In the Space Between

by MxDefyingGravity

Summary:

One gala, one chance encounter, and suddenly you’re sharing a couch with Bruce Wayne and Clark Kent. They’re dating. They’re gorgeous. And for reasons you can’t quite understand, they both seem very interested in you.

Chapter 1: Meet Cute

You meet Clark Kent completely by accident.

You are moving into your brand-new, crappy studio apartment. A couple of your cousins are “helping” you, though in reality they are only carrying the lightest boxes while leaving you with the heavy stuff. One of them is even in the military, but somehow he only manages to bring up a single bag of clothes.

It is no surprise when their lack of interest turns into roughhousing. It is even less surprising when they knock you into the rickety railing on the third floor. What does surprise you is the way the railing gives way beneath your weight. You plummet before you even have time to scream.

That must be how he catches you.

You find yourself pressed against something solid and warm. Once your head stops buzzing, you realize that the something is wearing a white button-up shirt and smells faintly like the wind.

“Gosh, that was close! Are you okay, Miss?”

You tilt your head back and see big blue eyes staring down at you from behind thick-framed glasses. One of the man’s arms is wrapped protectively around your waist. The other is holding the box that had fallen with you, the one filled with kitchenware that had nearly broken your back on the stairs.

“Uh…” you stammer, words tripping over themselves. Your cousins are already rushing down the stairs toward you. “Yeah! I’m fine. That was wild, huh?” Your voice trembles as you start to pull away. He loosens his grip only once you take the lead.

“I keep telling the super that someone’s gonna get hurt,” he mutters, glaring up at the railings. “Those things might as well be made out of tin foil. You’re not cut up, are you?”

His attention swings back to you, and your heart stutters in your chest. You can only shake your head with a smile that you hope looks steadier than you feel. Luckily, your cousins arrive, loud and fumbling, and pull his gaze away for a moment.

“Thank you. Really.” Heat creeps into your cheeks and you pray it isn’t obvious. “Maybe now I can guilt these guys into actually helping me.”

“Oh, are you moving in?” he asks with a crooked smile that sends your stomach into a tumble. “I’ve got some time. Need an extra hand?”

Before your cousins can accept on your behalf, you rush to cut in.

“No! No, we’re good. Only a few boxes left.” You laugh, maybe a little too quickly. “I did promise these idiots pizza though. You should join us if you’re free.”

His face brightens as if someone just handed him the best gift. If he had a tail, you’re sure it would be wagging. “Yeah! I’d love that. I’m Clark, by the way. Clark Kent.”

He passes your cousin the heavy box as though it weighs nothing. The poor guy nearly buckles under the weight. Then Clark extends his hand to you. You stare at it for a second, surprised. No one has tried to shake your hand in ages. You grab it too fast, and his firm grip sends your pulse racing.

Why is a handshake turning you on?

You tell him your name, and he repeats it back like it is something musical. He doesn’t let go until you do, and when you pull away he is smiling again.

“I’ll see you for pizza then,” he says, backing out the front door.

“Yeah! Something tells me you’re a meat-lovers kind of guy?” you tease, giving him one last up-and-down look.

“I like all pizza, but yeah, you’re right!” he calls, nearly tripping over someone as he continues backing away. “I’ll swing by! With my boyfriend later if that’s okay? Be careful! Stay away from those railings!”

He waves one last time before disappearing down the street. You almost don’t have time to process your disappointment at Clark not being single as you wave back at him. You take a deep breath then turn back to your cousins, who are both staring at you.

“What?” you demand, brushing past them toward the stairs. “Quit looking at me like that. None of this would have happened if you weren’t so lazy. And you’re helping me unpack, too.”

You shoo them along until you stop halfway up the stairs, struck by a sudden realization.

"Shit! I didn’t tell him which apartment is mine."

Unsurprisingly, you don’t see Clark that night. You don’t see him at all as you settle in over the next few weeks and, unfortunately, with the regular stresses of life, he becomes just a memory.

You work as a Social Worker and your main office is in Gotham. The reason you moved was that your agency recently expanded to offer their services to those in Metropolis. Which is great. There are people in Metropolis that need your help. The only part that isn’t great is that despite growing so much, there’s still a lack of bodies. You have to travel back and forth between Gotham and Metropolis.

Which is how you meet Bruce Wayne.

Your boss drags you along to a Wayne Enterprises gala. “This is a good opportunity to rub elbows with people and get some extra funding!” she assures you. The reality is that it’s your job to keep your boss sober enough to shake hands and not make an ass of the agency.

You spend most of your evening trailing after your boss, balancing a flute of champagne you have no interest in drinking, and pretending you don’t feel completely out of place. You didn’t grow up in luxury, and this absurd display of wealth is almost unnerving. Every chandelier sparkles like it’s worth more than your entire building. The women are all draped in diamonds and every man looks like he was born wearing a tuxedo. You can’t imagine any of them know how much a gallon of milk costs.

