Sunshine (And The Creature it Shadows)

by auravee

Summary:

"I was thinking we could help each other out, potentially. If you were willing, of course.”

He finishes with another blinding smile of his, and distantly, Bruce realizes the sun has started rising directly behind him, outlining the man in a supernatural sort of glow.

“I’m not.” He says with finality. For a second, Superman looks uncharacteristically crestfallen, splitting his act in two before it’s sealed back up again. “I work alone.”

OR

Bruce works alone, until he doesn't. (Enter Dick Grayson, stage left.)
It opens his guarded heart to something much brighter than the shadows.

Notes:

Hi everyone! This is my first ever fic, and I have recently fallen down the rabbit hole that is SuperBat, so I thought I'd give writing them a try! So, without further ado, I hope you guys enjoy!

Chapter 1

There is a reason Bruce dedicates half of his life to the shadows and the other half in the shadows. If he’s honest, he’d prefer to walk his lifetime strictly under the cowl, shrouded in the darkness and myth he made of himself. But the spotlight has its uses too as much as he begrudges it. 

Tonight, his mask is on and cowl is off. There’s a charity gala to host, as per his parents tradition. The clock is minutes away from the new year, and coins are spilling almost as much as drinks are. For his part, Bruce Wayne is making good on his rounds, smoking his unsipped champagne over the rim of his glass every now and then and teetering too far to one side as he steps. 

It’s second nature at this point, the performance that comes along with his name, the loose and sloppy laughter that spills from his lips when someone makes a particularly unfunny joke. His own quips that ring just as shallow. For all intents and purposes, Bruce Wayne is a moron. One with lots and lots of money. 

Oh, he’s a flirt too. 

Right now, he counts two women on his arm and one man trailing rather closely behind them. They’re all pretty in that upperclass way the rich often are. They’re dressed sleek and elegant, dressed up minimally in jewels and gold that likely cost an average person’s mortgage. They’re beautiful but in the sea of one percent, none of them particularly stand out. That doesn't matter though, Bruce will take home whoever, some nights maybe even more than one person. 

But as the clock ticks towards midnight, so does Bruce. He allows himself another few hours of celebration before he’ll slip through the doors with some young woman or man drunk enough to forget being left in a guest room while Bruce dawns his suit. 

Events and riches aside, Gotham is a ruthless city who doesn't wait until the after parties to strike. Bruce finds that holidays are by far the worst nights on the street, so he will be ending his night with a new year’s kiss, not a new person in his bed. 

Sure enough, the women on his arm lean closer and closer to him as drunken socialites count down the seconds from five. Four. Three.

He kisses the brown eyed woman first, then the blonde, and finally directs his attention to the hopeful man with a handsome smile. 

People are cheering, gold painted confetti flies, and Bruce Wayne keeps his mask on. He’ll peel it off once he’s in the safety of his kevlar. 

 

~~~

 

He returns from the night limping and bloody. Almost every night there’s something new, a broken bone, a bullet graze, bruised knuckles. Tonight it’s very possibly a twisted if not fractured ankle and some very tender ribs. 

Alfred is up to greet him upon his return - if he were to consider looking upon Bruce with an unimpressed expression and bandages a greeting. He doesn't feel quite so great himself. There was an ugly fight that broke out between a drug dealer and his seller. Batman came to break it up but was ambushed by three other, heavily armed men. He was shot a couple times, but his armor caught all the bullets. Unfortunately the suit can’t do him the favor of catching the blunt force he was hit with. As for his ankle, that was the doing of a poorly placed kick right before the ambush, when one of the men rammed his body right across his leg. 

It won’t happen again, he promises himself, Alfred too, but he just responds with an unconvinced “hm” as he gets to supporting the bone with a bandage.  

“I expect you to stay off of this leg for at least a day, Mr. Wayne.”

Bruce represses a wince, he’s only Mr. Wayne to Alfred with he’s reproaching him for one reason or another. It reminds him inexplicably of a time where he was an angry teenager getting into fights for the sake of it and not a twenty-six year old man fighting to keep the city safe. 

“I’ll take it easy,” he allows hollowly, determinedly not looking Alfred in the eyes as he ignores his request. 

Bruce feels the weight of his gaze anyway. Bruce expects something more, but Alfred only walks away, muttering something about Bruce being the, “same stubborn young man as always.”

He feels his cheeks flush, guilty, before standing slowly and making his accent to his bedroom, regardless of the dawn creeping in the manner upstairs. Bruce thinks new years day is as good as any excuse to sleep extra late, not that anything else is expected of him, of course, but the reasoning feels good to have. 

 

~~~

 

The next night, Bruce patrols the city as usual, much to Alfred’s chagrin. Internally, he promises to take it lighter on his leg, grappling from roof to roof instead of his usual jumping and rolling. He breaks up fights with his fist and toolbelt, never allowing his kicks to fly, as much as his instincts tell him to. It’s a crime heavy night, just as any other, and Bruce barely finds time to survey in peace. 

When he does, he’s perched on the roof of a tall building downtown. It’s probably approaching four, and the night is beginning its break into soft indigos opposed to the harsh blue of midnight. He keeps his attention down, listening to the limited bustle of the early hour. If there’s trouble, Bruce will hear it. 

He doesn't know how long he’s there before he decides to trek towards another rooftop, maybe a quarter mile away when suddenly there's a streak of red and blue that decidedly doesn't belong to the arriving dawn. Bruce’s brain identifies the color a moment before the man reveals himself, hovering only a few feet away from Bruce. 

Superman floats at eyelevel, with a dazzling smile across his golden skin and an offendingly bright suit. Bruce immediately mistrusts him. Of course, he had heard of the man, it’d take a lot of effort to not be subjected to chatter about the Man of Steel, the Man of Tomorrow, Humanities Hope. It’s an ironic set of names considering he’s not really a man at all. Bruce doesn't like knowing exactly how little he has to do to level a city, hell, half the world would lay flat if he so much as sneezed wrong. Despite the raving of the media, and the blind trust of the public, Bruce is certainly not falling for whatever facade he has put up. His smile is just a little too bright, his voice just a touch too cheery, his face just right or perfect. Superman is a facade, albeit a well crafted one, but Bruce knows an act when he sees it, and the man in front of him radiates one. 

He’s been considering him in silence for long enough that it’s growing uncomfortable, but Superman doesn't seem intimidated, in fact, breaks it himself. “You must be Batman, it’s wonderful to meet you. I’m- well, I admire what you do and I wanted to introduce myself.”

He pauses, with something Bruce can’t read in his expression, and assumes he’s waiting for Bruce to interject with a response of his own, but nothing he just said warrants an answer. Bruce isn’t sure he’d respond even if it did. 

Superman brushes aside his silence easily. “You’re a man of few words, I respect that. I only wanted to make your acquaintance and offer a sort of proposal for you.” Bruce doesn't like the sound of that. He feels something in his blood curdle in the brief pause of anticipation. “We both have the same goal in mind: we protect our cities and people in need. And I can’t speak for you, but it’s a lonely endeavor, one that I think we’d be able to accomplish so much better if we had someone to rely on, or watch out for. I was thinking we could help each other out, potentially. If you were willing, of course.” 

He finishes with another blinding smile of his, and distantly, Bruce realizes the sun has started rising directly behind him, outlining the man in a supernatural sort of glow. He considers the request in extended silence, mainly to watch Superman squirm. He doesn't. As always, he’s the picture of ease. It makes Bruce’s eyes narrow behind the lenses of his cowl. 

“I’m not.” He says with finality. For a second, Superman looks uncharacteristically crestfallen, splitting his act in two before it’s sealed back up again. “I work alone.” Bruce turns to go and Superman lets him. 

On the way back to the cave, he stops a man from mugging a woman. He spins a quick kick on a man cornering an older woman with a knife. He feels a bone crack. Alfred is less than pleased when he returns. Bruce doesn't bother defending himself. 

 

~~~

 

With a broken ankle, Bruce can’t tend to Batman business for at least a couple weeks. He tries not to be furious about it, but he rebalances his responsibilities, spending the day doing Bruce Wayne duties and his nights in the cave. It’s an opportunity for him to slow down, letting the aches in his body ease and spend more time training - strictly upper body at Aflred’s orders. 

Bruce doesn't walk with a crutch, it doesn't even let Alfred’s hard stare bully him into using one. Instead he wears a thin cast that his pant legs slide easily over. Because he can’t hide his limp, he feeds the media a story about some freak equestrian incident, smiling sheepishly to the cameras as he’s spoon fed faux sympathy by the masses. 

Tonight however, there’s a circus in town. Bruce hasn’t been to the circus since he was a boy, but he vividly remembers the lions and elephants that perform tricks at command and the acrobats that fly across skies in their vivid colors. As a boy, Bruce was transfixed by the performers, gazing upon their act as they expertly twisted and flew in a blur of agility and balance. 

He lets Alfred coerce him into going. 

Haly’s circus is outfitted inside a large black and white striped tent. If Bruce thinks the outside lacks color, it’s all made up for on the interior. The moment he walks in, there’s an explosion of reds and golds and the occasional blue. There are string lights that illuminate the space in an almost star like manor. There are crowds of people that bustle around, families, couples, children. No one pays Bruce a second glance, they’re too caught up in the magic to recognize him, and he enjoys the rare anonymity he receives without the cowl. 

Instead of jumping from booth to booth of games and meeting the clowns roaming around, Bruce finds a seat in a relatively secluded area around the main circle before the acts start. Quickly after, the seats start filling up and the booths start clearing out. The lights dim, allowing a beaming spotlight to flicker on, directly upon a man dressed in a spectacular tophat and a sparkling red waistcoat. The Ringmaster, Bruce presumes. 

He begins his spell that Bruce half listens too, introducing act upon act as they cycle through. There are first the clowns, which cause the audience to laugh out loud in all the intended places. One person near Bruce has a wheezing laugh that he checks on more than once throughout the show, it doesn't sound like a healthy sound. 

Then are the animals, he watches lions jump through hoops and elephants play catch with a rubber ball. It’s less magical then he was as a child, but he finds he appreciates all the oohs and awhs from the younger members of the audience. 

Then there are the fire jugglers, and the aerial acts, and the equilibrialist. He watches all of them raptly, anticipating their every move. He doesn't intend to, but he finds himself leaning forward when the aerial artist drops at least twenty feet from ceiling to floor, upside down, before she stops just inches from the ground. 

The latest act clears the stage, submerging the tent in darkness once again. Bruce expects the Ringmaster to appear center stage once again to introduce the next act as he’s done for all the acts prior. Instead, the tent stays dark, and his voice weaves through the tent, traveling from one end to another in a deliberately tricky fashion. 

“Lastly, we have the moment you’ve all been waiting for. May I introduce to you, the family born of the skies, the trio of tricks, the beings gravity itself has no hold. Ladies and Gents, the Flying Graysons!” 

The crowd roars to life and the spotlight finally comes on, revealing a group of three people, clad in deep red spandex. They’re in the upper most corner of the tent, waving from a high above platform. There’s a man and a woman with a child between them. Bruce can’t make out any of their features, but he has a feeling the child can’t be any older than ten. 

He remembers seeing acrobats in his youth, and trying to emulate their agility in his training becoming the Bat. He watches their first leaps and swings with rapt attention, the little boy swinging across first with an impressive and graceful maneuver that Bruce tracks. Then the adults, which Bruce assumes are the boy’s parents if their name is any indication, begin their routine while the boy is tucked away on a further platform, awaiting his cue. 

Bruce watches as they fly. He sees everything, just as he’s practiced. So he doesn't miss the slack in the rope just before the woman catches the bar, nor the wide eyed look on her face as the rope refuses to pull taught. He see’s, with the rest of the audience at this point, as the man tumbles towards her, having already been in motion, mid air, grabbing onto her ankles as the routine suggests. There’s no net to catch their fall. 

The next moments include a critical beat of silence, Bruce is on his feet and moving. He doesn't know where. All he knows is two people are dead, their son is somewhere high above watching, and this was certainly not a part of the act. It might be too quick to assume foul play, but Bruce’s head is figuring about fifteen different ways this could have been premeditated, and twenty ways to catch the culprit. 

He’s on the floor, mixed in the chaos of the crowd and staff. If the person was here, they’re long gone now, perfectly mixed up in the screams and panic that amassed in the tent. Bruce is about to leave, ready to head back to the cave and onto the streets again when he looks up. 

There, almost right above him, twenty or so feet up, is the kid. He’s staring down, his head peering over the wooden platform at the unmoving bodies of his parents. Bruce is brought back eighteen years to that alleyway behind the theater. 

Bruce doesn't leave, instead he climbs. 

 

~~~

 

Bruce is way in over his head, which is saying a lot. There aren’t many things that he considers out of his debt, but caring for a newly orphaned nine year old is definitely one of them. 

