing, but his gaze followed him, aware of Clark’s fragile emotional balance.
“Then don’t search yet,” he finally said, his tone firm, leaving no room for argument. “Take a pause.”
Clark let out a shaky sigh, but he couldn’t look away; his eyes kept snapping back to the screen, caught between curiosity and fear. Bruce remained at his side, silent, controlled, a shadow of calm in the storm.
“You don’t have to face everything all at once,” Bruce continued, his tone low, measured. “Learn what you need… but take it slow.”
Clark drew a deep breath, his resolve flaring again.
“We have to find Jordan Elliot. In person.”
Bruce raised an eyebrow, crossing his arms with the precision of a man who measures every move before he strikes.
“Wait,” he said, voice low and steady, carrying that unmistakable weight of command. “Before you act, we need to know exactly who we’re dealing with. No impulsive moves.”
Clark leaned forward slightly, his brow furrowed at the natural urge to resolve everything immediately.
“If we don’t start now, we could lose time. Every minute counts.”
Bruce watched him in silence, his eyes like blades, measuring every nuance of Clark’s expression. His tone was unyielding, precise, a reminder that left no room for argument.
“It’s not about speed, Clark. It’s about strategic advantage. Knowing your target before you move keeps you from becoming prey.”
Clark let out a sigh, crossing his arms, though his eyes still burned with impatience.
“Always so… cautious, huh?” he said, trying to lighten the tension, but failing. “Fine. We’ll find out first. It’s just… hard to hold back.”
Bruce took a step closer, his presence calm but intimidating, always enough to put Clark in his place.
“That’s called discipline, patience," he said, a hint of severity in his voice. “Learn to control it, Clark. First we understand. Then we act.”
Clark sank back into the chair, though his mind felt a little more focused. His fingers rested on the keyboard as he stared at the screen. Bruce leaned against the table, watching every move, measuring every breath, as always: a silent guardian who never let his guard down, even in front of the most powerful man on the planet.
“All right,” Bruce said finally. “Do your search, but don’t rush. And remember: not everything you see is what it seems.”
Notes:
My brain has been working in really strange ways lately. I have this whole story written in a notebook with phrases and single words, and somehow it’s already translating into 30,000 words. I thought this fic would top out around 35,000 words and be done, but there’s still more, so the final estimate will probably be around 60,000 words.
As always, thank you guys so much for all your comments!! And if you somehow know who Jordan Elliot is, then you probably already know who Bruce and Clark are going to run into!!
I’m so happy right now, this story is something I’ve really put effort into, because I’ve been doing foreshadowing since chapter one, and in every single chapter tbh.This is my tumblr if you ever want to talk!!
Chapter 8: VII
Summary:
The search continues, and the results are anything but pleasant. The mysterious author is closer than expected. Bruce remains Gotham’s vigilant protector, while Clark refuses to back down.
Notes:
(See the end of the chapter for notes.)
Chapter Text
Clark began typing, his eyes darting quickly across the lines of information flashing on the screen, but Bruce noticed the slight tremor in his jaw, the restrained tension of someone aching to surge ahead but forcing himself to hold back.
“Too much noise,” Bruce murmured, leaning closer over Clark’s shoulder to peer at the display. “Filter by date, cut out the irrelevant.”
Clark obeyed without protest, though he couldn’t help stealing a quick glance at Bruce. He could almost physically feel the heat radiating from the edge of Bruce’s body, brushing against his senses more than he cared to admit. A sudden realization struck him: he was nervous. And Bruce, most likely, had no idea.
“Do you ever stop watching me like that?” Clark asked, a trace of curiosity in his voice, trying to sound casual even as his heartbeat had picked up.
Bruce didn’t take his gaze from the screen.
“No.”
The silence that followed was delicate, almost fragile. Clark lowered his gaze, a fleeting, almost resigned smile tugging at his lips.
“I guess I should be used to it by now. After all, there are sensors in my room.”
Bruce said nothing, though his brow furrowed slightly, as if the remark had caught him off guard. Clark noticed, and hurried to clarify:
“The thing about silent alarms… is that they’re never really silent to me.”
Bruce’s eyes narrowed, just barely.
“And yet, you didn’t disable them.”
Clark shrugged, the gesture somewhere between resigned and conspiratorial.
“If I had, you would’ve known. And if I tried, you’d still know.”
“Correct,” Bruce said flatly.
Clark held his gaze for a moment longer, something caught between reproach and hidden affection.
“So that’s how it is, then… huh? You pretend I don’t notice, and I pretend I don’t care.”
For an instant, Bruce returned the look, his expression unreadable. Then he turned slightly back to the screen.
“It works. And don’t mistake it for habit,” he said, his voice steady, tightly controlled. “It’s necessity. If you focus only on what you want to see instead of what’s in front of you, you’ll make mistakes. And your mistakes, as I’ve come to learn, are never small.”
Clark paused for a beat, then resumed typing, slower this time, more contained. Neither Lois nor Bruce was ever going to let him forget that he had stepped into that war without asking, guided only by instinct, blind to the consequences. But everything had turned out fine! That was what mattered most to him.
“Sometimes you forget,” he murmured, “that I don’t always need to be looked after. I’m practically invulnerable.”
Bruce turned his head slightly, eyes fixed on him. There was something almost gentle in the way he looked, as if he were weighing every word, every gesture, yet never losing the steadiness that defined him.
“You followed me through the rain for nearly twenty minutes,” he replied, calm but without reproach. “Sometimes you forget that someone has to.”
Bruce watched him in silence, measuring every flicker, every breath. The memory of that night returned unbidden: the most powerful man on Earth shadowing him through the downpour, soaked to the bone, relentless, his eyes carrying a desperate light.
Clark held his stare longer than he should have. The tips of his ears flushed red before he managed to mask his embarrassment with a sharp exhale. He dropped his eyes, uneasy, and muttered:
“That’s not it… I… I needed help, and you were there. The world’s greatest detective,” he finally admitted, a nervous smile barely brushing his lips. A short, restrained laugh betrayed him as he tried to downplay the confession. “It was a grueling situation, and I’m grateful you didn’t leave me to my own devices.”
Bruce remained still a moment longer than usual. No one, ever, had called him that: the world’s greatest detective. It was a title he had never claimed, not even in his own mind, and hearing it from Clark struck him in a subtle, unexpected way.
It could have been, among so many others, just another epithet in Clark’s world. After all, he hadn’t always been Batman. For years, he had operated under the name Vengeance , the label given by frightened criminals, a shadow in Gotham before he fully became the Dark Knight.
Bruce didn’t respond immediately. He stayed silent, watching as Clark searched for the right words, as his seeming invulnerability cracked in subtle gestures: the tension in his hands, the way he began to hold Bruce’s gaze longer than seemed proper, the almost imperceptible tremor in his voice. The contrast in the most powerful man on the planet was… perplexing.
Bruce blinked slightly, caught more off guard by the tone in Clark’s voice than by the confession itself.
Clark always looked at him for a fraction longer than courtesy required whenever Bruce seemed distracted, as if he didn’t realize that Bruce noticed. The flush on his cheeks was barely visible, yet enough to catch Bruce’s attention.
Deep down, Bruce couldn’t help but dwell on something uncomfortable: the ease with which Clark treated him was strange, too familiar. It was as if he knew that other version of himself personally, the other Bruce Wayne, someone who lives in a different world but shared it with Clark Kent.