As your boss is loudly flirting with the head of some power company, you’re eyeing the hors d'oeuvres, trying to figure out if it’s acceptable to sneak more than one mini quiche, when a low voice rumbles behind you.

“Go for it. Take three. No one’s keeping count.”

You nearly jump out of your skin. Turning around, you find yourself face to face with the man of the house himself. Bruce Wayne. His reputation precedes him, of course. Gotham’s most eligible bachelor. A man whose name alone makes people go quiet. Here he is, a ghost of a smile tugging at his lips as he nods to the food.

“Oh, I, uh…” You stammer, suddenly hyper-aware of the way your dress is probably older than you are. “I wasn’t—well. Maybe just one more. Hate to see them go to waste.”

His smile grows as if he can see straight through you. “Exactly. Take four if you’d like.”

You don’t. You pick up another one and take a slow bite out of it, enjoying the flavors bursting in your mouth. You watch him take one, but he doesn’t eat it. It looks like he does it so you don’t feel uncomfortable. It’s sweet.

He’s sweet.

“You don’t come to these often,” he observes, as though it’s a fact instead of a question.

You laugh under your breath. “What gave me away? The way I keep hovering by the food, or the fact that I’ve checked my phone a billion times?”

“Neither,” he says smoothly. “You just look like you’d rather be anywhere else. Which means you probably belong here more than most of them.” He leans down a little to whisper in your ear. “For the record, you’ve only checked your phone six times.”

A blush threatens to crawl up your neck when you feel his hot breath on your ear. It almost sounded like he gave you a compliment. You don’t have time to process it before your boss appears, already a little red in the face from the open bar. She stumbles through a half-bow, calling Bruce’s name with the kind of over-familiarity that only comes from liquid courage.

Bruce acknowledges her politely, but his eyes keep flicking back over to you before your boss whisks him away to “introduce him to some important people.”

You exhale, finally letting your shoulders drop, only to hear another voice at your side.

“Don’t take it personally. He’s always in demand at these things.”

You turn, and there he is again. Your beefy neighbor, Clark Kent. Except this time he’s in a pressed suit, notebook in hand, and a press badge on his lanyard half-tucked into his jacket.

“Clark?” The surprise in your voice makes him grin.

“Hi,” he says, adjusting his glasses. “Funny seeing you here. I’m covering the gala for the Daily Planet.” He pauses, lowering his voice conspiratorially. “Though between you and me, they’re more interested in what Bruce Wayne is wearing than anything actually newsworthy.”

The laugh bursts out of you before you can stop it, the tension from moments ago slipping away.

“Mini-quiche?” You offer him one on a napkin that he gladly takes. “It’s no meat lovers—but it should sustain you for a while.”

“Mmm!” He exclaims through a mouth full of quiche, swallowing quickly and making sure his mouth isn’t a mess. “No—I’m so sorry. I realized when I got home I didn’t know what apartment you were in, I forgot your number, I kept hoping we’d bump into each other in passing but—”

“Clark, relax,” you urge, offering a gentle smile. “I’m not mad. Just remind me to give you my number so you and your boyfriend can come and hang out.”

His smile shows his relief. “I’d really like that.”

The two of you end up talking by the food table until the music shifts into something slower, couples drifting onto the dance floor. You catch your boss swaying too close to a senator’s wife and decide it’s probably time to leave before you’re implicated in whatever scandal is brewing. Clark, being Clark, offers to walk you out.

The night air feels like a blessing when you finally step out. Cold, refreshing, and stimulating just enough to wake you up for a long walk home. You’re about to thank Clark for the company when a sleek black car pulls up to the curb. The back window slides down, and Bruce Wayne leans out, looking far too composed for someone who just endured an evening of political small talk.

“You two finished?” he asks, one brow raised.

Clark’s ears turn red. “Almost! Just giving a friend some company. I was actually gonna walk her home but I can meet you back at your place.”

It takes you a second to catch it—the way Bruce’s eyes soften when they land on Clark, the way Clark doesn’t flinch under that sharp Wayne gaze. There’s an ease between them that no headline has ever hinted at, something unspoken but steady, as if this is far from the first time they’ve spoken so casually.

Bruce nods toward the car door. “This is the girl who fell out of the sky, right? We owe her a pizza night, don’t we? The night’s young enough we can pick a pie up on the way.”

Clark sighs, but there’s a smile tugging at his mouth. He turns back to you. “Are you up for that? I know I could pack away a few slices. Those quiches are so small.”

You blink. “Wait. Your boyfriend is—?”

“Bruce Wayne,” Bruce says as he steps out of the car, holding it open for you and Clark. When you don’t right away, Clark lets out a sheepish laugh.

“Yeah, me and Bruce we, uh—date.”

Bruce smirks. “He’s underselling it.”

For a moment, you’re caught between disbelief and amusement. Of course the two most impossible men you’ve ever met in your life would somehow be together.