He isn’t sure what possessed him to take on a ward. Maybe he felt a kinship with this kid, whose situation deeply reflected Bruce’s own at that age. Maybe Bruce, in his many misguided coping mechanisms, felt a sense of responsibility to this kid. He was no doubt intelligent, Bruce could see it plainly, even through the kid’s grief. He had potential and Bruce didn’t want him to end up alone in one of the many orphanages he has set up around Gotham. 

Only briefly does he consider it was because he’s lonely. 

But whatever the reason, Bruce has taken on Dick Grayson as his ward. He spends every afternoon going over basic level school work with him, in order to catch up before Bruce enrolls him in school next fall. He gives him the space he needs to grieve. He opens up to Dick about his own parents. He enrolls in therapy. 

There are plenty of books on parenting - Bruce reads about three dozen of them - but none match his particular situation. 

Alfred is a heaven send - as he always is - having been almost exactly in Bruce’s shoes over a decade ago. He makes Bruce take time off from both of his jobs to spend time with Dick, who they have both found hates being called Richard. Alfred gives Bruce his share of hard looks when it becomes clear Bruce’s emotional aptitude is considerably lacking, telling him in no uncertain terms that he needs to get it together. 

Bruce tries, and for the most part, Dick seems to be taking to his new life well enough, all things considered. It’s rocky and precocious, with all three members of the manor walking as though on eggshells. But they all find their balance, and slowly, the shells clear away bit by bit. 

At least, until Dick finds his way to the study. Bruce isn’t exactly sure how it happens. It’s early in the morning with dawn barely breaking. Dick should be fast asleep, he isn’t sure if his odd hours are a result of his life in the circus or learned by Bruce’s own tendencies, but it’s not the first time he or Alfred found him wandering about at night. 

This time though, he wandered his way into the cave. 

Bruce had a particularly bad night, things got bloody and he got bruised. Nothing broken, thankfully, but he did suffer a knife wound in a weak spot through his suit. He’ll get on repairs immediately. And perhaps it’s time to reinforce some of the armor, he’s been thinking more about increasing the mobility of his suit and he thinks it’s time to make some amends to his current design. 

Alfred insists on stitching Bruce up, so he’s halfway out of his suit, with the cowl on the bench next to him when he sees Dick staring at him in a mix of awh, horror, and shock. He looks like a kid who caught Santa Clause in the middle of the night only to find out it was his parents all along. 

Bruce is off the table in a matter of seconds, not entirely sure what to say but opening his mouth anyway. “Dick, listen-”

“You’re Batman.” Bruce is caught off guard by the reverence in his voice. 

“Yes,” he says carefully, “I am. But you know this stays between us right?”

Dick nods vehemently, miming zipping his lips shut. Bruce, against his better judgment, finds it endearing, at least until he opens his mouth next. 

“I can help!”

He says it with so much conviction, Bruce would be inclined to believe him if it didn’t shoot such fear through his veins. The thought of Dick out there with him, in danger or getting himself hurt, sparks such a visceral reaction that Bruce has to temper it down before he lets it show. “Absolutly not.”

“But please, I can help you. I’ll be your sidekick! I’m super fast and I learn well, you can teach me.”

I won’t take you out there with me.” Bruce intends to leave it at that, refusing him in no uncertain terms. But then he thinks more. There’s a chance Dick will be in danger anyway. Bruce Wayne himself has gotten taken hostage more than his share of times. They live in Gotham for christ sake. There’s a high chance that Dick will find danger all on his own without tagging along with Batman. So, he relents, just slightly. “But I will train you.”

Dick is ecstatic, he literally jumps with his joy. He’s turned away from Bruce so he doesn't see the small smile that plays on his face. Bruce also pointedly ignores the look Alfred levels him with.

 

~~~

 

The next time he sees Superman is when he crashes through a wall. Bruce had been following a lead about an underground trafficking ring downtown when he got himself in a bit of a mess. It’s nothing he couldn’t handle, but in his fight with a couple henchmen, one of them managed to stick him with something, causing him to feel sluggish. 

He has contingencies for poison, of course. He has at least three types of antidotes on his person at all times, but this is new. It’s nothing like Joker’s Venom or Scarcrow’s fear toxin. Bruce can barely think , much less fight. He was drugged, non-leathally. The only thing for him to do is wait for it to wear off. 

Distantly, Bruce feels as if someone restrains his hands behind his back - after knocking him to the ground, of course - and carrying him somewhere. Bruce doesn't know how many turns he makes, but he is fully disorientated by the time he ends up in a narrow corridor with dingy cells along each side. Most of them are occupied, some with restraints and some without. 

So at least Bruce knows he was right about the trafficking bit. Unfortunately, it’s hard to do anything about it while he’s been drugged and taken hostage. He’s thrown and locked in a cell of his own. His jailor is standing outside of his cell, dangling the keys carelessly from his fingers, leering down at Bruce. 

“Well, well, well. Not so scary in ‘er are ya?” 

Bruce only grunts, righting himself with great effort. It takes all of his concentration to get his muscles to cooperate, and with that, a lot of frustration. The hallway is narrow enough that Bruce could probably reach out and grab the man through the rusty bars, but as it is, he’s too slow and too weak for it to be effective. The drugs in his system leave him unpleasantly vulnerable, he makes a note to build up a tolerance of some kind. 

“I wonder what you're hiding under that mask,” the man muses dangerously, stepping up close to the bars. The cell is too tiny to put any distance between him and the man, so Bruce stays low, forcing the man to crouch down too. The cowl is Bruce’s power, it allows him to be more than a man, criminals know that, it’s why so many obsess over taking that from him. 

Bruce is weak and drugged, but he’s not stupid. If he acts at the right moment, he’ll be fine. He lets the man reach out with a horrible, invasive hand. He can see the man shaking with anticipation and a hungry look on his face and lets him get inches from the cowl when he lashes out with his right leg, hooking it around the crook of his elbow and pulling. His face is pressed flush against the grimy bars and Bruce keeps bending his arm at an odd angle until he hears the satisfactory crack and his shoulder pulls with a pop . 

The man careens back with a pitiful scream that Bruce takes pleasure in. He listens to the man yell and curse and runs back down the hall, key’s long forgotten on the floor. 

It’s close enough for him to reach out and grab it if his arms weren't still restrained and his boots are a little big to fit through the bars of his cell. Bruce is about to break one of his thumbs to slip through the tight plastic around his wrist when a woman in the cell across from him snatches them up before he gets the chance. 

He hadn’t noticed her before. But she makes quick eye contact with Bruce before unlocking her own cell. She, he notes, is unrestrained and in full control of her mental capacities. Either she’s been here for long enough that the drugs wore off or they hadn’t bothered to go through the trouble. After she’s free, Bruce half expects her to run off with the keys in hand, but instead she surprises him by unlocking his own cell. Bruce stands with no small amount of effort grunting in thanks to the woman. She seems familiar, in a very distant way. She’s pretty, dark hair, bright eyes, but not in a remarkable way. The most memorable thing about her is her determined, no-nonsense expression. 

“Turn around.” She tells him with no hesitance in her expression. 

For a stunned moment, Bruce thinks maybe his cowl had come off anyway, for all that she’s unintimidated by him. Usually Batman is terrifying to any civilian, even those of power. He’s so surprised that he actually listens, not before she huffs out an impatient breath. He hears the rustling of her clothes briefly before she cuts away at the hard plastic keeping his hands restrained. 

The skin of his wrist feels raw but they’re free. He looks back at the woman, who is putting a pin back onto her jacket, which looks like it’s seen better days. Overall, she’s a little roughed up, but Bruce assumes it’s more from the filthy ground of the cell more so than physical violence. It’s almost worse that way as Bruce realizes what they likely intend to have done with her. But regardless, the woman seems unruffled. In fact, she’s in much better condition than Bruce himself, given the drugs pumping through his system. 

“They have an office on the next level up, but there are more cells on this floor. I’m staying behind to let people out, but I’m going-”

Bruce never did hear what she was going to say next, because the door flew open with a crash. Instinctively, Bruce put himself between her and what he assumed is the rest of the crew, coming in full force once they realized the keys were missing. Except it’s not. In the doorway - that’s not torn from its hinges - stands Superman, who looks practically livid . Every part of Bruce’s body screams danger, he’s never seen the alien look anything but pleasant, but he’s always known what he’s capable of regardless. Now, he’s the picture of everything Bruce had known he’d become. 

He’s ready to put up a fight but he sees the anger drain from his body as his eyes land on Bruce. No. Instead, his gaze goes past him towards the woman who freed him. 

“Are you serious ?” He just sounds incredulous, his face falling into some middle ground between anger and relief. He just shakes his head, turning his attention briefly to Bruce, who is still trying to catch up. He looks like he’s going to say something before his attention is turned to all the cells in the hall. He breaks the lock to each one, quickly and easily, leaving the doors hanging open as he makes his way to the two of them at the end of the hall. 

“I’ll lead them out safely,” the woman pipes up, “I was telling Batman that there’s an office upstairs. That’s where they keep all their legal documents and paper trails. Their boss is out of town right now, but his son is currently running things with the rest of the gang.” Her eyes narrow slightly, looking like she’s daring Superman to argue and from what Bruce can see, he certainly looks like he wants to. 

Instead he just sighs, “We’re on it. Be careful , Ms. Lane.”

She just waves him off, nonplussed by his concern. Bruce raises an eyebrow at him before remembering he can't see his expression under the cowl. So, Bruce just grunts at him. “You’re not supposed to intervene in Gothem’s affairs.”

“I wasn’t trying to, I was here for her.” He motions to the alleged Ms. Lane who is rallying the prisoners and leading them out to safety. 

Curious. He’s not in a position to ask Superman about his personal life, but he certainly makes note of it. 

“She had it under control.” 

Bruce isn’t sure why he says it, but Superman’s response is a fond, if not begrudging, “I know.” 

From there, they don’t talk much at all. Instead they hurry out of the holding room, hearing the quiet echo of the prisoners down the opposite direction they’re heading. It’s easy to find the office due to Superman’s x-ray vision and Bruce is suddenly vindicated in his decision to line the cowl with lead. 

They come to an abrupt stop, and Bruce is thankful for the way the drugs are wearing off or else he would have ran straight into Superman’s immobile back. He’s listening, Bruce realizes. 

“There are two guards outside the door. They’re armed,” Bruce knows he adds it for his benefit considering Superman is invulnerable to everything short of kryptonite, “and there’s four men inside that are equally armed. The son and his employees. In about twenty minutes, seven more will be on the front doorsteps, back from ‘making rounds .’”

Bruce takes it in, letting it swim around his addled mind. Between the two of them, this should be an easy fight. They’ll each restrain a guard outside, and Superman will likely kick down the door in that destructive fashion of his, but it’ll catch the men inside off guard enough to give them a split second advantage. Bruce wishes he could see the situation inside, but he trusts Superman to give him a heads up if they should expect any surprises. He’ll want to take a look through their documents that Ms. Lane mentioned, it could lead them to the boss and other-

Back up. When did he start trusting Superman?

His eyes snap up, finding the man in question peering curiously at him. He’s waiting for Bruce’s go ahead, he realizes. So, he nods and they get to work.

 

~~~

 

Bruce is off center. He wishes he could blame it on the drugs, but those wore off a couple hours ago, well after Bruce got back to the cave for the night, having finished off the stragglers running the underground trafficking ring. Bruce had collected no less than three crates of documents to sift through in hopes of tracking down Steven Riggins - the boss. His son, predictably, refused to talk.

Bruce should be focused on the matter at hand, but all he can think of is the fight. About how well he and Superman worked together. They argued with each other over a couple missteps the other barely even noticed afterwards, but they had each other’s backs. 

It was strange. 

Bruce doesn't know what to do with that, or the offer Superman made when the two first met on top of a Gotham rooftop. Batman still works alone. It’s best that way. But… he can’t help but recognize, begrudgingly, they make a good team. 

Sighing, because this is taking up too much of his mental space, he dismisses it as a one off chance. He and Superman will never be a team. Even if in his drug-addled state he decided to somehow trust the man, it’s not something he’ll let happen again, not in good conscience. 