Someone who had lived moments this universe had never granted him, yet was now allowing himself to experience—if only briefly. Someone who might have flirted with Clark in ways he never could, because that journalist, with his polite manners and easy, foolish smiles, didn’t work at the Daily Planet and would never have the chance to interview him. He couldn’t admit it aloud, not even to himself, but the suspicion was there, twisting through his thoughts, both irritating and intriguing.
He found himself analyzing every gesture Clark made: the way he leaned back in his chair, how his fingers drummed impatiently on the table, the subtle tension in his jaw, the way he looked away before lifting his gaze again, caught in a fleeting moment of vulnerability that Bruce had the chance to observe with an almost equally overwhelming constancy.
And against all odds, everything about him suggested a confidence that shouldn’t exist, something Clark had apparently built, a tacit knowledge belonging to another world, to a relationship Bruce had never experienced… and it irritated him more than he was willing to admit.
It was disconcerting.
Bruce noticed the barely perceptible flush on Clark’s cheeks, the way he held his gaze a second longer than necessary, as if he thought no one was paying attention to those details. But Bruce was. More than he would allow himself to admit. And though he didn’t speak a word, a small edge of discomfort crept into his mind, mingled with curiosity, surprise… and a feeling he preferred not to name.
He had never felt anything like this for a mission partner, not even for his closest allies, not even with Selina Kyle had he experienced that kind of dizzying rush capable of shaking the ground beneath him. It was something new, confusing, a drive he couldn’t rationalize and that, somehow, left his attention fixed solely on Clark, while the rest of the world, the threats, the mission, even his own discipline, seemed to fade away for a moment.
“You said you’d never talked to me in your world,” Bruce said at last, each word deliberate. “So why do you act around me like… you already know me?”
“Uh… I don’t,” Clark said, scratching the back of his neck as his eyes drifted over the articles, finding nothing useful. “I’m a journalist. Part of my job is knowing who’s famous and who’s rich. You’re, well… top ten, at least.”
Bruce arched an eyebrow, studying him in silence. It was a fair answer, but not a satisfying one. There was something in Clark’s ease that didn’t align with mere public information.
“Top three,” Bruce said calmly, correcting the minor detail, though his eyes never stopped examining him. Clark looked up, startled by the accuracy, then offered a nervous half-smile, part amused, part sheepish.
“Okay… top three. Doesn’t exactly make it feel any less intimidating.”
Persuading Clark Kent was, by far, the hardest thing Bruce had attempted in years. Batman’s usual sharp, threatening tone no longer sufficed; it seemed that nothing he did could make Clark yield. He possessed a kind of unshakable conviction, like steel that no furnace, however fierce, could ever melt or bend. In simple terms, he was the most stubborn man Bruce had the dubious fortune of crossing paths with. And if that weren’t enough to irritate him… well, then he’d have to rewrite his own reports.
He had sent them remotely to the main computer in the batcave. Alfred, as always, had already given them his approval and had been aware of everything since the moment both of them had left Wayne Tower behind. The cave beneath the mansion was little more than an annex, a secondary branch he seldom used. An emergency resource, a contingency among countless others he had planned with meticulous obsession.
Alfred, now fully aware of the stir the book had caused, had set out to investigate everything he could about it. Who exactly was Jordan Elliot? Where had he been all those years, and, more importantly, where was he now?
What followed were seemingly trivial conversations, though Bruce couldn’t say when they had begun to flow so effortlessly between them, from Martha Kent’s apple pie to the tractor Clark had been trying to fix, abandoned in the barn for years with little success. Bruce thought he could have it running in an afternoon. It was in that way that he found himself admitting he had built his own car and motorcycle, leaving the farm boy utterly astonished, grinning as he insisted he wanted lessons in mechanics.
Bruce allowed himself the rare, faintest smile at the idea. Clark’s enthusiastic gleam was difficult to resist, and for a moment, he let himself be carried away by the absurd image of him, a hermit, explaining how to time valves or adjust a carburetor.
But just as that warmth threatened to settle in, Clark began asking more personal questions, and Bruce felt a knot tighten in his throat. It wasn’t that he didn’t want to answer, it was that he wasn’t willing to open that door so quickly.
“You never… were afraid of…?” Clark began, genuine curiosity in his voice.
Bruce shook his head, gently cutting the conversation short:
“That’s not something you need to know.” His tone was firm, measured, enough for Clark to understand there was no room to press further.
He lowered his gaze to his gloves, as if there was something urgent there that needed his attention, and answered in monosyllables until the conversation quietly died out on its own.
Clark let him go, though the spark of curiosity lingered in his eyes, enough to know he would try again. Bruce allowed Clark to leave and close the door for as long as he needed.
Clark, for his part, chose not to keep wounding himself with the weight of new revelations. He had already taken quite a blow with the news of Lois Lane and Lex Luthor in holy matrimony. In theory, none of that should have mattered to him.
Bruce didn’t blame him for the outburst or the restlessness that had gripped him. Clark had paused, bringing a hand to his throat, and Bruce realized he was on the verge of a hysterical episode, even as he struggled to keep his composure.
To Bruce Wayne, Luthor remained nothing more than a high-profile businessman attempting to carve out a place in politics. His ambitions were as obvious as they were excessive: the presidency. Yet neither all his money nor his boundless ambition would make that ascent easy. Waller watched him closely—every move, every word, every ally—and did so from the shadows, without ever raising her voice. In that strategic silence, Bruce sensed more than mere overcaution; he perceived constant warnings.
Waller did not rule through proclamations or public speeches; she ruled through the weight of a constant threat. She had turned metahumans into hostages of her will, bound by an order they could not break without paying a steep price. She presented herself as the guardian of balance. She was tolerated because her fist was unseen, even though her shadow had been covering everything for a long time.
Clark’s arrival had left Gotham without its vigilante. Three days were enough for the city to feel the difference, and Bruce knew it. Crimes that were normally snuffed out at their inception would start to slip through the cracks, small alarms that Selina had managed to contain with her own cunning and resources.
Bruce already owed Selina far too much for covering his absence these past days, and the weight of that debt pressed on him more heavily than any blow he had taken in combat. The city, always hungry for chaos, would soon take notice of his prolonged absence. He would have to make an appearance, and tonight felt like the right moment. He could not afford to let himself be distracted from giving Gotham hope… even if a part of his mind remained entangled with Clark.
Selina had covered his duties brilliantly, but she would soon need a break, and Batman’s absence would leave the city vulnerable. Bruce took a deep breath, aware that his time with Clark, brief and rewarding as it was, came at a price.
For that very reason, as soon as they had Elliot’s location, he would take tonight to patrol.
Bruce already knew he would not allow Clark to follow him. He had to stay at the mansion, there was no room for discussion. And if the moment came when Clark refused to obey, if he met Bruce’s gaze with that silent stubbornness, scrutinizing him with a questioning look… Bruce would have to enforce his decision, no matter the cost.
Bruce had already been studying the rest of Jordan Elliot’s work. How difficult could it be to synthesize the light of a red sun and build a cell to keep him confined there?
The very thought of it was uncomfortable, even by his own standards. A cold thought, but ultimately necessary, or at least, that’s what he wanted to believe. The reality, however, was different: he didn’t have time to experiment with that theory, and he certainly couldn’t expect Clark to heed a simple plea. A mere “Stay” would never work on him. Bruce, despite forcing himself, believed he wouldn’t even be capable of restraining Clark.