“Well,” you say, trying to sound casual despite your hammering heart as you watch Clark crawl into the car. He’s so tall that he has to slouch so his head doesn’t hit the top of the car.

The leather seats are softer than anything you’ve ever sat on, and the interior smells faintly of cedar and something darker, richer. You realize the smell is Bruce; which makes Clark’s aftershave of soap and laundry detergent feel all the more grounding. Wedged between them, you’re hyperaware of the solid lines of their shoulders, the heat of them, the fact that Gotham’s most eligible bachelor and your too-good-to-be-true neighbor are both treating you like you belong here.

Bruce glances at you as the car glides forward, one hand resting lazily on the armrest. “So. What’s your pizza order? Careful, this is the part Clark takes very seriously. He’ll judge you for life.”

Clark lets out a soft laugh, leaning a little closer so his shoulder brushes yours. “That’s rich, coming from the man who once called pizza culinary blasphemy because it arrived with pineapple on it.”

Bruce’s mouth curves, the faintest smirk that feels private, like it’s meant only for the two of you. “I stand by that.”

You laugh, though it comes out shakier than you intend. “Well, if this is a test, I feel like I’m walking into a trap.”

“Not a trap,” Clark assures, eyes catching yours behind the curve of his glasses. “Just a chance to get to know you better.”

“Or,” Bruce cuts in, his voice low, velvet-edged, “a chance for us to find out if you’re trouble.” His gaze lingers a second too long before flicking back to the window, leaving you flushed and breathless in the quiet hum of the car.

The night winds up with the three of you in Clark’s apartment, which isn’t much bigger than yours. The only difference is the tiny bedroom tucked off to the side, whereas yours is a full studio. You excuse yourself to your apartment for a quick change, slipping into a loose crop top and your baggiest pair of sweatpants. If you’re going to bloat on pizza, you might as well be comfortable.

Turns out your new friends had the same idea. The only difference is that they somehow manage to look like models even when dressed down. Bruce lounges in a fitted gray tank and black sweats, every line of muscle defined in the soft apartment light. Clark pulls on a black T-shirt that stretches across his broad chest, emblazoned across it is the unmistakable Batman logo.

You gasp, pointing at him before glancing down at the same symbol stamped across your own shirt.

“No way,” you laugh, and in a heartbeat the two of you are pointing at each other, grinning like kids.

“There’s no way! I’m Batman’s biggest fan,” Clark exclaims, eyes lighting up.

“I bet,” you tease, hands on your hips. “You seem like the type to go to superhero trivia nights.”

Beside you, Bruce leans back on the couch with something caught between a smirk and a grimace, watching the two of you with the kind of expression that makes your stomach flutter. While Clark disappears into the kitchen to grab plates, you and Bruce are alone on the couch with a cushion in between you two. His arm is draped over the back of the couch as if he owns the place, which, knowing Bruce Wayne, he very well might.

“Don’t let him fool you,” Bruce murmurs, voice pitched low as if to keep it from carrying to his boyfriend in the kitchen. “Clark’s going to keep an eye on you about the pizza. He’s got this rule about how many slices everyone gets. It’s ridiculous.”

“I heard that!” Clark calls out, loud enough to make you jump. “For the record, I only enforce that rule when a certain billionaire forgets to leave any for the rest of us!”

Bruce’s lips twitch like he’s fighting a smile. His gaze lingers on you, softer now, almost teasing. “See what I mean?”

A moment later, Clark reappears with three plates balanced effortlessly in his hands. He drops down on your other side, forcing you to scoot into the middle. His thigh presses warmly against yours, casual but firm, as if he’s staked the spot without asking. He hands you your plate with a grin that makes your stomach do a flip.

“If you two are finished slandering me,” he says, eyes glinting with mischief, “then let’s pick a movie before the pizza gets cold.”

You grab your plate and slide onto the couch between them, feeling the warm press of Clark on one side and Bruce on the other. The couch is barely wide enough for the three of you, but somehow it works, and suddenly every small movement feels loaded—the brush of an arm, the accidental touch of a knee, the way their warmth seems to surround you.

Clark reaches over to grab the remote, his fingers brushing yours just long enough to make your heart skip. “So… what do we want to watch?” he asks, glancing at you with that easy, crooked grin that somehow makes you forget how impossible this situation is.

Bruce leans back, his gaze settling on you in that quiet, unreadable way, one arm draped along the back of the couch just behind you. “Anything you want, baby. What does our guest feel like watching?” he murmurs, voice low and teasing. His thumb brushes your shoulder almost casually, but you feel it anyway, and it sends a little shiver down your spine.

You bite your lip, balancing a slice of pizza on your plate as your mind races. “I’m down for anything! Uh… there’s this new reality show I haven’t seen. 60 Days in Arkham? Have you guys seen that?”

“Oh man! Yeah, Commissioner Gordon set that up, didn’t he?” Clark asks, looking at Bruce excitedly. “A bunch of people go undercover in Arkham? What a bad idea.”