 

~~~

 

By the time Bruce returned from the west indies, having tracked Riggins down and had him thrown in jail, he decided that Dick was actually doing a fine job in his training. Casually, he brought up the idea to Alfred, who responded with a level, “If you think that is best for your ward, sir, then far be it from me to stop you.” Which is as good as an agreement coming from the man. 

He was going to bring it up to Dick during breakfast the next morning, but he needn't have bothered with plans. The kid came bounding down the stairs, paper in hand, looking like he had just won the metaphorical lottery. Of course he was eavesdropping. 

“I won’t let you regret this,” he promised vehemently, already shoving the paper in front of Bruce’s face. On it was a haphazardly colored sketch of red, green, yellow, and black, with plenty of arrows pointed to different parts of the picture he had drawn. A suit, Bruce realized. 

The sketch had several blurbs of writing, mainly filled with Dicks clarifications of what goes where and his idea of practicality for what to put in his utility belt and the like, however, one word was written to stand out. Robin , it said, in bold lettering. 

In the weeks that followed, Dick insisted on being called Robin around the manner while Bruce and Alfred got to work on his suit. 

They decided on a final design, one without massive wings that Dick had put particular emphasis on in his drawing. 

“Maybe on your next suit, Master Richard,” Alfred had said when he pointed out its noticeable absence. It was Bruce’s turn to level him with a look. 

Wings aside, Dick was ecstatic - as he had been for days - to get out on the street. Bruce had taken him to all the safest parts of Gotham - because yes, even Gotham has dead zones from time to time - more for his own benefit than Dicks. 

“It’s so quiet,” he said, disappointed, before remembering himself and straightening. 

“Patience.” Bruce said in his grovel, maybe a bit too harshly, “it’ll be on our doorstep soon enough.” He’s almost certain the kid just jinxed them both, not that he’s ever been a superstitious man, but in his years, he’s found that Gotham will most certainly bring along something to disrupt your peace if you’re crass enough to mention it. Which is exactly the opposite of what Bruce wants. 

Sure enough, they found the trouble they were looking for. An all out brawl between rival gangs. Excellent, exactly what Bruce wanted to bring a nine year old into on his first job. Where’s all the petty theft and loitering when he wants it? 

“Listen, I’m going to go in first, okay? You stay here, out of sight, unless I give you the signal.” Bruce instructs Robin in no uncertain terms and he nods, completely willing and agreeable, before Bruce swings into the midst of the fight by his grappling hook. 

It takes a moment for his presence to be recognized. But he throws a few punches, trying to separate the two gangs from their attempt to maul each other and sure enough, someone yells “The Bat is here!” 

A few men run, some startle, but unfortunately for them, they’re too hungry for blood to care about their own being spilled. Bruce has dealt with brawls a hundred times over, even ones of this scale. He has it handled. There’s no reason for him to call for backup or even indicate to Robin that he needs help. But things don’t go to plan - because why would they, it’s not like Bruce spends eighty percent of his time coming up with plans and back up plans and backup plans for the backup plans - Robin comes out anyway. He sees the unmistakable flash of red and yellow and it’s enough to direct attention from two of the men Bruce was trying to distract. 

Swearing, he uses a batarang to take out one of the men by the knees, simultaneously blocking no less than four punches to his jaw and his groin - these guys are dirty fighters, but so is Bruce. As far as he can see, Robin is holding his own over the second man that Bruce didn't take out. But unfortunately, it’s drawing more attention to the new player on the board. 

Grunting, Bruce picks off man after man with record efficiency. By the time they're done, they have seven tied up men, thirteen unconscious, and three have fled to who knows where. Robin restrained one man. He looks up with a proud smile on his face until it dies at Bruce's expression. 

“You and I will be having a talk about directions.” He growls, not enjoying the way he pales slightly and scurries after him. Bruce feels an uncomfortable pang in his heart, which is far too elevated for breaking up a fight, even if it was an all out gang war. He has a lot he needs to reconsider before he brings Dick out with him next time. This feeling- He wasn’t anticipating being so afraid when he saw the men after Robin. He had thought he had a reign on that particular facet, but Dick is apparently intent on challenging everything Bruce thought he knew. It’s uncomfortable. 

Back at the cave, he tries not to yell, tries to tell Dick how worried he was for him. He doesn't know if it came out right, or if Dick will listen to him after that. But he tries. The next few nights are slow. Bruce has Robin sit out easy fights, ones he could likely handle on his own, just to make sure he will when it’s important. Because it will be important someday, and Bruce isn’t willing to find out what’ll happen if he fails him. 

 

~~~

 

Bruce is throwing another charity gala. He dreads it, as always, but this time he has Dick by his side to dread it in equal measures. Bruce and Alfred have been teaching him all of the basic manners he’ll be expected to know, but they’re all keenly aware that tonight is technically Dick’s first appearance in high society. For all of the kid’s bravado and confidence, Bruce can’t help but notice him fidgeting nervously before the night begins. 

“What’s wrong?” he ventures, because that seems like the sort of thing he’s supposed to ask as a parent. 

Dick startles, looking up at him as if only just remembering he’s not alone. “I’m just- actually, it’s nothing.” He mumbles that last part under his breath, and Bruce sees the lie plainly in the air around them. He doesn't push though, he hates it when Alfred pushed him as a kid - even now, if he’s honest - so he just waits for Dick to say or not say what’s on his mind. 

He needn't wait very long, after only a few moments Dick puffs up his chest with a steadying breath and squares his shoulders, as though readying for a performance. “I’m scared,” he confesses. 

“What about?”

Dick tilts his head up, looking at Bruce with his big, blue eyes. “What if I forget the rules you taught me? What if people don’t like me?”

It’s such a childlike worry that Bruce takes a minute to let it roll over him. It’s been a while since he’s been worried about something like that, even at Dick’s age, he had pretty much disregarded what anyone thought about him, much less forgetting rules he didn’t care to follow. So he takes a moment to figure out what to say to him. 

In the end, Bruce lowers to a crouch - ignoring the ache in his knee - to get to Dick’s eye level. He considers putting a hand on his shoulder but refrains. “Think of it as a performance,” is what Bruce says. “When I step into that room downstairs, I become a character. People don’t know that though, it’s my own secret performance. You’re used to that, right? A big crowd of people, all eyes on you. It’s no different here, you’re just playing a different part.”

He waits and watches as understanding washes over Dick. He nods, a bit of his nerves still clinging to him, but ultimately, he dust them off. Bruce watches as he goes through a mental routine of his own, breathing slowly, holding his head high, squaring his shoulders back. Finally, he nods resolutely, looking quite brave in his little body. Bruce feels something like pride brush through him. 

They’re both ready to descend into the ballroom, which is already swimming with activity. Bruce Wayne is always late by some degree, no reason to change things around now. 

The gala is the same onslaught of socialites that Bruce has worn against for the greater part of the last decade. They’re all armed with lofty smiles and biting words that Bruce has accustomed himself to long ago. He plays his part of the disgustingly rich airhead they all know Bruce Wayne to be and he watches them smile in his face while they whisper behind his back later. The only difference tonight, is he has a nine year old with him. 

Dick, for all his nervousness, is being fawned over by the attendees. They ask him all sorts of questions, directed for Bruce, of course, but Dick answers each and every one of them with a confidence that Bruce admires from the kid. If the socialites are shocked that Dick is heard and seen, they have the good sense not to say anything. Bruce, for his many masks, will not tolerate Dick being treated unkindly in this shark tank of society. 

Bruce and Dick stand for pictures near the end of the night, and Dick, for his odd hours as Robin, looks nearly as exhausted as Bruce feels. Vigilantism is one thing, schmoozing with high society is another beast entirely. After the twentieth or so flash, Bruce laughs boisterously, picking up a tired Dick Grayson and excuses them both. 

It’s far too early for Bruce himself to be done with the night, but he takes Dick to Alfred who tucks him snugly into bed for the night. 

Bruce Wayne, now without the ‘new dad’ mask to hide behind, reamerges full force into the shark tank that is his ballroom. 

For the first hour or so, Bruce is caught in a number of unremarkable conversations with politicians, second generation trust fund kids, a couple celebrities, and one woman who he has never seen before. He coughs up an abundance of exaggerated laughter and off hand quips that make the people around him explode in equally false amusement. He almost wishes his glass was filled with champagne instead of sparkling water. It’s intolerable. 

He’s shaken from a particularly trite conversation about Truden's concern for the new generation. They’re an older couple, old fashioned from even older money, and Bruce plasters a solemn expression on his face as they politely shake their heads at all things queer. Bruce says nothing, they’re clearly not seen some of his latest conquests and he’s not going to spoil the outcome for them. 

Bruce refills his glass with more sparkling water after having downed his last glass when someone stumbles into him from behind. Some of his drink sloshes over the rim and onto his clumsy assailant. 

“Oh my,” Bruce exclaims, fussing over the man’s suit jacket. It won’t stain but he appears appropriately apologetic. “I’m terribly sorry, sir. I’m such a clutz. Here, take mine.” Bruce shrugs out of his jacket, the picture of tipsy apology and overcompensation. He looks up with the motion, tilting his chin up just slightly to face the man and just- stops. 

Bruce, for all of his flirting and mask, stills. The man, in his clearly ill fitting suit and sheepish expression, is gorgeous. He has the faintest flush on his cheeks, and his glasses are askew on the bridge of his nose, framing the most astonishing eyes Bruce has ever seen. His curls are poorly styled but instead of looking messy, they fall serenely over his forehead. Bruce needs to get a grip. He should say something witty, or flirty, or just move for goodness sake. But he doesn't. He and this stranger are locked in the most intense match of eye contact and Bruce isn’t sure who’s winning. 

Then all at once, he shakes himself out of it, dawning the mask once again. “Where are my manors,” he says finally, shaking his arms out of his suit jacket, “Bruce Wayne, I don’t believe we’ve met.” He’s sure Bruce wouldn't remember that face. 

The man, “Clark Kent,” as it is, shakes the offered hand graciously. “Er, you really don’t need to. It’s only a splash.” He gestures back to his own jacket, which, sure enough, only holds a small damp splatter of sparkling water. 

Bruce shrugs, folding his jacket over the crook of his arm, not bothering to redress. “Clark Kent,” he tasted the syllables deliberately, letting the sharp letters spike and the vowels roll. “Where have you been hiding? I don’t tend to miss faces at these events.”

“Oh,” Clark seems surprised, “I’m just a reporter for the Daily Planet,” he adds. “I don’t usually cover these things, but my coworker is out sick, so.. I’m here.” He trails off throughout his sentence, as if abruptly shy over the length of his words. Bruce, for some reason, finds that unacceptable. 

“ Just a reporter , huh? Well, if this isn’t your typical scene, what is it?” Bruce wants to keep him talking, and maybe do a little bit less talking later. He has time before he has to patrol. A rare, stolen moment, perhaps, but time nonetheless. 

“I’m uh- an investigative journalist. I chase down stories and do what I can to get to the core of it. The truth is worth hearing, no matter how hidden or covered up, people deserve to know and be faced with what’s real.” He goes on, and the more he says the more he seems to have to say. Bruce doesn't mind. In fact, he’s entranced. He’s never really had much of an interest in journalism but this Clark Kent breathes it. He’s passionate. Far more so than anyone else in this god forsaken gala with all of their money and charity. 

Bruce lets the conversation go on, peppering a few questions in the mix if only to keep Clark talking. However, it’s Clark who notices the time passing, despite Bruce’s best efforts to keep him preoccupied. He should invite him up, god knows he wants to. Except, if he does, then that’s that. And a small, secret part of Bruce, the part that acknowledges there was once a person where the darkness now lives, craves the sun. He craves it in the form of the man in front of him, the one who was able to startle the first, real laugh out of him if he doesn't even know how long. It’s dangerous. Bruce is a creature of the night, but he wants, very badly, to allow himself just a drop of sunlight. 

So he doesn't invite Clark upstairs, to his bed. He lets the man leave, mentioning something about needing to make the bus, despite looking ill content to leave. There’s a curious wonder in his expression, so open and unguarded that Bruce peers right back at it. And then they bid goodbye, and Bruce ventures upstairs, allowing the guest to notice his absence as he dawns the shadows. 