Clark would not listen. Bruce knew it. And in the meantime, he tried to make peace with the idea that truly annoyed him: the gap between what he wanted to do and what he would end up doing. Sooner or later, he would have to resign himself to taking him out of the old mansion and accepting him at his side, whether he wanted to or not. And unfortunately… he truly wanted him close. But not tonight.
Clark was truly… different from what Bruce had expected. There was something about him that made it easy to feel comfortable; he didn’t provoke guilt or judgment, he was understanding, attentive, surprisingly patient with Bruce’s silences, and capable of holding his gaze without asking for anything in return.
With him, Bruce was slowly considering not guarding every emotion, not measuring every word. He genuinely enjoyed Clark’s company. He liked Clark. Far more than he was willing to admit.
The problem was that sometimes he would catch Clark looking at him in ways that had already become all too familiar, not as a curious journalist, not even as an ally, but as a man who wanted him for himself. The gazes he received at charity events and galas, which were usually looks of admiration or interest, were now looks that didn’t seek to make him do anything, but rather to communicate, plainly, just how much he was desired.
When he thought Bruce wasn’t looking, Clark stared at him like a man who wanted too much, with possession and a quiet certainty that he was, in part, his. And Bruce… could only stand frozen, trying to convince his reason that it didn’t matter, while his body told him otherwise.
That look could dismantle him in an instant, making his heart race and leaving him unnervingly off balance in a way he had no idea how to manage. Bruce could withstand interrogations, curiosity, even trust, but that… that was something else entirely. It made him feel exposed, and, against all reason, he found himself wishing it would never stop.
Bruce knew he couldn’t allow himself any distraction. Not now. Not when the mission with Clark demanded every ounce of his focus.
Yet, no matter how fiercely his mind tried to command attention, he couldn’t banish the warmth of Clark’s voice from lingering in his ears, nor could he dismiss the memory of his gaze that kept him both alert and unsettled at the same time.
Bruce forced himself to lower his gaze, to focus on the documents and the information Alfred had compiled, trying to convince both his body and his mind that the mission was what mattered, not the tremor Clark provoked in him.
But deep down, he knew that spark wouldn’t vanish simply by deciding to ignore it; every moment near Clark reminded him that his self-control had limits, and that he… wasn’t certain he didn’t want to cross them.
Bruce went over the file Alfred had sent him. Old blogs, dusty posts on nearly forgotten forums, books published more than two decades ago… nothing new so far, nothing recent. They were going down the rabbit hole. Jordan Elliot seemed to have vanished into thin air.
Alfred had done what he could: he cross-checked data, hunting for patterns in the writings, scrutinizing the few geographical references Jordan had left in his books. None of them seemed real. Names too strange, either the figments of a vivid imagination or a planet genuinely orbiting somewhere in the known universe.
Bruce started with the most obvious: checking the colophons. Every book, every reprint, carried the imprint of the place and the press where it had been produced. A standard detail, almost routine, but it yielded nothing of value.
Bruce paused for a moment. From where he stood, he could see the glowing screen and the books of Jordan Elliot. Most, if not all, had been printed in Midvale, a small suburban town on the outskirts of Metropolis. Modest printing houses operated there, working with very limited runs, small editions that barely left a trace in official records. Everything about the publications seemed conventional… until he came to the first copy, the very first of them all. That small book, barely one hundred and seventy pages.
The book was buried in the printing patent archives, seeming more like a poetic wink than a relevant piece of information. Bruce noticed something else in the typography of the first book that tipped him off: that particular copy had been reprinted. Compared to the later editions, it displayed a recurring micro-error in the alignment of the long dashes, a flaw that appeared only in that press and had never been replicated by the printers of Midvale.
That work had come from a small family-owned press that had closed nearly eighteen years ago. Bruce began combing through old business records and discovered that the press had followed a curious funding pattern: each project had been sponsored by small associations, part of a cooperative that listed modest businesses with no physical addresses. The place was so poorly documented online that Bruce had to pinch his own face to keep from closing his eyes in exhaustion, finding an address should have been far easier than this.
Inside the cooperative, however, he found a striking detail: all of its members were listed as sponsors of a youth football team. There was a brief introduction to an initiative meant to help young talents find their way to Metropolis, the city that, of all the great cities, many small-town youths aspired to reach in order to advance their careers. Bruce continued reading until he came across an old photograph. In it, a group of boys in red uniforms were arranged in two rows, smiling broadly. On the bench in front of them, proudly waving, was the team’s flag: the Smallville Giants.
Suddenly, the pieces fell into place.
Smallville.
The geographical point that kept repeating itself.
The name appeared in every record, in every lead he had followed to help his lost visitor.
Smallville was the epicenter.
Of Superman.
Of Clark Kent.
Of Jordan Elliot’s first book.
The place where it had all begun. The revelation pierced him like a dagger: he wasn’t just a writer. He couldn’t be only that. There was something more. Something far greater than they had anticipated.
Bruce paused for a moment and took a few steps before running his hands through his hair. He closed his eyes and pressed his lips together. If he was doing this right, there was no way he could be wrong. But a single revelation wasn’t enough to accept a theory, he needed more.
Then a tiny, almost imperceptible detail appeared: a casual mention on a bookmark. It had been left on a blank page when the copy was scanned for its digital version. On it, notes about a local festival could just barely be made out, a description of a small town that, among golden cornfields and quiet roads, invited visitors to enjoy a magical afternoon devoted to books. But the bookmark was torn, and the rest of the text was illegible.
It seemed small, almost trivial. But Bruce noted it and looked into it. He cross-checked dates, coincidences among editors, references to past correspondences. It had happened at some point, and he had to be able to find the full invitation. Each isolated piece meant nothing, but when put together, the name of the place began to stand out. And the result, to his consternation, kept pointing to Smallville as the focal point.
Bruce began reviewing the data with the obsessive precision that defined him; he had to tie up the loose ends no matter what. He no longer did it for himself, nor to prove he could; he did it because Clark deserved to know.
The world’s greatest detective, wasn’t he?
Bruce reviewed the information that the first book had revealed. There was no doubt: the author had grown up and lived in Kansas, of all places. In Clark Kent’s home, where the man, just a room away, had spent his childhood, or, in its truest sense, in the place that should have been his home if Krypton had been destroyed as it was supposed to be.
Now he needed to determine whom to look for once he reached Smallville. Creating a profile would be somewhat complex, but once there, with enough data, exploring the local census records would be a piece of cake.
The author’s age, calculated from temporal references in his books and correspondence between his author’s notes, clearly pointed to a range between forty and just over fifty.
If he had ever doubted what Clark had said, his whole life being documented, he owed him an apology.
Bruce reopened the file, the screen casting a pale glow over the title: 01_Superman_Kal-El.
By adjusting the search period to the years between 1960 and 1980, the report revealed a significant change: a shooting star recorded on June 18, 1971. It was no ordinary event—records indicated a massive object, a bright comet that streaked across the skies of Kansas before vanishing abruptly.
To Bruce, the data suggested something else entirely. The descriptions of its trajectory and the subsequent explosion were far too precise; they did not correspond to a natural phenomenon, but to a spaceship that had entered Earth’s atmosphere and destroyed itself upon impact.
In his first analysis, he had allowed a thirty-year margin of error, based on Clark’s age. A mistake. His first mistake.
Now he knew that nothing had been recovered from the impact site, and at the time, the government had dismissed the incident entirely. Bruce absorbed the information, torn between calling Clark immediately and finishing the report before showing it to him. Either way, he knew Clark wouldn’t take it well.