“Bad, but fun to watch,” you offer. Bruce gives a casual nod and Clark excitedly flips it on so the three of you can watch the first episode together.

Between Clark’s warmth and easy charm, Bruce’s smoldering presence, and the absurd intimacy of this three-person couch sandwich, it’s impossible to focus on the show. You laugh quietly to yourself, shaking your head, and take a bite, hoping maybe the pizza will ground you.

Clark watches you, eyebrows raised, a playful spark in his eye. “You’re taking that slow, huh? Not even a nibble of the crust yet?”

Bruce lets out a soft laugh, just enough for you to notice, leaning a fraction closer so his arm brushes yours more deliberately. “Careful,” he warns, almost teasing, “or I might start judging how you eat pizza too.”

Your stomach twists, partly from the proximity and partly from the way two men, both impossibly gorgeous, are leaning in just slightly too close, watching you, and somehow making you feel like the center of their world.

Chapter 2: Transparency

Summary:

Breakfast from Clark is enough to leave you flustered, but nothing could prepare you for Bruce cornering you in the staff bathroom. A single kiss threatens to unravel everything, and suddenly you’re caught in a dangerous game of restraint and desire, between two men who could undo you completely.

You really hate leaving Clark’s apartment that night. After the initial anxiety of sitting wedged between two Grecian gods, you end up having a surprisingly good time. The TV show you chose turns out to be entertaining despite its many flaws, and both of the boys are a riot.

Clark is a yapper. Everything he sees on the screen sparks a comment, followed by a tangent into a full-blown conversation.

“It’s interesting to see the dynamics inside Arkham, but you have to wonder how much of this is for show on the inmates’ end. Are these the real cliques? Are any of these fights real? Oh wow, who do they have as a chef there? Those mashed potatoes look really good.”

Bruce, on the other hand, is silent until something sets him off into a tirade—usually some glaring inaccuracy.

“He changes his backstory every time! Every time! I don’t think he even knows it!” Bruce shouts at one point, his arm squeezing you tightly to his side like you’re a stress toy as he jabs a finger at the TV. “And Pamela’s a literal eco-terrorist! She made plant babies! Why does no one remember this? It’s easily googleable! Oh, I am livid.”

You don’t shuffle home until nearly three in the morning. Clark tries to convince you to stay—after all, the couch pulls out and the three of you have been having such a good time—but you decline. You have work in just a few hours.

“You’re a social worker, aren’t you?” Bruce asks as you stand to leave. “You were following that woman, Hillary Thompson, around all night. She mentioned they just opened an office in Metropolis. Is that why you moved here, Angel?”

You pause at the nickname, even blush a little, before shaking it off.

“Yeah! Except most of my clients are still back in Gotham. It’s like an hour-long train ride and then a thirty-minute walk from the station to the office. It’s a whole thing. Honestly, I might not even sleep tonight. Might just take an extra long time with my morning routine.”

You catch the look Clark and Bruce share—furrowed brows, tense mouths, as if they’re speaking to each other telepathically. It’s Clark who stands to walk you back to your apartment, because, of course, it’s Clark.

“I’m so sorry for keeping you up all night,” he frets. “I didn’t even think of it. I’m used to pulling all-nighters, and it was really inconsiderate of me. You won’t be too tired to find your train? Are you sure you don’t have any PTO you could use? Work from home?”

You can’t help laughing at his worrying. Leaning your head against his arm, you nuzzle into him a bit, which makes him raise his arm and hug you close.

“Relax,” you urge, tilting your head up to smile at him. “This isn’t my first all-nighter, and it won’t be my last. But it’s definitely the most fun. I really want to do this again sometime. I think my couch could fit all three of us if you want to do this at my place next time.”

“Yeah! I’d-uh-we’d love that, Angel!”

That nickname again. You can’t pretend not to hear it this time. Clark and Bruce are your friends. Nothing more.

Once you reach your door, you turn to smile at Clark.

“Thanks for walking me home. That flight of stairs seemed very ominous,” you tease, only to see Clark bristle.

“Thirty percent of all accidents happen on the stairs! I’m making sure you’re safe! I’m helping! I’m a helpful guy!”

You laugh so loud you worry about waking your neighbors.

“You are so helpful. Thank you for being sooo helpful, Clark. Such a good boy,” you tease again, reaching up to scratch underneath his chin. You can feel the faint scruff starting to come in.

Clark melts into your touch. At first, you think he’s just playing along. But then he leans closer. His barrel chest presses you gently back against your apartment door, the air between you shrinking until it’s nearly gone. One of his hands cups your cheek, warm and steady, guiding your face so you’re forced to meet his gaze.

It steals the breath from your lungs. His brilliant blues entrap you, too much and too close all at once. You feel the weight of him—solid, unshakable, yet his touch is tender, as if he worries you might break.

For a moment, the world outside the hallway doesn’t exist. It’s just you, Clark, and the slow realization that maybe you two aren’t playing around anymore.