 

~~~

 

That same night, Bruce follows up on a lead. He believes Penguin is up to something. He’s been tracking and tracing shipments that go in and out of the harbor, and while nothing in particular stands out as wrong, everything feels too neat. There are no unplanned shipments, no surprises, no late deliveries. Every I is dotted and every T is crossed, deliberately so. So Bruce follows an unmarked truck to a warehouse in the diamond district that he’s not taken note of before. 

It’s merely a steak out. He’s gathering data, getting just close enough to see some of the gears turning. Tonight is not the night to see what makes it tick. He’ll dissect it later. Now, he watches. 

He’s there for a couple hours before things start shifting. Up until that point, everything is standard, inconspicuous unloading and moving of heavy crates. None of them get opened, no one messes with the cargo. Bruce’s drone picks up feedback, but the men are making small talk. Discussing their families, wives, children, the latest game against the Metropolis Meteors. 

It’s mundane small talk. There’s no air of suspicion, and Bruce is about to call it a night wasted when one of the men stumbles over his own feet while walking backwards. His end of the crate takes a nosedive into the pavement, denting the box. Bruce squints, allowing his lenses to zoom in closer. Amidst the gentle curses of the man that tripped is a slow seeping pile of fine, green dust. 

Bruce goes still. He recognizes the soft glow no matter the form it takes. Kryptonite. 

But what is Oswald Cobblepot doing with a weapon meant to kill Superman? 

Chapter 2

Notes:

Hi everyone! Thank you all for reading and all the kind comments you left! I love reading them so much!
Some quick warnings for this chapter. There is some brief kidnapping here, and the end of the chapter is where the fic earns its mature warning. Be warned or promised, depending on what kind of reader you are.

Bruce tracks Oswald’s every movement. He has no idea how the man got a whole of that much Kryptonite nor what exactly he did to it. 

What he does know is that he wants Superman dead, the question is why? He’s not Gotham’s hero, he serves no threat to his criminal empire, it’s Bruce that he has problems with, not the golden boy. So that begs the question: why? 

Bruce doesn't like not having answers, so he searches. Obsessively. 

He doesn't like not knowing things, especially not in his own city. That’s reason enough to be involved, especially to this degree. It’s attention he reserves to the trickiest of cases, but that’s what this is, is it not? And if Bruce can get a hold of some of the Kryptonite dust, then he can analyze it and deduct exactly what Oswald had done to it. It’s for the sake of information, Batman’s most valuable currency. 

Nothing more. 

Bruce also wonders who he’s working with. Luthor is the obvious suspect, given his very loud protest towards his city’s protector - and the multiple attempts on his life, of course, but that’s neither here nor there - except the man in question is currently in jail for the Incident that blew up last year. Bruce remembers the press, the scrutiny that Superman was subjected to in wake of his parent’s message. All of the suspicion that gathered overnight and how the media left it forgotten in wake of Luthor’s scandal. But Bruce didn’t forget, how could he, when a threat reveals itself it doesn't just get to go away. 

Except, his meetings with Superman have given way to nothing but begrudging acceptance that this is a man doing the best he can with the means he has, even if he harbors a godlike quantity of power. 

He still doesn't like him, but he can tentatively trust him enough to have his back as he had when taking down the trafficking empire. It’s confusing, and Bruce doesn't spare it a second thought. He crams it in a box and locks away the key as well. He’s busy gathering intel. That’s far more important than whatever mysteries remain tangled beneath the sturdy wall of detachment he’s crafted. 

So, Bruce does what he knows best: he works.

 

~~~

 

Bruce is exhausted, which isn’t new. The offensively bright daylight in Metropolis has him feeling like it’s been ages since he’s seen the sun. Gotham is overcast on a good day, and downright pouring typically. Every now and again, the clouds will break, but in Metropolis, the daylight is blinding. 

Bruce keeps his sunglasses on inside the board room for his meeting, speaking to the public safety board about a new, experimental transportation track, funded by Wayne Enterprises, of course. 

Bruce mainly sits there for an hour, nodding along to the key points and inputting useless comments when required of him. Some of the staff members roll their eyes at him while the rest make a key point to ignore him. He’s here merely as the face of Wayne Enterprises. They don’t know he and Lucius worked on the design for the high speed train together. Bruce left his name off of the concept, as always. 

It’s early afternoon by the time he’s assaulted by the sunlight once again. He has another meeting tonight, but he has hours to kill in between then. He’ll be back in Gotham this evening, in time to take Dick out on patrol with him. He’s been itching for a real fight, Bruce can tell, but he’s still only nine. The kid’s competent and vicious, already making a name for himself among the streets but that doesn't mean Bruce will purposely take him to the harder hitters for at least a couple more years. He might not be an expert at the whole parenting thing, but there are some lines he knows to draw, however few they are. 

Bruce goes to get some coffee at an outdoor stand on the corner of the park, hoping it’s strong enough to alleviate some of the bone deep weariness under his skin. He orders a black coffee from the woman, Emry, at the front who’s face twists up at the sheer amount of Bruce’s tip. He takes his coffee graciously, spinning on his heel to leave when he hits a wall. 

Or, okay, not a wall, but a very sturdy person. His coffee, thankfully lidded, does not spill but the apology comes to his lips regardless. 

“My apologies-”

“I am so sorry, sir. That’s-”

Bruce looks up into a pair of oversized lenses that he recognizes from over a month ago to a man who’s face he’s not sure he’ll ever forget. Clark Kent is peering at him through his glasses with an air of deja vu that Bruce feels ghosting through him as well. He huffs a disbelieving laugh. “Mr. Wayne.” 

“This is our second time literally bumping into each other, I do believe that allows for first name bases, doesn't it, Mr. Kent?” 

“Only if you abide too, Mr- er. Bruce.” Clark fumbles around the name briefly, frowning at himself with a little tilt of his lips. Bruce tracks the motion. 

“Very well then, Clark .” Bruce deliberately dips his voice an octave, pleased at the way Clark seems to react to it with a faint flush. Just because his intentions may be purer than his reputation suggests, doesn't mean he can’t have a touch of fun with the man. “Any stories to chase today?” 

“Well, not exactly. I’m just finishing up one right now. Boring stuff really, Perry has me on all of the Superman articles, so it’s just a lot of the same recently.” That catches Bruce’s curiosity.  Not that he’s interested in the hero so much as intrigued by what Clark and the rest of the world thinks. Obviously he keeps his own tabs on the man - it’d be an oversight not to know what the most dangerous being on the planet is up to - but Bruce figures it’s a good time to subtly press Clark on the topic. 

“Superman, huh? That’s an exciting topic, there isn’t a paper in the world that can stop talking about him. Have you met him?” Bruce musters an appropriate amount of interest with a touch of the starry eyed wonder he’s seen in other’s expressions when talking about the Man of Steel himself. 

An expression like discomfort passes through Clark's expression, but it’s gone before Bruce can do much more than take note of it. Interesting. He’d figure a Metropolis man such as himself would feel overtly passionate about his city’s hero. Instead, he looks a little disappointed. Bruce can’t imagine why, but he figures he should probably turn down a touch. 

“Well, yes, I’ve met him, only very briefly though. Just long enough to get a few statements after a fight and such.” Something flickers through his eyes that Bruce can’t read. “It’s alright. The stories, I mean. Obviously Superman is what gets all of the clicks, and I’m lucky to get the opportunity to write about him but…”

He trails off and Bruce waits a beat while he stares off into the middle distance. When it becomes clear he’s lost momentarily to his thoughts, Bruce clears his throat gently and prompts, “But?” 

“Oh, well, he's just a guy, you know? He has these powers, yes, but that’s hardly the greatest thing about him. He wants to do the best he can, like anyone. It’s hardly fair to worship him over the other people who try their best everyday.” He says it with a shrug, casual, as if he didn’t uproot the beliefs of the entire world with just three sentences. “And besides,” he continues, “there are other heroes who do the same thing, only with much more on the line. They’re not any less deserving of recognition because they can’t fly or laser a building in half.”

Bruce considered him curiously, appreciating the honesty in his voice and feeling some small, strange impulse to say something he’s not entirely sure of. He feels on the verge of something, but instead of letting it simmer, he says what Bruce Wayne would in a time like this. “I’m sure it helps that he’s hot.”

Clark sputters on air and Bruce laughs at his shock. He looks absolutely scandalized. 

“Ahem, um, I suppose that’s part of it too.” He mutters looking increasingly embarrassed about the turn in conversation. Bruce takes pity on him, directing the conversation elsewhere. 

“You mentioned others. So, if not Superman, who do you admire?"

Clark doesn't even blink, the answers rush out of him simple and honest, and it catches Bruce completely by surprise. 

“Batman.” 

There’s no long winded explanation that Bruce has come to expect in Clark’s answers. Almost like he feels the need to defend everything he believes except this, like there he had not considered another possibility. It’s off centering in a way. Bruce became Batman to exact justice among the streets in Gotham, he ruled by fear and pain. He hasn’t considered that anyone, much less a man who appears so full of light, would ever admire him. 

“You’re surprised.” Clark notes, not unkindly, but there is a certain quality in the turn of his mouth that indicates thoughts Bruce can’t follow. 

“I never took him as a role model type. He’s a bit dark is he not?” Bruce affects an air of humor, going dry and missing by miles. Helplessly, he wants to know exactly what Clark Kent sees in him. But Bruce can’t ask, not without showing more cards then he can afford. 

“But that’s the point isn’t it? He doesn't do what he does for glory or worship. He gives the city all he’s got for nothing in return. That’s love. Dedication. Everyone thinks Superman is the embodiment of hope, and yes, he is in part, but Batman just gives .” Clark looks like he wants to say more but eventually shrugs, not with dismissal, but finality. It’s a too casual motion for having just stolen the breath from Bruce’s lungs. He hadn’t realized anyone thought that of him. It’s excruciating in a way, to realize the effect he’s had after years of fruitless fighting in the shadows. For the first time, he feels forced into the spotlight. 

He changes the subject, needing a topic that doesn't send his nervous system reeling. Stealing back control of his heart rate, he says, “They have that in common, I suppose. But enough about heroes, tell me something about you , Clark.” It’s a graceless segway but it works. For all of his awkwardness, Clark talks just about as much as he did at the gala, in nervous rambles that have Bruce hanging on to every word. He learns that Clark is from Smallville, Kansas - yes, that’s the actual name - he played football in his senior year, against his parents wishes - they worry, he said - and before settling on journalism, he wanted to be an astronaut. 

For every story Clark tells, Bruce sprinkles vague details about his life. It’s not nearly as much as Clark shares, but he feels every grain of truth chip away at him. It’s not a lot, by any definition, but Clark takes every fact gratefully, never pushing for more. Bruce finds himself wanting to give more regardless. 

It lasts until Clark checks his watch, face turning sheepish once again. “Oh geez, I completely lost track of time. I’ve got to get back before Perry guts me. I’m sorry again for bumping into you, Bruce, but thank you. This was… I enjoyed it.” 

“In that case, go right ahead. I’d hate to see you gutted, you’re much too good of company.”

Clark laughs a little, low and sweet. He bids goodbye and turns to go. Bruce almost lets him.

“Clark?” he ventures. The man turns around, eyes wide and almost hopeful before it’s tamped out. “I’ll be back in Metropolis next Friday. How about we continue this over dinner?” Bruce keeps his voice low and smooth, exuding the quiet confidence of Bruce Wayne along with something entirely more honest. 

Clark smiles, and the sight is more radiant than it has any right to be. “I’d love to. Um, where should we meet?” 

“Don’t worry about that, I know where to find you after all,” Bruce has already found his personal number, work email, and address, but he doesn't say that. Journalists aren’t hard people to get into contact with. Clark seems to allow the answer, nodding with a quiet smile. “It’s a date,” Bruce says as he bids goodbye finally. He swears he sees Clark blush as he turns.

 

~~~

 

It was supposed to be a regular night on patrol. Bruce made sure none of his cases had any plans rolling tonight that he knew of. He has the crime patterns marked to a T. He knows exactly where the low danger zones are to take Dick. It should have been an easy patrol, some fights to break up some drug deals to stop, and anything heavier, Bruce would have Dick sit out somewhere safe until he was done handling business. 

That’s been their routine for the past couple of months.

Tonight started off no different. Bruce let Robin handle the smaller fights and incidents. He’s grown confident over the months he's spent out on patrol with Bruce. Whispers have already spread about Batman’s companion, a kid molded in ruthlessness and grace trained in the ways of the Bat. 

Dick revels in the fact that he’s feared. Bruce isn’t sure that’s what he wants for him, but nonetheless, he lets Robin become as much of a legend as Batman. 

The night stretches on into the early hours of morning. Deep in the shadows, Bruce hears scuffling. And then a shot rings out. Screams raise and die just as quickly. Bruce and Robin are in motion immediately. A few blocks down, there are a young couple finely dressed in an alleyway, surrounded by gunmen. It’s a familiar scene that momentarily wrecks him, shaking him down to the bone. 

The man has fallen, but he’s still breathing. The woman is terrified and muffling sobs of her own. 

“Stay. Here.” Bruce grunts to Robin, leaving no room for argument. 

He drops in soundlessly, sticking to the shadows behind one of the furthest gunmen. Bruce spins the man around, who turns wordlessly in shock. He points the gun at him, but Bruce is quicker. He cracks a swift, unforgiving punch to the man’s temple and he drops. Bruce cast a quick look at the gun. The safety was still on. 

One man down, three to go. Bruce doesn't make the mistake of believing any of the other men have their safety on. 

The sound of their comrade falling shifted the men’s attention to Bruce, who chose that moment to step out of the shadows. 

The chaos that ensued was almost comical. Two gunmen started shooting at Bruce, who took every bullet with his newly enforced suit. He’ll have bruises, without a doubt, but he doesn't let that stop his advance. The man, realizing their guns won't help them here lunge for him, successfully tearing their attention from the young couple. The woman, still shaken, grabs her husband, supporting him while he scrambles for purchase. They run out, and Bruce is thankful that he dialed the ambulance. They won’t make it very far, but the ambulance will get to them in time. The wound was clean, painful, but non critical. 

Without the threat of danger reaching the civilians, Bruce is free to take care of them efficiently. In minutes, the men are unconscious with police on their way, and Batman is back on the rooftop. 

Except Robin isn’t waiting there. 

Bruce listens, still as ever. But nothing. Not from around, not from the comms. He won’t scream or yell, that won’t help him here. He knows that, but his instincts are failing him. He wants to panic and yell because his son is missing . 

But he does neither of those things. Instead he calls for Alfred over the comms. 

“Agent A. Do you have a read on Robin’s location?” 

The response comes in the span of a terrified heartbeat. 

“Sir,” Alfred acknowledges in the calm of his. It’s everything Bruce lacks but the sound of it grounds him. Reminds him to breathe, that Dick needs him calm and at his best. “I do not have a current location.” Shit . “Might I suggest back up?” Alfred asks mildly. 

He doesn't specify who, but Bruce knows, instinctively, who he means.

“Call Superman.”

 