He stayed silent for a moment, staring at the screen, reviewing every detail: the exact date, the trajectory, the magnitude of the impact. Everything aligned too perfectly to be mere coincidence. Every fragment of data pointed to a single, undeniable conclusion: a Kryptonian had collided in Smallville in 1971.
He had never become Superman. He had never had the chance to be, for reasons Bruce still did not understand. And yet, he was a writer. Was this his way of presenting himself to the world?
Bruce found it curious that the warm, accessible style of the novels he had been reading could also be seen in the articles Clark wrote in his own universe. How had Clark not noticed, amid so much upheaval, the style and the patter, on his own writing style?
Yet nothing assured Bruce that this Kryptonian was Clark. That it was Kal-El.
He drew a deep breath, holding back the impulse to burst into Clark’s room with the truth. He knew that if he revealed it now, the carefully reconstructed world around him would collapse. Clark, lost and vulnerable in this universe, was not ready to hear that his “alternate” existence had been far more sterile and inconsequential; that someone had lived his life, and that he, his life, as he knew it… was a mere multiversal anomaly.
Instead, he decided to continue his investigation. Every document, every record, every reference to the mysterious author of Smallville was a clue he had to follow before confronting Clark with the truth. For now, time was on his side. For now, he could prepare him.
Bruce went over the data once more, obsessive, almost frantic. Every book, every reference, every note seemed to demand his attention. His eyes began to burn, fatigue weighed heavy on his eyelids, and exhaustion threatened to cloud his judgment.
A fleeting spark of intuition, almost buried beneath the avalanche of numbers and dates. His eyes, burning from exhaustion, locked onto the name he had read so many times: Jordan Elliot. He whispered it aloud, stretching the syllables, breaking the name apart to its limits: Jor… dan… El… liot…
For a heartbeat, his world froze. The connection was unmistakable, far too clear to ignore. The author’s civilian name was a deliberate play on words, an echo of the true origin: Jor-El.
He was no mere retired writer, not even an alternate Clark: he was Jor-El, walking among humans, hidden beneath a carefully constructed pseudonym, leaving only breadcrumbs of his presence in books and old blogs. That partially explained why Clark had never noticed the similarity in the writing.
Bruce clenched his fists. Disbelief mingled with restrained fury. That man, that Kryptonian… had lived for decades without anyone noticing, while he himself dealt with problems and threats that could never be compared.
And now he was here, so close, bearing a legacy that could shatter everything Bruce had ever believed about his own world. There was someone with the power to help them, to change everything, and yet, had chosen to do nothing.
Selina waited for him on the edge of a construction building. The beams, rusted and strained under the weight of cranes and forklifts, rose high enough that no one would notice them up there. The sky, dark and tinged with red, served as a backdrop to the Bat-Signal, forcing its light against the clouds.
“Commissioner Gordon has been asking for you.”
“I was busy.”
“Where have you been?” Selina narrowed her eyes, sharp. “Do you know there were mobs taking advantage of your absence? Two nights in a row without your shadow in Gotham…”
Bruce hesitated. The truth was a risk; lying by omission, a dead end. Either choice would condemn him in Selina’s eyes.
“A metahuman…” he murmured at last.
Selina cut him off with a disbelieving laugh, raising an eyebrow.
“A meta?” she repeated, sarcastic. “Seriously? You’re going to tell me that’s why you weren’t here? That’s your excuse for disappearing? You’re telling me you hid it?” She took a step toward him, challenging. “You’re completely insane. Of course you did something…”
“I wasn’t going to let the same thing happen as with Waylon.”
Selina froze, her skepticism faltering. That name. Waylon… it meant Bruce was serious. For a moment, her disbelief gave way to alarm.
“I get it, but… what do you think she’ll do when she finds out, Bats?” Her voice was thick with worry, almost a whisper lost in the wind. “It’s… too dangerous.”
“Needed my help.”
Selina stared at him for a second, her expression caught somewhere between incredulity and disbelief.
“You’re joking… right?”
“No,” Bruce held her gaze, though his eyes betrayed the concern he tried to mask. “No joke.”
Selina blinked, incredulous, taking a cautious step back.
“You’re… losing it, Bruce?” Her voice rose a notch, a mix of alarm and exasperation. “Did someone hit you on the head while I wasn’t looking?”
“No. No one.” His tone was grave, measured, almost weary. “It’s just… different this time.”
“Different?” Selina frowned, as if trying to figure it out. “Do you realize what this means? Waller would neutralize that meta in an instant if she found out. There’s no room for error, Bruce. None.”
“I know,” Bruce’s voice dropped, tense. “That’s why I couldn’t let the metahuman be seen. No one else could notice.”
“This is insane!” Selina stepped closer, intensity radiating off her, gripping his shoulders. “You’re risking your life, and the metahuman’s. Don’t you get it? This isn’t a game, Bruce. Waller doesn’t forgive.”
Bruce closed his eyes for a moment, holding back the frustration, guilt, and worry burning inside him.
“I know. That’s why I’m here… with you. No one else.”
“Alfred knows too?” Selina asked, her tone a mix of curiosity and alarm.
Bruce turned his gaze toward the cityscape, the tension in his jaw palpable.
“He knows too.”
Selina looked at him, searching his eyes for a hint of a lie, but found only determination and worry.
“So you’re up to your neck in this, huh?” Her voice dropped, harder now. “And you didn’t tell me… why not?”
“Because there wasn’t time,” Bruce replied, his tone cold, measured. “Every second counted.”
Selina took a step back, drawing in a breath. Her disbelief was giving way to genuine concern.
“And the metahuman?” she asked, in a barely audible voice. “…Does that one know what’s at stake?”
“Something like that.”
Selina frowned, crossing her arms. The answer wasn’t enough; her gaze demanded more.
“‘Something like that’ isn’t enough, Batman. If the meta doesn’t know exactly what it's getting into, this could all go wrong.”
Bruce closed his eyes for a moment, clenching his jaw.
“I know. That’s why I’m doing this… for him.”
Selina raised an eyebrow, a smile playing on her lips, a mix of disbelief and mischief.
“Is it a ‘he,’ then?” she asked,a mischievous spark dancing in her eyes. “And… is he handsome?”
Bruce’s eyes snappped open, visibly uncomfortable, his lips pressing into a thin line. Something in that flicker of expression gave Selina a point to prod.
“Selina… this isn’t the time for that.”
“Isn’t it?” she countered, amused, leaning in a little closer. “Because it seems to me like the perfect time to find out just how much it affects you.”
Bruce squinted, holding back a sigh, while Selina smiled, clearly savoring his reaction.
“This isn’t a game.”
“I’m not playing, just observing,” she said, her finger brushing lightly against his arm, letting the touch linger, deliberate, provocative. “And I see that it matters to you more than you want to admit. Admitting it won’t kill you… will it?”
“Selina…” Bruce’s voice was deeper now, tense, restrained. “We have more important things than this.”
“Important?” she purred, tilting her head, leaning in until their faces were dangerously close. “Like keeping your little secret metahuman from Waller… while your heart skips just thinking about him?” Selina smiled, satisfied at having caught him off guard.
“Enough…” he finally said, a growl in his throat. “We’ll leave this for later. Our patrol comes first."
She pulled back slightly, a sly smile, the smile of someone who knows they’ve won, while Bruce turned toward the edge of the building, focused, though the warmth of his gaze still lingered on her.