“I just want to keep you safe,” he whispers, his breath warm against your skin. “I think I’m meant to, you know? I almost think you were sent here for me.”

His words send a shiver through your body, and you fight every fiber of your being not to pull Clark inside your apartment. His face dips a little closer, and you let out a small whimper.

“Y-you’re seeing Bruce,” you whisper. “I can’t-I-I don’t want to ruin anything. I like you guys so much! I never meant to-”

He doesn’t pull back right away. He doesn’t even seem upset by your words. Instead, his smile grows a little, as if you’ve told a punchline to a joke you didn’t know you were making. He leans closer and presses a gentle kiss to the corner of your mouth before finally pulling away.

“Sweet dreams, Angel.”

You don’t sleep that night. Clark makes sure of that. You’re stuck replaying every second of his words, the way his lips brushed the corner of your mouth. The echo of “Angel” lingers in your chest like an ember you can’t quite stamp out.

The humming of the fluorescent lights above drags you back to the present. Your office in Gotham is a far cry from late-night laughter and warm shoulders to lean on. The desk is cluttered with case files, half-empty coffee cups, and a sticky note reminding you to call the Todd family before the end of your day. You keep a decent level of concentration. After all, the families you’re working with deserve your focus, but you’re pulled from it when one of the interns drops a coffee and a small brown bag on your desk.

“Oh, sweetheart, I didn’t order this.” You stop him as he starts to walk away.

He frowns, glances at the cup again. “It has your name on it? Someone dropped it at the front desk.” He shrugs before hurrying off to his next task.

You examine the coffee cup curiously, then open the bag to find a bacon, egg, and cheese bagel. Your mouth waters instantly. As if on cue, your phone lights up with a text from an unknown number.

Wanted to make sure you had a somewhat proper breakfast today! Least I can do after keeping you up all night.

Your heart skips a beat. Clark must have taken your number when you weren’t paying attention last night. You would have willingly given it to him if he’d asked, but after your encounter at your apartment, you’re not sure if you should respond. The idea of not talking to Clark again makes your chest ache.

Another text buzzes in—this time from a different number. A group chat.

For the sake of transparency, I am about to be at your office, Angel. Your boss invited me for a tour.

Bruce. Bruce Wayne. The man whose boyfriend just bought you breakfast and nearly kissed you the night before. The man who could buy and sell you if he really wanted to. And now he’s about to walk into your office. You’re dead meat.

No fair! Can I come over too? I bet people in Metropolis would benefit from hearing about how the social work industry is over-flooded and overworked! It’d be good exposure

Despite the wave of anxiety flooding your chest, you snort a laugh at Clark’s eager enthusiasm. You type and delete several drafts before finally settling on a reply:

Thank you for the breakfast! It’s wild you got one of my favorite drinks. And Bruce, if you need saving lmk. Hillary can be a lot. If she offers to take you out on her boat, say no.

Almost immediately, Bruce responds.

What? Why? What happens on her boat?

Pregnancy, usually.

You flip your phone face-down so you can get some actual work done.

Your steady pace at your desk keeps you focused… until lunch break, when you spot Bruce Wayne himself being paraded through the office by your overexcited boss. His eyes find you instantly, and your first instinct is to smile and wave—until you remember what happened with Clark last night.

Your stomach lurches. You abandon your desk and make a beeline for the bathroom. Splashing cold water on your face, you try to steady yourself, cursing Clark silently for putting you in this position. The bathroom door creaks open behind you. You freeze mid-splash, droplets sliding down your cheeks, ready to snap at whoever ignored the clearly posted Occupied sign—until you see him in the mirror.

Bruce Wayne.

He closes the door behind him with unhurried calm. No hesitation. No apology for barging into a staff bathroom. Just Bruce, larger than life in his tailored suit, watching you like he’s reading every line of a case file.

“Angel,” he says softly, his voice lower than usual, almost private. “I thought you might try to run away.”

“Bruce?” Your voice quivers as you fumble for a paper towel to dry your face. “What, uh… d-do you need something?”

He steps closer, the sound of his shoes muffled by the cheap tile. He doesn’t crowd you exactly, but the air feels heavier, charged.

“You look nice today,” he says, a small smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. “Though I think I prefer the comfy version from last night. You looked cute with your hair down and kind of messy.”

“Thank… you?” You narrow your eyes, baffled. What is this? What’s going on here? You open your mouth to ask, only to tense as he steps closer still, pressing you back until your hips bump against the sink.

“You know,” his voice is velvet wrapped in steel, “it’s not very fair that Clark’s the only one who got a goodnight kiss last night.”

Your heart thuds in your ears. He’s close enough that you can smell his cologne—sharp and clean—and feel the warmth radiating off him.

“I-I’m sorry,” you whisper. “I-I’m so sorry, please-you have to believe me. I really don’t want to come between you two. I like you both so much! I never meant to-”

Your words die as his hand comes up to cradle your face. His thumb brushes your lower lip, and your brain blanks entirely.