~~~

 

Superman is at Bruce’s location within ninety seconds. Each one feels like eternity. 

Bruce wastes no time with formalities, not even in the absence of Superman's ever present smile. He might not know why he was called, but he does know Batman would never ask for help if it wasn’t critical. “I need you to find Robin. I believe he’s been taken.”

Superman, to his credit, blanches for only a second, concerned with coloring his face. “Okay, describe him for me.”

“He’s nine.” If his age surprises the alien, he doesn't let it show. “An inch or two under five-feet, about eighty points, black hair, and he’s wearing his suit.” 

Superman nods, and Bruce isn’t sure what he’s to do with that information, but he lets the man close his eyes for a couple moments, deep in concentration. Bruce refrains from snapping at him to hurry up, it’s irrational, but worry threatens to claw at him. He’d done a good job of keeping it at bay. 

Superman’s brilliant blue eyes snapped open, his head turned somewhere eastwards. He squints as if looking at something far off. “He’s in an abandoned warehouse over there. Tied to a chair, there’s a man in the room with him, one outside, and one on the roof.”

Bruce nods curtly, already planning a hundred things he’s prepared to do to get his son home safe. 

“Let’s go.” He doesn't look to see Superman’s surprise at being included, he’s already swinging to the next roof. The man is already here, and Bruce wouldn’t mind using him to scare the shit out of his abductors. They’ll expect Batman, no doubt. Superman is another player entirely. 

Bruce turns the men into an example. Superman is covering for him while he knocks out each of the three men. He was right, his presence took them all by surprise. Whatever they had planned for Batman was quickly extinguished at the first sight of the alien. All of his fear and panic molted away with every punch he felt, threading against his carefully knitted restraint. He didn’t take things far enough to harm, but he did make it hurt. He makes sure to leave a lesson. The result of tonight is mercy, something that will not be afforded should he find Robin endangered again. 

He got his kid back, bruised but mostly unharmed. Bruce is furious. And then Dick latches to his legs, trembling slightly, part of his heart cracks. He gently pulls Dick away so he can crouch down and see his face. For all of his bravery and fight, he’s clearly shaken. He catches sight of Superman hovering a couple feet behind them. He’s wonder eyed for a moment, and Bruce remembers how he practically bounced off the walls when asking Bruce about him. Bruce had given him short, uninterested answers.

“It’s okay, Robin. You’re safe, I promise.” He says it to comfort him and because it’s true. As long as he’s alive, he’ll protect him with his life. Tonight will never happen again.

Bruce isn’t expecting his bottom lip to tremble or his eyes to well up, but he doesn't get to see much of it because Dick lunges for Bruce, burying his head into the crook of his neck, body wracked with sobs from the adrenaline draining out of his system. Bruce does the only thing he can think of and holds him. 

Over Dick’s shoulder he sees Superman peering at the pair curiously. He’s quiet and still, as if to not intrude on the moment, but Bruce sees him anyway. There’s an odd expression on his face, one that looks a lot like admiration. Bruce doesn't like it.

“Thank you,” he grunts lowly at him. Superman takes it with grace, simply nodding with that damn smile of his and taking off towards Metropolis. 

Bruce doesn't know how long the pair are on the rooftop after that, but eventually, Dick’s body stops shaking, the emotions of the night running him numb. “Okay,” Bruce says, “let’s get you home, yeah?”

He carries him the whole way. 

 

~~~

 

Friday rolls around and Bruce finds himself strolling up to a hole-in-the-wall restaurant in Metropolis at eight on the dot. Sure enough, Clark Kent is standing outside of the building, looking characteristically nervous until his eyes fall on Bruce. He’s dressed casually but nice, a far cry from the ill fitting suit that they met in. Clark’s clothes are still a little odd fitting, too tight around his shoulders and loose around the waist. Bruce supposes it’s characteristic of all his clothes. 

He had Clark pick the place, given he knows the area best, and Bruce figured he’d feel more comfortable meeting on his terms instead of Bruce Wayne’s typical scenes. He approaches Clark with a dazzling smile, letting it melt into his features. Clark returns it with a much warmer and much realer one of his own. It’s striking, the ease in which he gives away the truth of himself. It makes the smile on his face ache. 

“You look good,” he tells Clark, letting his eyes wash over him appraisingly, letting himself take in the sight of the unfairly beautiful man and using it as an excuse to draw a pretty shade of pink to his cheeks. Making Clark Kent blush is quickly becoming one of Bruce’s favorite pass times. 

He attempts to laugh it off, but there’s no mistaking the flush on his skin. “Say you, you look… stunning.” 

There it is again. That same earnestness that has Bruce momentarily stunned. But he shakes it off once again, not quite prepared for the way Clark wields his words. “Well I do try,” he says easily. “Now, I don’t know about you, but I’m famished. Shall we?” Bruce holds out his hand to take the picture of a gentleman. Clark takes it, amused and fond, and they make their way inside at last. 

It’s a dimly lit Vietnamese restaurant, with a variety of mixmatches, lamp shades hanging from the ceiling and smooth trimmed tables. It’s not at all like the restaurants Bruce has his business meetings at, it’s not grand or understatedly opulent, it’s homey. He likes it immediately. He makes sure to say so when he catches Clark looking at him nervously, glancing around the room himself as if feeling self conscious about his choice. 

When they get seated, Bruce leans over the table, taking one of Clark’s hands in his. “It’s a very nice place, and it smells delicious too.” True to his word, Bruce can smell spices wafting through the air accompanied by the fresh smell of herbs. Bruce is no food critic, most days he forgets he’s a creature that needs to eat - much to Alfred’s chagrin - but even he can recognize the smell of a good meal. 

Clark seems to relax at that, and takes it as an opportunity to explain his history with the place, which Bruce listens to greedily. 

“The food here really is delicious. It’s probably one of my favorites in the whole city, if not the best food I’ve had - aside from my Ma’s cooking, of course. I stumbled in here on a late night right after I graduated, I had a long day and the smell was too good to resist. I’ve taken nearly all of my coworkers here for a work outing. It’s my go too, really. I can recommend a few things if you don’t mind. My favorite is thịt kho, but they make delicious pho and bánh xèo and…” 

Bruce listens as he goes on, retracing a particularly memorable story about a coworker named Jimmy who has the spice tolerance of a goldfish and ordered a beef noodle dish that Bruce didn’t catch the name of, but apparently it’s the spiciest on the menu. His face had turned as red as his hair, which Bruce assumes is  very ginger. Everyone has a laugh about it, Clark tells him. And Bruce, well it’s clear this place is important to Clark, it’s touching that he brought him here on their first date. 

The waitress comes around, saying something that Bruce can briefly make out as a question. For all of the languages he speaks, his Vietnamese is rusty at best. But Clark surprised him by greeting the woman in perfect Vietnamese, presumably ordering for the both of them if his pause to ask Bruce what he wants is any indicator. 

When the lady leaves, flashing them both a pleased smile, Clark looks as though it’s nothing worth remarking on, which okay, it might not be, but Bruce wants any and all remarks from this man. “You speak fluent vietnamese.”

It’s not a question but it prompts Clark to answer nonetheless. “Oh, yeah. I guess?” He looks sheepish for reasons Bruce can’t parse. “I spent a lot of time learning languages as a kid, and the habit carried on. Vietnamese was relatively easy to pick up.”

“That’s an impressive hobby to have. How many languages do you know?” Bruce knows over forty himself, but he doesn't expect Clark, who seems to have a better grip of the definition of relaxed, to be nearly as obsessive as Bruce about, well, anything. He’s simply curious is all. 

“Oh, well,” Clark stutters, looking vaguely panicked. “I think I know about… seven fluently?” He looks like he’s struggling to remember the exact amount, which Bruce doesn't fault him for.

“That’s incredible,” Bruce makes sure to sound properly awed. Most average people don’t know more than two languages, if that. Bruce can appreciate the dedication on Clark’s part. He’d ask more about them, just to keep conversation, if Clark didn’t look so nervous. Bruce assumes he isn’t one for attention for he obliges his discomfort and opts to change the topic, but Clark beats him to it. 

“How has your week been?” Clark asks, then, “I know it’s a painfully small talk question, but I’ve talked so much about myself when we meet, that you haven’t had much of a chance to share. So humor me; take me through the average week of Bruce Wayne.”

Bruce doesn’t mention that he doesn't typically have any average weeks, but that’s mostly on part of being Batman. So he sticks to sharing the supposed board meetings he skipped and the business dinners he didn’t attend. “It’s all very boring, really. Although, I spend most of my free time in the manor recently,” while not untrue, the cave is technically a part of the manor, “Dick has been creating all sorts of excitement around the place.” 

Clark’s pace parcels through a few fleeting emotions: first curiosity, then realization, after surprise, and finally a calm mask of listening. It’s no secret to the press that Bruce Wayne took in a young Richard Grayson nearly nine months ago, but he only did just make his first appearance the night he met Clark. He supposes it’s still a shock for a bachelor such as himself to take on a ward as he has. 

Clark, to his credit, digests the reminder gracefully. 

“He’s young isn’t he? I remember causing lots of problems at that age.” 

He says it fondly, as if remembering more than a few incidents of trouble he got up to on his parents farm in Kansas. Bruce can imagine a young Clark, bright as ever, running around much the way Dick does while he’s not being Robin. It’s a different kind of trouble than the type that Bruce got up to after what happened to his parents. Usually the reminder dulls him down, but he finds it’s almost impossible to feel that familiar darkness in the presence of the sun. 

So, instead he says, “You don’t know the half of it. He’s nine and runs the place like it’s the circus.” Bruce is incredibly fond of Dick and his acrobatics, but he’s far too old in his twenty-seven years to keep up with him. “He’s going to be giving me gray hairs soon, mark my word.” 

Clark laughs at his tone, which was the intended effect, but Bruce might seriously start graying if Dick doesn't stay out of trouble. The scales are not tipped in his favor. 

“I’m sure that’ll be a sight to see. I happen to think salt and pepper is a striking look,” Clark looks up to meet Bruce’s eyes, “on the right person.” He adds meaningfully. 

Honestly, Bruce shouldn’t be charmed, he’s been flirted with by hundreds of people in far more bold ways. But something about Clark and his polite midwestern charm kicks something in his chest into motion. 

Clark doesn't let his words lie, Bruce isn’t sure he’s capable of it, so he barrels on through the moment, redirecting the conversation towards Dick. “Adopting is huge, I mean, I obviously don’t have the capacity to speak on it, but my parents adopted me and I know it was quite the experience for them. It’s a whole life to adjust to and care for, I imagine it’s much more for you than the gossip columns make it out to be.” 

“Yes, it’s-” Bruce doesn't often find himself struggling for words, but this is personal. He wants to get it right. For Dick. For himself. “He’s given me a new purpose, and with it, a lot of unexpected joy.” 

“That’s beautiful.” Clark comments, and it’s with such warmth in his eyes that Bruce has to look away. 

In any case, that’s the heaviest their conversation turns. They share stories and laughter that for the first time in years Bruce doesn’t have to fake. Here, he’s not wearing either mask nor the cowl. It’s a close middle ground that he’s discovered only exists in Clark’s presence. Bruce finds that it’s not the worst thing in the world. He feels something akin to peace, a rare and elusive thing, for the two hours they spend sitting in the warm light of the restaurant. 

Bruce stops outside the restaurant, hanging on their fraying threads of time together, he surprises himself by hesitating to say goodbye. But it seems Clark is just as reluctant, looking at him with those impossibly blue eyes of his. They stuck like this for a moment, eyes locked until Bruce’s trail down - just barely - landing on Clark’s lips. His eyes jump up when he catches himself only to find Clark’s eyes lowered too. 

The moment is frozen between them. Normally, Bruce has no reservations about kissing and beyond. He’s built up quite the reputation for himself as a casanova. But this moment is charged with something much deeper than Bruce cares to examine. If he lets this in, there’s no shaking it. 

He lets himself pull back at the same moment Clark lets out a ragged breath. The man clears his throat audibly before asking, “Where are you parked? I’ll walk you.” 

Bruce gestures down the street. “Just a couple blocks down, there’s no need.”

Clark gives him a humoring look before taking off in the direction Bruce gestured without a word, leaving Bruce no choice but to allow him to fall in step. The walk is silent but comfortably so. It only takes them a few short minutes to reach their destination together and Bruce says goodbye. As he drives off, he sees Clark watch him in his rearview mirrors until he’s made his first turn. 

 