It wasn’t too difficult to reach the GCPD rooftop. The city lights flickered in the distance as Gotham’s wind wrapped around them. The cold didn’t seem to matter; the earlier tension had given way to a measured, focused calm.
“Nothing out of the ordinary,” Gordon said from the ledge, a megaphone dangling from one hand. “Some minor thefts and drunken brawls. Nothing that should make the Bat stress too much tonight.”
“I see,” Batman replied, his voice low and controlled.
Selina leaned against the edge, gazing at the city with a mix of boredom and amusement.
“Quiet night… sure, until someone decides to make it interesting.”
Bruce tilted his head, watching every movement from the shadows. Gordon was about to say something more when they leapt from the rooftop, moving fluidly across the nearby buildings, their steps silent and perfectly coordinated.
The commissioner’s words caught in his throat.
“One of these days…” he muttered, frustrated, as he watched them vanish into the shadows before he could finish.
Almost at the end of their patrol, their steps brought them to a narrow alley, barely lit by the dim reflection of a flickering streetlamp. Selina stopped, the gleam of her eyes peeking out from beneath her mask.
“This is as far as I go,” she said lightly, though her smile hinted at something more. “You know where to find me… or where to let me find you.”
Bruce barely tilted his head, serious, without adding a word. His gloves still bore the traces of the violence he had unleashed minutes before; he had struck harder than necessary, as if trying to extinguish something inside himself with each blow. Selina had noticed, of course… but said nothing. She simply watched him, a moment longer than usual, before turning away.
“Take care, Bats,” Selina said, pivoting on her heels and slipping into the shadows with the same ease with which she had arrived.
Bruce remained silent for a few seconds, watching the darkness where she had vanished. Then, without hesitation, he raised his arm and fired his grapnel. The cable snapped taut with a sharp click, and in a precise motion it disappeared along the opposite path, heading toward the old Wayne Terminus.
The night returned to him, quiet and empty… yet his mind was already consumed by Clark Kent.
Inside the cave, he approached the main console and, almost without ceremony, let his uniform drop. Bruce needed to return to the manor, but there were still certain matters that demanded his attention.
His footsteps echoed heavily as he made his way to the elevator. He was still Bruce Wayne, with meetings to attend, contracts to sign, projects to review. Pending donations to go over, letters from investors unanswered, foundation budgets needing approval, the renewal of the tech wing in the new lab, even the planning of the next training sessions for the rescue team.
All of that had been put off for days, postponed while his mind dwelt on the image of Clark, on the need to understand him and protect him, even as the world continued turning without waiting for him.
It was barely dawn when he walked down the polished hallways; the trench coat hugged his body, and his straight hair, impeccable and shining, framed a face carefully made up, just enough to conceal the dark circles under his eyes.
Clark slept past noon, with nothing better to do than wait, so he still had much of the morning before he would notice his absence.
Bruce walked through the glass corridors of Wayne Tower, heading toward his office. The city stirred awake beneath him, the morning sun reflecting off the windows and bathing the immaculate spaces in golden light. Each step on the polished floor echoed softly, as he ran through his mental list of pending matters.
At one point, he came across Alfred, waiting with his usual impeccable composure and that calmness that seemed to soothe any tension.
“I see you’ve finally returned,” Alfred said cordially, his tone polite but carrying that familiar edge of quiet observation, a faint smile at the corners of his mouth.
“Good to see you as well, Alfred,” Bruce replied, returning the gesture subtly with a slight nod, though his mind was still occupied with other concerns.
Alfred tilted his head slightly and added carefully, “A visitor is waiting for you in your office, sir.”
Bruce barely furrowed his brow. He didn’t recall scheduling anything for today. “A visitor?” he asked, curiosity restrained.
“Yes, sir. The meeting was brought forward so as not to interfere with your obligations,” Alfred explained with quiet discretion. “Nothing requiring any special preparation… simply an unexpected appointment.”
Bruce pushed open the door to his office and stopped dead in his tracks. Morning light poured through the windows, bathing the room in golden hues, and there was Clark, standing at the edge of the glass, light catching in his hair, his posture calm, almost unreal. He wore a white t-shirt, a blue flannel over it, worn jeans, and boots, simple, yet every detail seemed crafted to stop Bruce’s heart. For a moment, Bruce felt as if the world had frozen.
He closed the door behind him and locked it. The office was soundproof; he could explode here, and nothing and no one would interfere.
“What the hell are you doing here?” His voice shattered the silence like a gunshot as he stormed forward, each step of his Oxfords hammering against the polished floor. “How the hell did you even get in here? Leaving the mansion is insane, completely reckless!”
Clark met his gaze, a flicker of regret in his eyes, but he stayed rooted in place, almost as if he knew that no words could possibly stand up to the force radiating from Bruce.
“You flew here?” Bruce growled, low and dangerous. “Waller could’ve tracked your flight in seconds. There’s no way to disguise hypersonic speed as normal air traffic.”
Clark advanced toward him slowly, eyes unblinking, taking in every word, every flare of anger in Bruce’s gaze. For a heartbeat, his calm threw the vigilante off, leaving him silent, calculating, just for a moment.
Bruce took a deep breath, holding back the rage and worry threatening to erupt. Every fiber of his body, honed by years of training, every reflex, tensed: Clark’s safety was at stake, yes—but so was that of everyone working in Wayne Tower.
“Are you going to explain yourself, or are we just going to stand here admiring the view?” he finally said, his voice low but firm, stepping forward slowly to close the distance.
His eyes swept over every detail of Clark, analyzing, assessing, never leaving him for a moment, while the morning sun wrapped them in an unsettlingly beautiful halo.
“I didn’t fly here,” Clark said, steady, unshakable. “I’m not that reckless. I used the abandoned train station. I saw the cave beneath the mansion and knew it connected to the tower through an underground route. I found the collapse along the way, cleared the path, and followed the tracks. I walked all the way here.”
Bruce exhaled sharply, relieved that no one had been in danger. He approached his dark oak desk and leaned on the edge, still tense, his gaze fixed on the floor.
“You left without telling me… what did you expect me to do?” he said, his voice softer now, hinting at both frustration and relief. “Just stand there with my arms crossed? I know how your heartbeat sounds, B. Finding you wasn’t going to be a problem.”
Clark followed him, closing the distance by a step, his body taut, as if every movement required careful deliberation. It looked like he was about to apologize, but instead he leaned toward Bruce, his breath brushing against the other man’s neck.
Bruce felt a shiver run down his spine; Clark’s hand rested on his face, firm, forcing him to meet his gaze.
His heart was racing, fast, almost painfully.
Bruce lifted his gaze.
Clark wasn’t looking at his eyes; his intense, focused stare was fixed on his lips. The air between them thickened, almost tangible, and Bruce felt a mix of fear and desire prickling his skin. He wanted to step back, to resist, but something inside him ached for what seemed inevitable, and that tension burned him from within.
Bruce nodded, almost without thinking, surrendering to the current that pulled him in. Then Clark kissed him, as if the world might end the moment after their lips met. The kiss was raw, urgent, necessary. Bruce responded with the same ferocity: his lips chasing Clark’s, each touch less gentle, hungrier than the last, as if with every press he were twisting the world itself inside out.
Clark clung to that feeling; his arm wrapped around Bruce’s waist, pulling him onto his lap, their bodies fitting together with almost desperate precision. He kissed him because his heart refused to wait, because he needed to feel him like this, relentless, without restraint. And Bruce, surrendered, gave himself over to the fire that consumed them both, losing himself in every kiss, every shared gasp, in the sensation that nothing else mattered.