His eyes hold yours, dark and unwavering. “Do you want me to stop?”

It's the way he asks it. Steady, even, like he already knows your answer; makes your knees threaten to give out. He braces one hand on the sink beside you, leaning closer, and the space between you all but disappears.

You shake your head desperately, but even you don’t know if it means yes, stop, or no, don’t you dare.

“Clark talks too much,” Bruce whispers, humor threading through the tension in his voice. “I prefer action.”

Your pulse hammers. He’s so close—just one slip in restraint, and his mouth will be on yours. You want it. God, you want it so badly you think you might lean in first-

A knock at the door snaps the spell.

“Bruce? We’re ready for you in the conference room!” Hillary’s chirpy voice cuts through the moment.

You both freeze, still locked together. His thumb skims your cheek one last time, but this time his expression hardens with resolve. Another knock rattles the door. Hillary’s voice chirps through, impatient, and Bruce leans in before you can even process it.

His mouth crashes onto yours.

The kiss isn’t gentle. It’s hungry, commanding-a fire you didn’t know you were capable of feeding. His chest pins you against the sink, and then, suddenly, you’re lifted, perched on the edge. Your fingers curl into his shoulders, clutching him closer, and soft, unsteady sounds escape you before you can swallow them down. He swallows them for you.

The knock comes again, louder, and it forces him to drag himself back. He breathes hard as he lowers you carefully onto your feet, though his hands linger like he doesn’t want to let go. His eyes are darker now, stormy, and when he kisses you once more. Quick, stolen, almost cruel in how little it is compared to what just happened.

He straightens his suit, cool and composed, and without another word opens the door. The mask slips back into place. To anyone else, he looks like Bruce Wayne, billionaire. They wouldn’t have any idea that he just kissed his boyfriends neighbor in the bathroom like a starving man.

The bathroom feels colder without him. You grip the sink to steady yourself, your lips still tingling, your pulse still sprinting. At that moment, you’re mostly unsure of what the future holds for you three. Only one truth rings loud and clear in your mind:

These men are going to be the death of you.

Notes:

I didn't think people would look at this! Thank you for all the kind words on the first chapter. Honestly I'm really rusty with writing and got brain worms about SuperBat lol. I'm also REALLY sorry if the formatting is ugly. I'm old and used to use to post fanfic on Quizilla so idk what i'm doing ¯\_(ツ)_/¯

Chapter 3: Hero

Summary:

Group chats with your stupid hot neighbor and his stupid hot boyfriend, arguments over what consists of a balanced meal, and the occasional unsolicited takeout delivery—life has settled into an odd kind of routine. But routines have a way of breaking, and when they do, nothing feels quite the same again

The following two weeks are a welcome calm amongst the chaos of the Wayne Gala. While you haven’t bumped into Bruce or Clark in person, the three of you talk every day in that group chat.
They both, notably, refuse to answer any questions directly about what’s happening.
You: You guys wanna let me in on what you’re doing?

Clark: Currently I’m eating a burrito from this amazing little place by the Planet.
Clark: You want a bite? I can come pick you up!

You: No! Actually I’m good! My stomach’s kind of been in knots after our boy Brucey cornered me in the bathroom and kissed me.

Bruce: First—my name is Bruce.

Bruce: Second—since you don’t seem to recall my name how could you be sure that was me in the bathroom?

Bruce: Third—if the security in your building is so insecure then perhaps I should speak with Hillary about this.

Bruce: I’m more than happy to invest in your agency to make sure you’re safe.

You yell and slam your phone onto the bed. They’re both being impossible! You try to fool yourself into thinking you’d be able to tell them both off and never speak to them again. Chalk them both off to a weird experience about moving into your new apartment. Your finger even hovers over the “Delete Conversation” button for a moment before you groan and flop back onto your bed. They’ve wormed their way into your brain enough that you want to see where this all goes. You just hope it doesn’t turn into one of the movies your mother liked to watch about men doing horrific things to women.
While you don’t initially continue the conversation, Clark makes it impossible to ignore him for too long. He sends pictures in the group chat of dogs he meets on his walk to work, selfies of him with his coworkers candidly in the background, and silly little memes. Not relevant memes, mind you—no, Clark Kent sends memes that wine moms find funny on Facebook.
Bruce is a little more quiet. Mainly just checking in now and then. The occasional “What’s everyone eating for breakfast/lunch/dinner” is his favorite. Always accompanied by a picture of his perfectly displayed meal.
You: I’m not feeling dinner tonight. If anything I’ll rock some ice cream in a few hours.

Bruce: That’s how you get a stomach ache. You need to be eating a proper meal.

Clark: You know, technically, depending on the type of ice cream it could be considered a balanced meal.

Clark: You got the cone (grain), the ice cream (dairy—and could possibly have fruit in it), and optionally peanuts (protein!).

Clark: Tbh you could argue that anything’s a balanced meal.

Bruce: Clark. Enough.

Bruce: Your food will be there in 15, Angel.