~~~

 

“So,” Dick drawled, elongating the word, Bruce was already dreading the conversation. “How did your date go?” He punctuated the question with a tone equivalent to wiggling his eyebrows. How he managed to convey that without the action visible is beyond him. 

Bruce only grunts in response. They’re on patrol, it’s hardly the moment to discuss any fraction of Bruce’s love life. Especially not with a nine year old, even if Dick does insist that he’s almost ten. He’s not, he has six months until he hits double digits. Bruce doesn't bring it up.

“Come on,” Dick says petulantly, “Do you like him at least?”

“He’s agreeable.” 

This seems to delight him, which was supposed to have the opposite effect. 

“We’ll talk about this later, Robin. As well as refresh what is and isn’t to discuss while on patrol.”

He just pouts, “But you’ll never want to talk about it.”

Bruce does not object to that conclusion, but they stop the discussion regardless. The night is calm in the early hours. Around one, he drops Dick off at the cave to follow up on the Kryptonite case from a couple of weeks ago. He checks in routinely, monitoring any and all activity. It’ll be hard to nail Oswald without any concrete evidence. And even so, the man is slippery, Bruce likes to have all his bases covered before he interferes in a ploy as big as this one. Business men have a tendency to stoop just barely under the law. Bruce doesn't want to make any mistakes here. 

Bruce drops by the same warehouse as he has every week. He checked the real estate records in this part of town, but the building wasn’t registered under Oswald’s name. It was under Luthor. Has been for the past three years, way before he was put away in jail for his stint last year. He may have jumped too quickly in assuming the man wasn’t involved. But his source within the prison has said Luthor has been quiet. Dangerously so, even behind his cushy cell. Because the man may be in jail, but there is nowhere money can’t reach. 

He’s been keeping an eye on the place, closely tracking and monitoring in a meticulous fashion of his. He had told Dick about the case and he, of course, immediately insisted that he’d be of help. Bruce did not feel like breaking his spirits. So he gave him the mundane task of watching the drone footage from the past few nights. He had agreed, but only after Alfred mentioned how alike monitor work is to what he had recently seen in the Matrix movies. 

So, his routine began like any other, following workers from the docks to the warehouse, sliding through the shadows and making sure to track their every move. He stayed long after the men had gone home in tired chatters. At that point, he’d fly his drone closer to the cracked window he scouted out last week, flying it through the miniscule hole and documenting every detail from the inside. 

Except, tonight was different. Before Bruce could get his drone in, a flash of red and blue cut across his vision. Superman. Exactly the kind of presence that went against every cell of stealth that Bruce was made of. And exactly the person there was no doubt to be trapped inside.

 Kryptonite - radioactive as it is - does not affect Bruce in the same way it does Superman. The worst that can happen to him is he’s exposed too much and develops an incurable illness sometime in the future. It’s merely an OSHA concern to him. But Superman need only feel its effects briefly, in the smallest of doses for it to gravely affect him. Bruce does not wish to see what crates of finally ground Kryptonite dust will do to the man. 

But before shout, jump, or do anything to warn him, Superman has already barreled into the building. Seconds later, Bruce can see the windows are shadowed in a horrific shade of green. 

Bruce swears. The last thing he needs is an incapacitated Kryptonian to deal with, but his nights are rarely so obliging. So he zips down to the Superman sized hole in the building.

He notices three things immediately. 

The first is the green dust raining down from what remains of the ceiling, coating every surface, including Bruce, in a rapidly building layer of Kryptonite powder.

The second is a silent alarm with a tripped sensor that links the many powder dispensers in the building.

The third is a horrifically limp Superman. His normally perfect face is gaunt with dark veins webbing beneath his skin. He’s conscious, which means he’s still alive, but Bruce almost thinks it’s worse to the sensation he must be experiencing. Bruce has knocked on death's door many times since dawning the cowl, but never once does he think he’s experienced an agony so acute to what’s reflected on Superman’s face. It’s gutting. 

The first thing Bruce does is shoot his grapple at the sensor which kills the dispensers, abruptly clearing the air of anymore god forsaken powder. With one problem handled, Bruce turns his attention to Superman. Even without the powder in the air, it’s no doubt in his system, which is far more dangerous to regular exposure. Bruce first needs to get him out of this place if he’s going to ensure he doesn't die on him. For his many reservations about the man, he’s the source of the world's hope. And he’s helped Bruce far more than he had any reason to, without question at that. The least Bruce can do is make sure he’s not taken out by something as ridiculous as dust. 

So, huffing deeply, he eases the man over his shoulder, glinting slightly at the weight of him. He’s barely conscious and not responding at all to being carried like a ragdoll, which doesn't bode well for his health. But Bruce can’t do much until he gets him to the cave, where he has all of his equipment. He doesn't need to give away his identity to do so, but letting him into Bruce’s space, even in the state he’s in, wedges an uncomfortable vulnerability. A level of trust Bruce doesn't feel quite so comfortable giving up. But he’s got a choice to do it now. So he barrales through Gotham in the Batmobile, as Dick helpfully dubbed Bruce’s vehicle, and tells Alfred of the situation. 

The veins in Superman’s face haven’t faded, but the look settled in his skin now instead of bulging out. It’s a moderately better visual development, but Bruce does not dare to take it as a good sign. He knows uncomfortably little about Kryptonian biology and what happens when kryptonite has reached his system, he won’t relax until the man is back to his annoyingly sunny self. 

Alfred is ready for them by the time they arrive. Superman is transported to the medbay of the cave, prepped with sunlamps and a variety of equipment. Bruce will need to try to flush the kryptonite from his system. He imagines it must be like flushing poison from the system. Bruce has plenty of poison antidotes but not for something like kryptonite. The lamps seem to be helping, but only moderately so. Bruce doesn't know how long it’ll take for the radioactivity in his system to become critical if it hasn’t already reached that point. If only he could force the man to drink liquid sunshine. 

Wait. 

He has a lab. He has every element at his disposal. He knows what the sun is made out of, in very rough measurements, sure. But he could certainly try. 

“Alfred,” the man is at his side in an instant, his unshakable presence is exactly what he needs to run this ridiculous idea by. “How do you feel about making liquid sun?” 

He only appears to consider this for a moment before answering, “I’ll gather us some hydrogen.”

Bruce follows after him, leaving a sickly Superman to bathe in artificial sun. Together, they combine hydrogen, helium, oxygen, carbon, magnesium, iron, and silicon to test tubes in various excruciating measurements. 

It takes three tries total, but they’ve done it. Nuclear fusion completes and voila, they have liquid sunshine. 

Bruce isn’t sure it’s enough to be injected through the mouth, not that Superman is conscious enough to drink their chemical sun anyway, but they need another way to get it in his system, and fast. Normally, Superman’s skin is impenetrable, but under the weakness of kryptonite, he’s pretty sure it can be infiltrated with the right needle and exact force. 

He gets a steel syringe - and dabs the tip of it in some of the kryptonite residue power on his suit - and punctures it right over his heart. The needle is fine enough to slip through the stitching of his suit - thank goodness - and Bruce is rewarded for their efforts by a sudden jolt from Superman as it pumps through his system. The effects are almost instantaneous. 

The horrific veins fade entirely from his face, returning the golden color to his skin. It’s a transfixing transformation, one that Bruce can’t look away from, not even as he blinks his eyes open clearly. The action is ridiculously mundane, as if the man was waking up from a nap opposed to being delivered back to the land of the living. The thought wrought a terrible, unbidden pang through Bruce. Superman is okay and Bruce’s adrenaline is slowing down, finally coming to terms with the horrifically close reality of what could have been if Bruce hadn’t succeeded. If he hadn’t been there. If he was too late. 

As reluctant as he is to admit, the world needs Superman. The possibility of one without him is a dark world indeed. 

He watches Superman take in his surroundings, the sun lamps, the sick bed, the syringe still sticking out of his heart, and finally, Bruce, who is still wearing his cowl. Alfred has made himself scarce, and Bruce realizes Dick  hasn’t been in the cave the whole time they’ve been back. Good choice on their part, it’d be an unfortunate oversight if Superman had discovered Bruce’s identity through either of them. 

“You saved me.” His voice is hoarse and awestruck all at once. 

“You were dying,” Bruce responds tonelessly. 

“Thank you.” 

It’s said with so much gratitude and adoration that Bruce has to stop himself from blanching. He’s only ever known one other person to speak with the full weight of their emotions, and of course they’re both people cut from sunlight. It’s ridiculous and it makes Bruce feel entirely too uncomfortable at the moment. So he only grunts and allows a short, “That isn’t necessary.” and tried to walk away in dismissal, probably to feign business at the computer. 

“No.” Superman catches his wrist, lightly enough that Bruce would be able to shake him despite knowing it’d take no effort at all for the man to hold him in place. He does, reclaiming his arm easily as Superman’s hand falls away. “It is necessary, at least for me. Thank you, Batman. You could have left me to die but you didn’t. I was on death’s door, but thanks to you, I’m here. It means everything to me.” 

The whole display is frankly too emotional for Bruce to know how to properly respond, or even how to acknowledge the emotions that bubble far beneath his mental walls. So, in answer, he only says, “The exit is right through there.” He points to the tunnel at the far end of the cave. “You’ll remerge on the corner of Sixth Street and Bristol. Feel free to take an extra minute of rest if you need.” 

Bruce walks away, reinstating his previous plan of repenting to be busy at the computer. He does a very good imitation of someone who could not care less about the unbidden presence until he feels Superman leave in a whoosh of air. The computer screen isn’t even on by the time he registers what he’s not-looking at. 

“You’re wrong,” he says to the silence. “I couldn’t have just left you.” 