Bruce felt the sharp pull at the nape of his neck where Clark’s fingers dug in, forcing a breathless whimper from his throat, his hair spilling in dark waves over his flushed face. Their lips collided again, more demanding this time, and Bruce gave in completely, leaning forward, letting Clark’s pressure envelop him completely.
Bruce lifted one hand and loosened the collar of his tie, a deliberate gesture. Clark caught the signal without hesitation: he attacked his neck with kisses, licks, and gentle bites, sending shivers cascading through Bruce’s body. Every touch made him tremble, a moan slipping from his lips before he could stop it. The sensation of Clark on his skin consumed him, a heady mix of nerves and desire, and he surrendered a little more, yielding to the pressure of those urgent, precise gestures.
Without breaking contact, Clark lifted him effortlessly, as if Bruce weighed nothing, and gently settled him onto one of the leather sofas. Bruce’s heart pounded as Clark’s warmth remained close, and the proximity, the pressure, the brush of his lips left him feeling vulnerable, exposed… yet craving every second.
Clark leaned over him, his lips barely grazing the skin as his hands held him close. In a low, trembling voice, he began to whisper to Bruce.
“…You’re so beautiful,” Clark murmured, his warm breath brushing against Bruce’s neck. “I can’t… I can’t stop looking at you… touching you.”
Bruce moaned between kisses, his body arching slightly as Clark’s hands slid down to his hips, firm but careful. Without breaking contact, Clark continued whispering in his ear, his deep, warm voice tracing every fiber of Bruce.
“Do you know how beautiful you are, Bruce?” Clark murmured, letting his breath graze the lobe of his ear. “So perfect… my… my…”
“Your what, farmboy?” Bruce interrupted, a half-smile playing at his lips, his voice low, teasing, edged with challenge, even as the deep flush on his cheeks betrayed just how much Clark affected him.
He let his fingers trail through Clark’s tousled hair, dark, dense curls he had longed to touch for far too long.
Clark tensed for a moment, startled. Bruce’s intensity hit him like a blow, and for a second, his usual confidence slipped away. He drew in a deep breath, swallowed hard, because saying it filled him with fear—fear of rejection, fear of breaking that invisible thread that bound them. My soulmate.
“My… savior,” he finally whispered, his voice trembling but filled with truth, as his lips met Bruce’s again.
Bruce surrendered to the moment, his heart hammering in his chest.
Notes:
I would love to not study, not work, and just keep writing this fanfic every day without interruption, but my life isn’t that simple. FINALLY, THEY DID SOMETHING ABOUT THAT TENSION.
Anyway, this fanfic just passed 40,000 words!! And it’s only halfway through!!
As always, thank you so much for following this story! And for all your comments, really makes my day ( ◜‿◝ )♡I’d love to know what you think!! After that… moment in the office, how is Bruce going to bring up the Smallville stuff without ruining the mood? Or will he totally mess it up himself because he’s so hopeless with his feelings?
Anyway, I already know how it goes, but I love reading your speculations!
Chapter 9: VIII
Summary:
Alfred Pennyworth had been observing Clark Kent. A mix of curiosity and caution in his gaze, assessing his intentions and the depth of his intensity.
He explained to Clark, carefully, that in this world his reality was nothing more than a myth: impossible to prove, more a fantasy than a certainty. Yet he also acknowledged that the stubbornness of the human heart often outweighed any logic.
Notes:
If you got the chapter update earlier and opened it, and the whole thing, chapter and notes, was in Spanish, it’s because I totally messed up when updating the original and the translation. And no, you definitely didn’t see that happen… because, you know, let’s just save me from the embarrassment.
(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)
Chapter Text
Bruce wasn’t prepared for that, those words, spoken as if they were so easy to utter. The air caught in his lungs, as if Clark had ripped his defenses away in a single pull. He felt his blood boil in his veins, not from the desire that also flooded him, but from that tenderness, seeking solace.
His instinct was to pull away, to growl, to say something sharp that would put him back on safe ground. But his voice failed him. He could barely hold Clark’s bright gaze, those eyes brimming with a devotion that hurt.
“No…” he murmured, a clumsy attempt at denial, though his hands remained gripping Clark’s shoulders. “Don’t… say that.”
His breathing was ragged. His heart pounded so hard he feared Clark might hear it. He wasn’t used to being seen like this, as if he were something worthy of adoration, and not just a collection of scars, mistakes, and shadows.
“Bruce…” Clark whispered, seeking his lips again.
And Bruce let him, because he didn’t know what else to do. Kissing him was easier than accepting those words, easier than bearing the weight of that truth. But as he kissed him, as he felt Clark’s tremble against him, he realized he was giving in. That the wall was starting to crack.
He heard himself let out a low sound, almost a moan, caught somewhere between frustration and need. A broken laugh escaped him against Clark’s lips, bitter and vulnerable at the same time.
“You’re a damn idiot…” he whispered, his voice breaking, his forehead pressed against his. “How can you look at me like this…?”
And, unable to hold back any longer, he hugged him tightly, as if he needed to anchor himself to that body to avoid completely falling apart.
Clark’s body radiated an indescribable heat.
Every place Bruce laid his hand was marked by that warm firmness that enveloped him; when the flannel slipped and he could grip the flexed biceps, sun-bronzed, tense and corded to hold him in place, a whistle of admiration nearly escaped him.
He was the closest thing to a Greek god, majestic, with unruly curls cascading down, brushing Bruce’s face like a caress.
The kisses continued until their air nearly ran out. And it was then that Bruce reacted. He needed to breathe, even if for Superman it wasn’t necessary. If it went on like this, he would drown in his lips. It seemed even the lack of oxygen had affected his mind; he felt dizzy, everything around him burning. He had a vibrating oven pressed against him.
And although it wasn’t unpleasant, and he could have melted into the dark leather of the sofa and Clark’s body, he brought his right hand up, from Clark’s back to the nape of his neck, and tangled his fingers in the curls, pulling hard, forcing him to break away.
Bruce pulled Clark back by the hair, and Clark stared at him intently.
Bruce’s suit was a mess, his shirt undone down to his chest, revealing pale skin flushed with a deep blush. His tie, torn, hung to one side, having lost all purpose.
His hair, normally impeccable, was tousled in dark strands falling over his damp forehead; his gaze was fiery, his eyes bright, almost teary, with a feverish glow. His lips, reddened, swollen, and bruised from the intensity of the kisses, remained slightly parted, as if he were always about to say something, always on the verge of a moan or a command.
That sight hit Clark full on. It was the vision of a dethroned king: the bat, always restrained, always unreachable, now seeming on the verge of breaking, and, at the same time, more imposing than ever.
It was an image that pleased him, captivated him, and above all, pushed him to keep him that way. In a state of disarray. He looked so majestic. Bruce Wayne, laid bare and openly receptive.
Clark opened his mouth, ready to apologize, to pull back. Had he been too harsh? But he didn’t get the chance.
Bruce lunged at him with the same ferocity he used against his enemies; he shoved him back with the weight of his body and, in a sharp movement, straddled him, making sure to pin him in place.
Air escaped from Clark’s lungs with barely concealed surprise. The determination in Bruce’s eyes kept him rooted in place. There was something burning in that gaze, something between defiance and need, that paralyzed him more than any piece of kryptonite ever could.