Lo and behold, fifteen minutes later food from your favorite takeout with your go-to order is left outside your door. When you question the duo on how they know your order, Bruce replies almost instantly, as if his thumb is hovering over the send button.
Bruce: When I walked past your desk I saw the takeout menu with a big circle on it.

Bruce: I assumed that was your go-to—unless you have a hobby of defacing takeout menus.

You eat the dumplings. Fully. But you do not thank him, and you don’t answer any of their texts the rest of the night.
As the weeks pass, you get to know the two a bit better, but you don’t see either of them. Not because you refuse, but because you just haven’t happened to bump into them. You even bring it up once despite your better judgment.
You: So I’ve been craving another watch party of *60 Days in Arkham*.

You: It feels wrong to watch it without you guys.

Clark: I want to SO bad, Angel!

Clark: I can’t tonight though—I’m caught up with some stuff at the Daily Planet.

Bruce: Meetings tonight. Rain check.

This drives you up the wall. How dare they put you through intense mental turmoil for twelve consecutive hours and then not bother to see you in person again? They’re both frauds! In your protest you start watching the next episode of 60 days in Arkham in an act of rebellion.
Only to turn it off right after the opening recap.

—-
One day, as you’re standing in line at the bank, you’re thunder-thumbing away in your text chain. You and Clark are talking about the best way to make gravy so Bruce has something to come back to after one of his meetings.
You: What does he even do in his meetings? Is it like…
You: *“Ugghhhhhh… Whateeever… I don’t caaaare…”*

Clark: LMAO yea pretty much.
Clark: He does a lot of important work, of course, but y’know, some meetings could be emails.

You: Omg don’t I feel that. Hillary called a meeting about what kind of coffee pods to keep in the office.
You: They su

Clark: Ope pressed send to early
Clark: Angel??

Suddenly your phone is knocked from your grip as a concussive force slams into you. You don’t even have time to scream before you’re sprawled on the cold tile, dust choking your lungs. A high-pitched ringing fills your ears, drowning out the panicked cries around you. You cough, blink through the haze, and see a gaping hole where one of the bank’s walls used to be.
Figures emerge from the smoke. A tall man in tactical gear steps forward with calm, deliberate movements, and behind him slithers something… wrong. Its body ripples unnaturally, appendages writhing in the air like they have a mind of their own. A group of armed men follows, their boots thudding heavy against the ruined floor.

Then the chaos erupts.

People scream, scrambling for the doors, only to be shoved back by gunmen with vicious snarls. A mother hides her son behind her.. Suits trip over their briefcases in blind desperation. Every sound is magnified; sobbing, shouting, the click of weapons being cocked. Your pulse hammers against your skull, disorienting, unbearable.
You push yourself upright on shaking arms, but before you can stand fully, a pair of hands clamps around your forearms with bruising force. You cry out as pain shoots through your muscles. The man holding you yanks you upright only to shove you forward, your knees buckling as you collapse among the other captives.

“Quiet!” His voice is a jagged growl that rattles against your still-ringing ears. You look up and find yourself under the dead-eyed glare of a man with bleached hair, skin pulled tight over sharp cheekbones. His eyes are sunken, hollow, but they gleam with something cruel.
Another figure jogs over, his voice a sharp hiss:

“Fuck are you doin’? Tie her up!”

He tosses a coil of rope at the blonde one, who catches it lazily against his chest.
“Why bother? The boys will be done in a second and she ain’t gonna run. Look at her- she can barely keep her eyes focused.”

“Shit! Why’d you do that to her?”

“Nah. Think the blast got her. Part of the wall wailed her.”

It takes a heartbeat for you to understand. Blood is running hot down your face, dripping from your chin onto the fractured tile below. The world tilts sideways, vision doubling at the edges, but your training kicks in—don’t escalate, don’t provoke, survive.
You tell yourself you know what to do. You’ve told clients the same thing in crisis situations: wait, comply, live through it. Your mind chants the mantra like a prayer: Don’t be a hero. Don’t be a hero.
But then the man beside you - a stranger, maybe thirty, still wearing his office badge - suddenly lunges at the blonde. He’s tied up but he throws his body against. His desperate cry shatters the moment as he throws his weight into the man’s chest.

Don’t be a hero, you think, heart twisting in your chest.

The blonde recovers too quickly. He slams the butt of his gun into the stranger’s face, sending him crumpling to the ground only a foot from you. Blood splatters across the tiles, a grotesque mirror of your own.

Don’t be a hero.

The assailant doesn’t hesitate. He raises the gun, aiming directly at the man’s skull.
And then your body moves.
Your scream tears itself from your throat as you launch forward, half-blind, half-dizzy, adrenaline burning away every warning in your mind. You crash into the assailant, knocking him off balance. The gun wavers. Your hand smacks against his wrist, trying desperately to dislodge it. You’re clumsy, too slow, your head pounding like it’ll split in two.
The man snarls, wrenching the weapon free from your grip. The barrel flashes.