 

~~~

 

The next day, Bruce shows up to Clark’s apartment. He has no business in Metropolis nor a proper excuse for showing up at an address Clark decidedly did not give him. But he knocks on the door regardless, dressed in one of his best suits for the cover of business to hide behind, not that Bruce Wayne wears much else when in public anyway. 

Clark Kent opens the door, wearing an old MetU shirt with a pair of plaid pajama bottoms and a wrinkled brow. It’s a Saturday, so Bruce assumes that it was a good bet that Clark would be home, especially as it is before noon. But the man does seem like a predictably morning person, so it was a gamble whether or not he’d be home. Bruce isn’t spiritual enough to take his presence as a sign, but rather a tentatively good omen. 

“Hi?” He greets politely, but the end of the world lilts up in an unignorable question. 

“Hello, I’m sorry to swing by unannounced,” Bruce opens, not sorry in the slightest. It was planned. “I was here for a meeting that had gotten rescheduled last minute. I figured since I’m here I’d pay a visit. But if this is a bad time, I can always come around some other day.” 

“No no, it’s alright to come inside. I don’t have any plans for the moment anyway, I just wasn’t expecting the company.” Clark makes room for him in the doorway, which Bruce enters. Clark’s apartment is a beautiful mess. All of his decor is mismatched but somehow cohesive. He has stacks of books in nearly every corner, forgotten coffee mugs on various surfaces, and several papers pinned to empty wallspace like a visual depiction of Clark’s thoughts. It’s charming, much like the man it belongs to, who is currently fumbling to clean up after himself wherever Bruce’s gaze falls. 

“Sorry,” he winces, “It’s usually not this messy.”

“Don’t worry about it. It looks perfect from where I’m standing.”

Clark laughs, “In that case, you aren’t to move, lest you see how truly disorderly I am.” 

Bruce allows a small smile on his features while Clark’s back is turned, still fussing over one thing or another. It’s endearing to watch him fumble, so much so that Bruce doesn't feel bad for the intrusion. 

“Oh!” Clark exclaims, suddenly, “Can I get you something to drink? Water, coffee, tea?”

“That depends,” Bruce says lightly. “Am I allowed to follow you to the kitchen, or is my mobility still limited?” 

Clark pretends to consider the question before relenting with a great sigh. “Alright, you can move. But I warn you, the kitchen is much worse.”

“I’ll take you up on a tea then.” 

Clark isn’t wrong, the beautiful mess of his living quarters does extend to the kitchen, which is full of outdated appliances and checkered tiles. Its old-fashioned charm reminds Bruce a lot of Clark too. The whole place exudes an energy that is specific to Clark and Clark alone.

Bruce just watches the man as he puts a kettle on the stove with a couple packets of store bought green tea. The lines of his body are much more visible through his thin t-shirt and Bruce is enjoying the view of his well defined muscles on display. For all of his awkward charm, Clark carries a body that would have men and women alike at their knees for him. Bruce might just subject himself to the same fate. 

Wordlessly, he approaches Clark from behind, holding himself just a foot away from the man. He turns around, eyes widening at their sudden closeness. Bruce’s own gaze shifts downwards at Clark’s full lips, snagging on the motion of his tongue slipping out to wet the bottom lip. 

Bruce had a long, sleepless night. After Superman had left the cave, he had tried to busy himself - for real that time - with the many cases he still needed to close and wrap up exactly how to convict Oswald of the warehouse and draw Luthor into it too. But the focus just refused to come. His mind was caught in a crosswire of the far too many things he has allowed himself to unknowingly care about in the past months alone. 

He spent an unfocused night in the cave and a sleepless one in bed before his mind landed on a satisfactory distraction in the form of a devastatingly handsome farmboy. So now, as he finds himself in Clark’s apartment, gaze fixed on his lips and body closing the distance between them, Bruce allows no room for uncertainty over this particular distraction. He’s not sure it’s possible to object to the prospect of getting into bed with Clark, but he’s in no position to try. 

Clark, for his part, is meeting Bruce halfway in closing the distance until they’re a breath away from each other. Clark is tall, that much Bruce has already known, but it’s only now that his chin is tilted up that he realized the man must be an inch or two taller than Bruce’s six-foot-two. It’s truly impressive the way Bruce’s heart stays steady when faced with his own life or death situations but manages to flip at Clark Kent being taller than him. 

“Are you sure you want this?” Clark asks in a low, ragged voice that warms Bruce from the inside out. 

Bruce doesn't hesitate. “Yes.”

They crash together in a kiss that is made entirely of passion and fire. It ignites Bruce in a way he can’t remember feeling, not after so many years of affecting passion for his own benefit. Bruce is breathless but he doesn't come up for air, letting the kiss consume him, even as Clark’s hands pull him in and thread through his hair in a firm but delicious grip. Bruce isn’t able to bite back the sound he makes at the sensation. 

They kiss for seconds or hours, Bruce isn’t sure which, only that he could down in the feeling of  Clark’s lips on his. It melts his brain to the barest, primal thoughts and it’s exactly the effect he was hoping for in showing up at Clark’s place. Eventually, after an unknown amount of time, Clark breaks the kiss, equally as breathless with that beautiful flush of his on his face. 

“Do you- ah,” Clark breaks off as Bruce decides to put his mouth to use somewhere else in the absence of Clark’s lips. He kisses and nips lightly at Clark’s neck, which draws beautiful noises from the man, who is still struggling to form his sentence. “Do you want to go to the bedroom?” 

Bruce’s body reacts to that before he can voice his thoughts. He draws Clark backwards by the neck of his shirt, leading them towards the only hall in the apartment where the bedroom is. Clark gets the hint and lets himself be pulled down the hall and through the door of his bedroom where Bruce spots a cozy bed with what looks like a homemade quilt. The space holds just as much personality as the rest of his apartment. 

Bruce strips Clark of his shirt and pajamas easily, pulling back to marvel at the sheer sight of him.  If he thought he was impressive through his clothes, it’s nothing for how he looks beneath them. Even the length of his is as impressive as it is intimidating. But he’s not left with much time to take in the sight as Clark attempts to remove Bruce’s clothes with a great deal of effort, muttering something about their being, “too many darn buttons.”

Bruce only lets a short, sharp huff of laughter before pushing Clark down on the bed. He lands on the mattress with a soft thump, looking up at Bruce with wide blue eyes still behind his glasses lenses. Honestly, the sight of him naked except for his glasses does more for Bruce than he cares to admit. 

Bruce removes his suit, reveling in the way Clark drinks up every inch of skin he reveals. He sees the way his gaze catches on his torso, knowing the various scars he has threaded there and across his back. His arms and legs are just as marked, but Clark’s eyes haven’t seemed to wander there just yet. He does him the mercy of not mentioning it and Bruce takes the kindness graciously by straddling him on the mattress and pulling him into a needy kiss. 

The sounds they make together are nothing short of obscene and Bruce drinks up every noise that leaves Clark’s lips, reveling in the press of their bodies together. 

“I want to ride you,” Bruce’s voice is dangerously close to a growl, but Clark reacts to it so strongly that Bruce thinks he might just keep it for the duration of their day together. 

“ Yes ,” he says, pleading like a man finally offered water after being denied for so long. It’s pure desperation and Bruce won’t be able to forget the sound for a very long time nor the knowledge of being so wanted it bears no need. “Please, Bruce.”

That has him breaking, and for the remaining stretch of hours, Bruce is absolutely certain the crack hasn’t stopped spreading since. The day is lost to hot limbs, tangled sheets, and impossibly blue eyes. 

Bruce may have come to Clark seeing a distraction, but he was left ruined. 

Notes:

The fact that Clark looks up to Batman is so special to me, especially how surprised Bruce is that he can be viewed as something other than dark and dangerous.
Also Dick definitely has so much hero worship for Clark; the poor dude was just a little focused on the fact that he got kidnapped. For all his bravery, at the end of the day, he's a 9-year-old who bites off more than he can handle sometimes.
Also, I just love writing Clark and Bruce's conversations together. They're so peaceful and cutesy.

That said, thank you all again for reading! It means so much to me!

Chapter 3

As far as distractions go, Clark Kent is an excellent one. But he also poses an entirely new problem for Bruce to solve. His feelings. As a general rule for himself, he doesn't do relationships, never has and never thought he would. It’s not that he’s opposed to them, but it just never seemed viable for him. 

Bruce Wayne has never been normal, not since that night in the alleyway. He has thought the fragile, human part of himself dies with his parents and he never fooled himself into believing otherwise. He turned himself into a machine, running on numbers and strategies and fueled by the need for vengeance. He was a solitary creature by necessity, dawning whatever farce he needed to serve his purpose. 

But then he took in Dick, who - while not biologically his - has become something of a son to Bruce. He had thought, in the beginning, they could merely remain as mentor and prodigy, teacher and student, that Bruce could maintain a cold, collected distance between the two. Sometimes he thinks he succeeds. But most of the time, Bruce thaws helplessly for the kid. 

And in that, he’s become soft to others, Clark Kent in particular. In the following month since that first night in his apartment, he’s found himself in the quilted bed many times. But more than that, he’s found the two of them having dinners together, going on mindless, sun soaked walks, sharing far more with each other than Bruce has ever told anyone else. Save from Alfred and Dick, Clark is the closest person to knowing the real Bruce Wayne, whoever that may be. Bruce isn’t sure he knows himself. But he tries, tries to be as honest with the man and himself as possible. 

It’s the most terrifying thing he’s ever had to do. 

Even now, in the nice restaurant that Bruce insisted on, he’s sitting across from Clark and his heart is flipping. He controls it quickly, not allowing it to last much more than a second or two, but it’s a testament to Bruce’s fear. At least they both seem out of their depth: Bruce with his feelings and Clark in his discount suit. He had vehemently denied Bruce’s attempt to buy him something nicer so Bruce decided to drop the matter for today. However if he slips and accidentally orders Clark a tailored suit then that’s another matter entirely. One Clark won’t be able to fight him on. 

Bruce knows the place is far fancier than the places Clark takes him too, and honestly he’s grown to love the hole in the wall restaurants and diners that Clark picks. Bruce planned something different for them for the one month marker of when their dates began. Alfred had asked him about it pointedly, and not so subtly insinuated it’s an occasion that should be celebrated. Bruce, with his general lack of relationship etiquette, had no reason not to comply. 

But sitting in the restaurant, filled with its opulence and flashy crowd, Bruce finds himself missing the quiet intimacy of the small restaurants they frequent. Clark, however, talked it up every other sentence when they entered, clearly wanting Bruce to know he’s grateful if a little uncomfortable with the grandness. He’s well aware of Clark’s hesitancy to order anything, given the lack of prices on the obviously very expensive menu, so he takes the liberty of ordering for them both. Clark startles and blushes a bit as he mumbles a quiet thank you after the waiter has left. 

Their conversation after that is easy, even after their food comes. Bruce makes some work of his as he listens to Clark tell him about his latest project, not Superman this time, and takes in the way his eyes light up at the subject. Bruce follows the verbal web Clark weaves them through, going through the tips he got from various sources in a low whisper, just loud enough for Bruce to hear. 

“I’m supposed to be meeting someone tomorrow here in Gotham, they have some information for me about the empire I’m trying to track down,” Clark goes on. “Apparently my source can link him to a prominent businessman around here. I have my suspicions about the guy, but need solid evidence before I can pin him for anything. Apparently my guy has that for me.”

Bruce listens, curious about what evidence Clark is going to receive here in Gotham, and what trouble he’ll encounter doing so. It sets Bruce further on edge than he likes, and he makes a point to keep an eye on Clark tomorrow. It’s not that he doesn't trust him, Clark is a very capable and smart man, but he’s a stranger to Gotham. Whatever danger he runs into in Metropolis, it’s nothing like the kind that this dreary city breeds. 

“Well if anyone can crack the job, it’s you, Detective Kent.” 

“Oh hush, investigative journalism is hardly detective work.”

“Well, you could have fooled me.” Bruce takes a sip of his wine, letting the flavor coat his tongue. Clark’s eyes follow the motion as he swallows. “You like it,” Bruce says.

Clark’s eyes snap to Bruce’s eyes quilty, with a blush at the tips of his ear. “W-what?” 

“You’re job,” Bruce clarifies, not apologizing for his intentional mislead. Clark is an easy person to read, he’s as open as the sky is wide. Sometimes Bruce uses it as an excuse to tease. “You love the chase almost as much as the story, and you’re damn good at it too. Why does Perry still have Superman's tail?” 

“Ah,” Clark says, the red still tipping his ears, “I suppose I’m good at it. I can get an almost full account of the details from Superman, and he trusts me enough to tell his stories. And, Lois is much better than me. She’s earned her pick of stories.” Clark’s voice is filled with no small amount of admiration. He knows the two of them are friends, best friends even, if that’s a title people still hand out, and he doesn't doubt Clark’s sentiment either.

Bruce remembers meeting Lois Lane, at the time he was in a drugged haze, but there’s no amount of drugs that could make him forget the force of her. Bruce also remembers the closeness she and Superman seem to have had, if her bossing him around was anything to say for it. Either that or she really is a force to be reckoned with. Bruce wonders why she doesn't write for him if they’re as close as they seemed. But he can’t ask that, Bruce Wayne has never met either Superman or the renowned Lois Lane. He did, however, read up on the article she published after the event. It was a magnificent piece, and that’s not said lightly. 

“Still, I think after this piece, Perry will have no choice but to allow you to break out of Superman’s shadow.” 

Clark considers him, something swimming behind his thoughts as he furrows his brow. The question is so plain on his face but Bruce waits patiently for him to verbalize it.

“What do you think of him?” Clark asks to the surprise of no one. “I only mean, every time we discuss him, you seem...flat. Like you think of him as unworthy. Why?” 

It’s asked with the careful scrutiny of a reporter digging for the truth mixed with Clark’s gentle plea for honesty. Bruce could tell him that, ‘No, I don’t care for the alien.  He destroys buildings, endangers cities. He possesses power that shouldn't be entrusted to any individual being, and we’re supposed to worship him for not using it to kill us? Fat chance.’ But, Bruce doesn't say that. Even in his head, the thought tastes metallic, wrong.

He instead thinks of the way he looked to Bruce during that second meeting of theirs, waiting for his approval to fight. He sees the blinding smile of his on the Gotham skyline. He feels the fear he felt as he realized Superman could have died at any point after infiltrating the trapped warehouse and the dizzying realization that he, in no fathomable way, could have let him die that night. Those memories churn a sour feeling in his stomach that only increases when he realizes Clark is waiting patiently for his answer with those beautiful eyes of his. 

Superman is exactly the topic Bruce needs to not think about. 

So instead he says, “I think he’s trying his best. I have mixed feelings about him, yes. On the one hand, his power is as dangerous as it is helpful. But, his intentions count for more than I am accustomed to giving credit for. He’s brilliant in his own right, and the public isn’t wrong to love him.”

Bruce knows it’s a nonanswer at best, and he knows Clark recognizes it too. But he accepts the answer, considering it for himself.  There’s something behind his expression that Bruce can’t place. Something torn right down the middle before it disappears. For all that Clark is open, he’s wonderful at stumping Bruce when it comes to his emotions. Alfred once very mildly said Bruce lacks emotional range, Bruce had ignored him. 

“I understand that. His power is… immense. I do think, you know, from the times we’ve met, that he really does intend to do good. The public still has many doubts, especially last year. I can hardly fault anyone for how they feel about Superman, especially their concerns. But there are too many characters that make up the population. What do you think, Bruce?”

Bruce opens up his mouth to respond, he could say anything and have it sound like the truth. His mouth is about to form something undecided by his brain when his phone goes off. Bruce recognizes the ringtone before he sees the caller and picks up immediately. 

“Alfred,” he says in a way of greeting. Every syllable slipped with sudden tension. Alfred never rings him when he’s out unless there’s an emergency. 

“Master Bruce,” he says in a mild way. But Alfred could remain calm and cool tempered as the world ends, his calm tells Bruce nothing. “I am sorry to interrupt your and Mr. Kent’s date, but there’s a situation that Master Dick and myself have been made aware of. I believe it is in your best interest to return at once. I will keep Master Dick inside until you return.”

“I’ll be there in twenty minutes.” 

Bruce hangs up and pulls out his wallet, sending a deeply apologetic look to Clark, who while not hearing half of the short conversation, clearly understands their night has come to an end. 

“I really am very sorry, Clark. Something came up at the manor, and I need to get back to handle it. Dick-”

Clark doesn't let him finish, he stands up as Bruce unfolds several bills from his wallet, more than covering the cost of their meal and tip. “Hey, don’t apologize. I understand, really, your family comes first. You’ve got to get home, let me walk you out.”

Bruce is grateful for Clark, for his understanding and his compliance to whatever Bruce asks of him. But quilt twinges at him not for the first time since meeting the man. He’s only ever able to offer half truths at best, and Clark takes them easily, never pressing Bruce for more details than he initially gives, save for the conversation he has just unceremoniously ended. He’s patient and graciously takes whatever part of himself Bruce offers. He is grateful for it but there's a small part of him that wants Clark to press. He wants Clark to force the truth out of Bruce - a man who is so rarely honest he’s not sure he knows how to be - if only to have someone know him beyond the fragmented barriers of his many masks. He wants to be known in such a visceral way that Bruce doesn't even know if he can bear it.  

But Clark doesn't ask or beg or demand anything from Bruce. He just keeps his hand at the small of his back in a comforting, steady presence that Bruce drinks up. Bruce is in his car hastily and he bids the day goodbye. As he gets in his car, he sees something like sadness cross Clark’s features. He gets to the manor in eighteen minutes. 

 