Bruce was breathing heavily, dark strands of hair plastered to his forehead, his fingers still tangled in the back of Clark’s neck. There was no hesitation in him, only raw, deliberate intent. And Clark found himself frozen, caught between fear and need, waiting for the next move of a man who seemed ready to devour him completely.
Bruce shifted slightly, lifting his hips just a little before lowering himself gently onto Clark’s crotch. He moved tentatively, letting every inch of contact linger, testing the spot, when suddenly a loud, insistent sound pierced the room.
Ring. Ring. Ring. Ring.
The phone vibrated on the desk, insistent, oblivious to what had been about to happen.
Bruce let out a harsh snort and sat up abruptly. Clark, still speechless, followed him with a disbelieving gaze, watching him walk away as if nothing had been about to occur.
With a sharp motion, Bruce pressed the button on the device, silencing the ringing.
“This is Bruce Wayne,” he said, firm and impeccable, with the authority of someone who does not tolerate unnecessary interruptions.
“Bruce!” a woman’s voice burst through on the other end; mature, worn by years, with a measured cadence. “The door to your office is locked from the inside. Open it right now, or they’ll find a way to get you out. You were supposed to be at a board meeting fifteen minutes ago.”
Bruce smoothed his suit with deliberate precision, buttoning his shirt with the same controlled, measured movements he always used, his voice never rising, every gesture carefully contained.
“I know, Dory,” he said, calm but firm. “I’ll go as soon as I can. Just give me a few minutes to… take care of a few things here.”
“A few minutes, he says…” she replied, a sigh carrying both fatigue and frustration. “Don’t make me go fetch Pennyworth. Mr. Fox won’t be able to keep them distracted much longer.”
“It won’t be necessary,” Bruce replied, adjusting his tie in a single, precise motion. “I’ll leave as soon as I’m done here.”
Clark watched him in silence, fascinated, as Bruce regained his impeccable composure. And, above all, the only evidence of what had happened were his lips… swollen, red, marked by every kiss, an irrefutable testament to what had just taken place.
A knot tightened in his throat. He didn’t want anyone else to see him like this. Not the board, no one. That intimacy belonged to him alone. He bit his lip, fighting the urge to stop him before he stepped through that door.
Bruce approached the door and looked at Clark before stepping out. His eyes locked on him for a moment, steady and deliberate, as if trying to read every reaction. Clark swallowed, still caught in the disarray the past few minutes had left behind: clothes slightly rumpled, the flannel shirt tossed onto the polished floor, hair tousled, breathing still ragged and a very noticeable tent in his pants where Bruce had been.
He looked so… so disheveled. Darn it. They really had made a mess here. Bruce said nothing; he just watched, silently, the intensity of his gaze holding him in place.
“I’ll tell Alfred to move you to another floor of the tower,” Bruce said, firm and controlled, as if none of what had just happened had occurred.
Clark barely nodded from the sofa, unable to take his eyes off him. And Bruce, still with that gaze that seemed to weigh and measure everything, finally turned and left, leaving the trace of what they had shared lingering in the air. Clark felt his arousal slowly fading.
He remained a moment longer, processing it all. Good gosh… what had he done? How had he gotten this far? And Bruce… had returned every bit of it.
He got up carefully and picked up the shirt from the floor, putting it back on. He hadn’t intended for this to happen—not like this—but what’s done was done. When Bruce left the mansion, Clark nearly panicked; he couldn’t detect Bruce’s heartbeat anywhere near him, and the thought of it made his chest tighten. He also couldn’t risk drawing attention to himself.
When he reached the cave, he triggered some kind of silent alarm. Within seconds, Alfred appeared, holding a shotgun firmly, eyes narrowed and jaw tense, assessing him as if he could fire at any moment.
Clark raised his hands, more out of reflex than conviction. When Alfred recognized who he was, he relaxed his shoulders and slowly lowered the weapon, a flicker of recognition in his gaze. Then he greeted him cordially, without asking, without judging.
But when he asked specifically for Bruce and not for Batman, Alfred’s face registered surprise. He shrugged slightly, gesturing upward. Clark looked up at the old structure of the station, the name above it, carved in stone and imposing.
Wayne Terminus.
A sudden jolt of realization hit him. Oh… he had been an idiot. It had been right over his head all along. And even higher, dominating the skyline: the imposing Wayne Tower.
“He’s still out on patrol,” Alfred said calmly. “Let’s give him an hour.”
Without another word, Alfred guided him through endless hallways and elevators to the office, where a black door with golden inscriptions awaited them.
Once again through the halls of Wayne Enterprises, Clark looked around. The walls were adorned with paintings, surely more expensive than a year of his journalist’s salary, and historical photographs of the company’s earliest projects and achievements.
Modern sculptures and pieces of contemporary art alternated with glass shelves displaying technological prototypes, awards, and innovation trophies. Everything radiated power, legacy, and precision. A tangible reflection of the Wayne family’s grandeur.
Clark’s gaze followed Alfred’s stride, impeccable despite the cane, each step sure and measured, as if the floor itself bent to his will.
“That’s what happens when a bomb goes off at close range, Mr. Kent,” Alfred said, with that blend of calm and authority that made it impossible not to pay attention.
Clark flushed slightly, surprised at himself.
“It wasn’t my intention… to be staring like that.”
Alfred regarded him for a moment, raising an eyebrow, his smile barely perceptible.
“Nor is it your intention to gaze at Master Bruce, is it?”
Clark swallowed hard. His gaze dropped for a few seconds, yet he couldn’t tear his eyes away from the man leading him.
“H-how… what do you mean?” he stammered, unable to shape the question properly, feeling as though Alfred could read him with unnerving precision.
Alfred tilted his head slightly, studying him with that blend of authority and shrewdness that came so naturally to him.
“Some have a tendency to stare rather too intently,” he said, with a measured pause, “and one is left to wonder whether it is mere curiosity… or something more.”
A shiver ran down Clark’s spine. Every word Alfred spoke, every deliberate gesture, made him feel exposed.
“I suppose… I don’t… know what you mean,” he murmured, stumbling over his words as Alfred continued down the corridor.
“Mister Kent,” Alfred said, his tone firm yet composed. “There is something rather singular about you, if I may be so bold. It is quite evident. Master Bruce is, of course, something of a misfit, but I took great pains to ensure he was afforded the finest upbringing. He may not discern it straightaway, but there is something in your bearing, in the way you fix your gaze upon him, that makes one wonder… what it is you are truly seeking. Years, after all, do not arrive empty-handed; experience teaches one to read between the lines, to notice what others would prefer remain hidden. And believe me, my dear boy, you are concealing nothing.”
Clark kept walking, trying to process every word, while the building seemed to change around him. The lower floors were modern and immaculate, all clean lines and abundant light. Alfred led him to the end of a corridor, where an old elevator awaited—one of those with a metal gate—which, despite its classic appearance, had been meticulously maintained. With a firm gesture, Alfred pressed the button for the top floor.
As they ascended, the lights of each floor flicked on in quick succession, marking the rhythm of their journey. The elevator came to a stop with a mechanical creak, dropping just a few inches before settling completely. Alfred stepped out first and paused in front of a large wooden door with intricate moldings.
When the door swung open, a grand hall was revealed before them. Gothic style began to dominate: stone columns, carved moldings, soaring ceilings, and deep shadows dancing over dark rugs and solid wood furniture.