The shot rings out like the crack of the world splitting apart. White-hot agony sears your shoulder, ripping through flesh and bone before flooding your whole body with fire. The force of it sends you sprawling back, crashing onto your side. You scream, clutching at the wound, but your fingers are slick with blood. You can’t breathe, can’t think; only pain, only terror.
The world narrows. Vision blurs into streaks of color. You try to crawl backward, dragging yourself across the floor with your good arm, but your limbs are trembling, useless.
Around you, people sob harder, some scream out pleas for you, others hide their faces. But none of them move to help. Despite your situation you can’t find it in your heart to blame any of them.
Your heartbeat is thunder in your ears. You know it’s over. You know these are your last moments alive.
And the cruelest part is that you don’t think of your family. Not your mother, not even your childhood best friend. No - Your traitorous mind gives you with a final image: you on a couch, wedged between Bruce and Clark, bickering over some stupid TV show.

As you squeeze your eyes shut and wait for the finishing blow you can’t help but wonder how Bruce and Clark will react to the rest of the season.

If they’d even watch it without you.

If they’d miss you

The assailant crouches, the stink of smoke and sweat clinging to him, and presses cold steel against your temple. The gun is steady - practiced - you're sure that you're not the first person it's touched like this.
“Should’ve stayed down,” he mutters, voice low enough that only you hear. “Could’ve lived. Could’ve made it out of here."
The barrel digs harder into your skin, you try not to sob, not to beg, because you know begging won’t save you. But your breath stutters out in ragged gasps anyway, body betraying you.
He tilts his head, studying you like a bug pinned to glass. Then he smirks—thin, joyless. His finger shifts on the trigger.
This is it. This is the moment.
Time dilates. You’re aware of everything at once. The metallic tang of blood in your mouth, the frantic whimpers of hostages pressed against the far wall, the faint drip of water from a shattered pipe. All of it sharp, crystalline, like the world is imprinting your final seconds into memory.
The man’s lips part,

“It’s a shame. You’re awfully pretty. Probably would’ve taken you home with me. What do you say gorgeous? I put this gun down, we get you cleaned up, and we go on a little date?”
Your stomach turns and your body finally gives out. You're laid on your stomach flat against the ruined tile. You watch as your blood oozes out of you and into a puddle beneath you. Despite that you turn your head to cast a final look at your attacker.

"I'd rather take the bullet." You hiss.
His face contorts into a quiet anger. His finger squeeze the trigger and you clamp your eyes shut - waiting for the inevitable.

…Except it never comes.

A sudden gust tears through the lobby, so sharp it steals the air from your lungs. Shouts erupt all around you, jagged and frantic—but each one is cut short, swallowed by the chaos. You hear bodies crashing into walls, weapons clattering uselessly across marble, a cry silenced with bone-snapping finality. It’s over almost before your brain catches up. Then—silence.

Followed by chaos.

Screams and footsteps finally make you force your eyes open again, the hostages are fleeing through the broken doors. The blonde gunman who had been crouched in front of you is gone, too. All of them are.
The lobby is empty except for the wreckage and your ragged breathing.
You sag against the wall, trembling, blood warm on your arm. The ringing in your ears makes everything sound distant, dreamlike. Suddenly, you’re moving.
Your body jerks as if pulled upward by invisible strings. Strong arms curl beneath you, but for a heartbeat, you don’t understand what’s happening. The marble floor drifts away below, debris shrinking as you’re lifted higher.

Panic seizes you. “W-wait-” you sputter out, desperately trying to cling to something to ground you with your good arm.
The hold around you only steadies, not crushing, not harsh; gentle. Protective. You feel the heat of him against your side, the steady rise and fall of his chest anchoring you in the chaos. Whoever it is, he’s careful, as if you're made of cracked porcelain.
Before all you could smell was gunpowder and blood, but now you smell something cleaner, something warm.
And then you look up.
A cape, crimson, rippling in the aftermath of violence. A crest gleaming in the scattered light. Eyes, inhumanly blue, locked on yours like you’re the only thing he sees.
His gaze softens when he sees the recognition dawn across your face.

“You’re safe now,” he says. His voice is low, steady. A lullaby meant just for you.

You swallow, your voice breaking when you whisper, “Am I dead?”

“No,” He whispers. It’s a harsh sound that makes you flinch, he see’s that and corrects his tone. “No,” he repeats. “I wouldn’t let that happen to you.”

“Oh,” You whisper. “Thank you.”

Your brain connects the dots before you do. You feel the last of your tears trail down your face as you allow yourself to nestle into your saviors chest. The blue spandex of his suit caressing your cheek. He still smells the same; like the wind. A smile slowly graces your face as you feel consciousness slip away from you. The last words out of your mouth feel clumsy coming out - but you’re hopeful your hero can understand them.

“Does Bruce know you can fly?”

Notes:

I have no idea what i'm doing - but I hope everyone who reads this likes this!