The space was vast and open, with ceilings that disappeared into the shadows, creating a sense of immensity. The walls were adorned with carved details and shelves that held books and antiquities. Light filtered through stained glass windows, casting colored patterns across the wood and stone. From the ceiling hung enormous dark metal chandeliers, their heavy, ornate designs throwing shadows across the walls and floor.
The carved wooden floor followed a distinctive pattern, guiding the eye toward a central table flanked by two deliberately placed chairs. Upon the table rested a pair of books and scattered documents, and, most curiously, a tray presenting a pair of dark glasses as if on display, an arrangement that suggested the room was as much a sanctuary for strategic deliberation as it was a space for contemplative reflection.
Clark paused for a moment to study the staircase that seemed to lead to the tower’s true upper floor. Draped with a worn red carpet, the staircase curved gracefully toward the back of the hall, like a silent invitation. The railings, adorned with carved figures that resembled watchful guardians, seemed to follow Clark’s every movement, a subtle reminder that he was not alone and that each step must be measured.
But not everything spoke of history and solemnity. Certain modern touches caught Clark’s eye: an amplifier and a guitar resting against a wall, reminders that this place was not merely a mausoleum, but a space alive with thought, reflection, and secrets, where tradition and modernity coexisted under the shadow of Bruce Wayne.
As his gaze roamed the room, Clark felt small, caught between centuries of history and the omnipresent mark of Bruce in every corner.
Every detail, from the enormous dark metal chandeliers hanging from the ceiling to the stained glass windows filtering light in irregular patterns, from the amplifiers and speakers to the electric guitar resting against the wall, seemed stamped with Bruce’s signature, his presence extending silently yet unmistakably throughout the space.
To Clark, it was both fascinating and intimidating.
Alfred paused and indicated one of the old wooden chairs, his voice softer now, almost a gesture of care, breaking the tension that had wrapped around Clark.
“Have you had anything to eat?”
Clark swallowed, surprised by the simplicity of the question amidst so much grandeur, and for a moment, Alfred’s presence felt like an anchor in that vast ocean.
“No,” Clark replied, lowering his gaze, still fascinated and slightly overwhelmed by the majesty of the hall. “I haven’t eaten.”
Alfred nodded calmly, his expression barely softened.
“Then I shall prepare something,” he said. “Do take a seat in the meantime, Mister Kent.”
Clark obeyed, choosing one of the chairs near the table.
“Thank you,” he murmured, a little awkwardly.
“You’re quite welcome,” Alfred replied as he made his way toward the hidden kitchen. “Though I wonder… have you been wandering about all day in such a daze, or is it the hall that has you spellbound?”
Clark let out a small, nervous laugh.
“I suppose… it’s a bit of both,” he admitted. “I’ve never been in a place like this… so… imposing.”
Alfred paused for a moment, as if weighing the answer without even looking at him.
“Imposing, indeed,” he said. “But remember, sometimes greatness also demands patience and care. And a measure of respect for those who uphold it.”
Clark nodded slowly, his eyes roaming the hall as Alfred resumed his walk.
“And Bruce… does he spend much time here?” Clark asked, wanting to break the silence while also tempted to learn a little more.
Alfred cast a measured glance over his shoulder.
“Master Bruce has his moments,” he said, his tone calm, almost amused. “Some days, one might swear he exists nowhere beyond the walls of this tower. On others, the demands of the outside world will not leave him be. If your question is whether he truly lives here… then, yes. Since Wayne Manor yielded to the passage of time, this place has been his home, ever since he was but a young boy.”
As he settled into the chair, he couldn’t help but think how overwhelming it must be to live in a place where every object, every shadow, and every corner bore the mark of Bruce Wayne.
Returning, Alfred carefully set a tray with steaming tea and cookies on the table, letting the warm aroma fill the space. He then took the only other available chair, crossing his legs as he sat opposite Clark.
“Would you like some sugar in your tea, Mister Kent?” Alfred asked.
“Alfred… do you have a soulmate?” Clark interrupted, his voice firm and direct.
For a moment, they spoke at the same time. Alfred raised an eyebrow, clearly puzzled, while Clark blinked, startled at having interrupted in such a way.
Alfred set the cup back on the tray, letting out a faint sigh before leaning forward just slightly. The butler regarded him, serious, mildly taken aback by the absurd question, as if weighing whether he should answer honestly or simply disregard it—a fairy tale that had no place in the real world.
“A soulmate,” Alfred finally replied, a faint smile playing at his lips. “That is rather a… fanciful notion, Mister Kent.”
Clark stared at him, and as if he could no longer hold it in, blurted out suddenly:
“Bruce is my soulmate.”
The silence pressed in, heavy. Alfred arched an eyebrow, his smile fading into an expression of measured curiosity laced with caution.
“To fall in love in so short a space of time is, I dare say, rather absurd,” he finally observed, his voice calm, deliberate, and utterly composed. “Yet I am hardly one to judge the matters of the heart. I am well acquainted with the parallels of your… extracurricular endeavors, and all that they entail.”
Clark ran a hand over his face, teetering on the edge of panic, his voice quivering but unwavering.
“I mean it,” he said, each word weighted with an unshakable certainty. “In my world, such things exist. I felt it from the very first moment I met him… but here… here, it does not, does it?”
Alfred watched him, measuring every gesture, every breath, aware that this was no mere fantasy for Clark Kent, but a truth etched deep within his heart.
He observed him in silence for a few more seconds, evaluating each word, each movement. His expression remained unreadable, though in his eyes there was a flicker of curiosity at the intensity of the man in front of him.
“Mister Kent,” he said at last, his voice measured, as one might speak of a matter both unusual and deserving of respect, “I do not deny the strength of what you feel. It is plain that you believe in it with every ounce of your conviction… and there is no way to wrest that from your heart. But this world” Alfred made a broad gesture, encompassing the tower, the city, and, in some sense, the reality around them “does not operate by the same rules. That which is an absolute certainty to you, here is regarded elsewhere as little more than a children’s fable.
He leaned himself slightly, resting a hand upon the arm of the chair.
“Perhaps, in a metaphorical sense, your soulmate exists,” he continued, “in affinities, in shared traits of character or purpose… yet the notion that there is a single, ‘one and only’ person destined for you is, in practical terms, impossible to prove in this world. A mere myth.”
Alfred remained silent, watching as Clark absorbed every word, as if trying to reconcile two incompatible realities.
“Now then,” he added, with a barely perceptible hint of irony, “the obstinacy of the human heart is often more persistent than logic. And if there is one thing I have learned in all my years in the service of the Wayne family, it is that the heart seldom heeds when the mind declares something ‘impossible’.”
Notes:
Hello again. This chapter was originally going to be longer, but I decided to split it so I could better develop the rest in the next update. I wanted to make sure that every moment, every emotion, and every gesture had the space they deserve, without rushing. I really loved writing Alfred, even though it was incredibly challenging because I wasn’t sure how to make him sound like himself hehe.
Also, I’m studying for a really important exam, and I need to stay focused to pass; I can’t afford too many distractions, even though writing fills me with excitement. This story is something I love deeply, I love creating tension, exploring the characters, and seeing how their emotions clash and intertwine. I literally sat down and looked at images of Wayne Tower until I arrived at a solid description of what I was seeing, at least in the part that Bruce lives in.
Splitting the chapter felt like a good idea while I make sure I can come back with all the energy and dedication the story deserves after the exam. Every word I write reminds me why I love this world so much, and how much I adore Bruce and Clark.
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