~~~

 

The emergency wrapped up late the next morning. Well, ‘wrapped up’ is too much of a term for what their evening entailed. 

There was an explosion at the local prison, one that Luthor happened to get moved to a little over a month ago. One prison guard was killed, seven were injured and 12 prisoners too. Five prisoners escaped. Luthor included. 

Bruce and Dick had managed to contain the situation, as well as round up three of the escapees. However Luthor still remains at large as well as a man named Robert Elrod. Bruce hadn't been able to find either. He needed to do more research on Elrod in order to discern where he might have fled to. And It’ll take a hell of a lot more work to find Luthor. There’s no doubt in Bruce’s mind he’s up to something, and that Superman needs to stay far away from Gotham until Bruce finds him. 

But Bruce can’t worry about that right now. Clark is meeting a source tonight and Bruce needs to make sure everything goes fine. If everything goes to plan, he doesn't even need to know Batman was there. 

He’s easy to spot, Clark told him the area he’d be in and Bruce doesn't even need to wait long to see Clark strolling through the alleyway, wearing every inch of his midwestern charm and sticking out like a sore thumb on the streets of Gotham. Everything Bruce adores about him, his awkward hunch when he’s trying not to take up too much space despite being a literal giant, his little flannel beneath the open coat, his glasses which are slightly askew on his nose, it all radiates outsider. Which is practically a glowing target in Gotham. 

Sighing, Bruce takes off after him on the rooftops. 

He follows him a couple of blocks until Clark stands idly outside an abandoned apartment building underneath a dim, blinking street light. He’s not in an alleyway, the apartment is streetfacing which is only a small mercy. Crime happens in boldfaced daylight here, the fact that someone will  see a mugging or a shooting is a little threat against the city’s criminals. Bruce crouches silently while Clark waits, he shifts his weight from foot to foot, checking his watch once and again eight minutes later. 

Eventually, something draws Clark’s attention, a noise probably. One Bruce can’t pick up from his distance across the street. He didn’t want to risk a drone giving him away lest the source turns out to be Clark’s fault. But he watches a man wave Clark over from the shadows in the alleyway next to where he was standing. Great, he’s going to be in an alleyway after all. Just perfect.

Clark, bless him, follows the man without reservation, wearing that easy, trusting expression of his. Normally Bruce appreciates that about him, but right now he wants to strangle the man. And maybe kiss him right afterwards. 

They walk so deep in the shadows that Bruce has to switch rooftops. It takes precious moments, ones that leave him without Clark in his view. But by the time he’s in position, Clark is still standing, and the two men are quietly conversing. It looks cordial, nothing about Clark’s expression gives way to uncertainty nor fear from what Bruce can see and he keeps an eye out for trouble around the pair. So far they’re safe. It’s not comforting, it won’t be until he sees Clark leave for Metropolis in one piece. 

The conversation is ten minutes at best, the man points up to the building opposite to Bruce and Clark looks up at it consideringly. He nods, writes something down in the notebook he took with him and they part ways. Or rather, the man leaves and Clark stays exactly where he is. Frowning, Bruce peers closer, waiting for Clark to head west to the train station. Except he doesn't. After the man has been long gone, Clark walks back a couple of feet to the very old and very broken fire escape. He climbs. Much to Bruce’s horror. 

He has a hand on his grappling hook immediately, ready to intervene at the slightest sign of Clark slipping. 

The fire escape is missing steps, screws, and stability. It makes some very concerning noises, yet Clark is still climbing. He climbs until he gets to the broken window on the third floor that no one bothered to board up. He climbs in and Bruce is free to follow after him, not wanting to risk Clark getting out of his sight. 

He makes his way inside silently, listening closely for Clark’s footsteps. He hears it down the stairs, having already decided the third floor is of little interest to him. Bruce is inclined to agree. One sweep across the space shows a hallway of boarded doors and cobwebs. Bruce doesn't know what Clark is looking for but it’s probably not a spider bite. 

He’s about to make his own descent to shadow Clark, but Bruce spots something that does catch his attention. The third door down the hall has a little X drawn over it in thin, black marker. It’s nothing remarkable, but none of the other doors share the quality. Bruce gets close, not daring to touch anything, but he’s inches from the wood, close enough to peek through a small hole in the corner of the wood. 

What he sees there takes his breath. Explosives. 

It’s nothing remarkable, a simple series of bombs that presumably connect to a detonator. When he looks again, he sees a thin, barely there string on the doorknob. It’s as fine as a spiderweb and scarily unseen. Now, Bruce sweeps the floor again from where he’s standing and sees three thin spindles that could easily be more trip wires. 

He hears a noise, sharp like an accidental scuff of someone’s shoe. Clark . 

Bruce moves fast, stealth coming as a reflex more than a conscious choice. He doesn't want to startle Clark before he gets to him, otherwise he could get sloppy in trying to get away. He could trip one of the doubtlessly numerous wires in this building and set off who knows how many explosives. He’s got to get to him fast. Now. 

In the span of eleven agonizingly level heartbeats, Bruce has Clark in his sights. He turned away and crouched low to the ground, reaching out to grab something at his eye level. Bruce sees his lean forward, overcorrecting for the two extra inches of reach he needs and he sees the wire about a centimeter from where his shin is creeping forward. A half a second later, Bruce has a handful of Clark’s coat in his hands and he pulls . 

Clark pitches back violently with a startled noise, sprawling at where Batman is still standing. There’s a moment where they just look at each other and Bruce has the ridiculous urge to apologize. Except he’s Batman. Batman doesn't apologize, especially not to civilians who stupidly walk into bobbytrapped buildings. But looking at Clark, who is so comically shocked, he’s momentarily thrown into the previous night, where they had been laughing together on their date. 

“Batman.” Clark says, nearly as awestruck as he is baffled. It breaks Bruce out of his identity dilemma and also reminds him of what Clark said about him when they ran into each other at the coffee stand. 

“You were going to blow us up,” is what Bruce says, barring the man’s surprise. He nods stiffly to the wire. 

The action draws Clark’s gaze and he immediately zeros in on the wire. “Oh,” is all he can say. The horror of the realization doesn't come until after Clark looks back up at Bruce, which is worrying because Bruce would really appreciate it… if someone he cares about didn’t have a death wish. 

“I was just trying to-” 

“Well don’t. You’re clearly not from here, so it’s best not to poking around.” Bruce hesitates before offering a hand to Clark, who is still laid at his feet. He takes it, letting his warm palm fall into the rough leather of Bruce’s gauntlet. The angle to pull him to his feet is awkward given his head is pointed towards Bruce. It ends up in Clark’s back, nearly pressed flush against Bruce’s front in his attempt to stay as far away from the trip wire as possible. 

Bruce can’t feel the press of his body so much as he imagines it due to the suit's many layers of padding and kevlar plates. But he still feels Clark’s presence, and he can still see him of course. The close press of their bodies is far too reminiscent of a night they spent together a couple of weeks ago, with Clark pressed against a wall and Bruce behind him, pressing into him-

Bruce takes a swift step back. 

It only moderately helps stave off the memory. 

“I need to get you out of here, the whole place is full of traps. Just follow after me, okay.”

Clark turns around, carefully, and nods. Bruce spins sharply and the pair of them descend the stairs cautiously. Bruce doesn't need to move this slow, but it’s for Clark’s benefit that he does. In fact, it’d be much better if Bruce got as far away from him as possible at the moment, needing his head to be clear while on patrol. He can’t afford any distractions. 

They make it to the side door, on the opposite side of the building from which they entered, and would have been much safer than watching Clark climb the creaky fire escape. He doesn't glance back once, doesn't need to. He feels Clark behind him, matching him step for step. They both stop in tandem as Bruce swings the door open carefully after examining it for any sign of tampering. Once he’s sure he steps through.

Midstep, he hears Clark’s breath come in a little sharper. It’s a sound of surprise that has Bruce whip his head around, not watching for the little pothole his foot comes down in. It’s a ridiculous unbalance that has Bruce shifting two inches at most, but he overcorrects, elbow slightly bumping into the door frame. It happens in a nano second, all while he’s looking back to look at whatever caught Clark’s breath. Bruce never gets the chance to find out. He gets one second to look at Clark’s face before the world behind him goes alight. 

The two of them are thrown against the opposite building in the alleyway from the force. They’re thrown hard . Even with the armor of Bruce’s suit, he aches all over. He’ll no doubt have bruised something, and he feels the very likely possibility of a concussion in the back of his skull. But he has armor to protect him, Clark doesn't. The man’s body has wrapped around Bruce protectively, and somewhere in the force of the explosion, they’ve spun around so that Clark hit the wall. 

The force of the blast should have knocked him unconscious at best. Bruce doesn't want to think about the worst. But when he opens his eyes, Clark is lying there, arms still secured around Bruce and looking up at him with large, worried eyes. Bruce scans his body. The sleeve of his coat and flannel have torn, revealing a golden but unmarked forearm. His pant leg is on fire, but he doesn't look like he notices. He’s clearly signed but otherwise unmarked. Bruce looks up to his face again, about to ask him if he’s okay, what was he thinking trying to protect Bruce, call him an idiot and kiss him senseless, damn the mask. All incredulous urges that have to do very much with the adrenaline pumping through Bruce’s veins. But all of his words die on his tongue when he looks at Clark. 

There’s nothing wrong with his face. No blood or cuts or bruises to concern himself over. His jaw is the same as ever, unbroken. He didn’t break his nose in the crash to shift the bone in any direction or other. His lips aren’t bitten through from the impact. It’s unmistakably Clark. The only thing different is his eyes, no, not quite. They’re still the same astonishing blue as always, only they’re merely framed by pretty lashes. There are no glasses in sight. 

It’s the only change to Clark’s face, yet it shifts everything. He’s not looking at Clark Kent. He’s looking at Superman . 

Bruce, in his shock, relies entirely on instinct. He pushes back, posture going rigid with something that can be read as fear but that’s not quite it. Bruce isn’t afraid. But he’s something. And his concussion addled mind doesn't want to parse through the revelation to figure it out just yet. But he’s sure without a doubt in the world, he’s staring up into the worried eyes of Superman, who has, apparently, been Clark Kent this whole time. 

The moment is frozen between them, even as the building crumbles besides them. Bruce can feel the smoke start to clog his lungs, but he doesn't move, not yet. He watches as the question forms on Clark’s - Superman’s - always open face. He sees the moment he realizes what Bruce must be seeing, the weight of the revelation sinking in now for both people. And Bruce, he realizes that Clark doesn't know who he is, not behind the cowl. Clark’s face stutters closed, and the contrast of that to what Bruce has always known from either men - who are apparently one in the same - is enough to snap him out of his daze.

He stands, painfully aware of all the places his body aches from the explosion and the way his heart does too. It’s not betrayal, no. His heart aches with something else entirely, another revelation he’s not prepared to face. Not yet. Maybe not ever. 

He withdrawals his grappling hook once more and shoots it to the rooftop across the street. Only when he takes off does he look away, it does nothing to ease the feeling of Superman's gaze on his back. Clark’s gaze. 

He knows fully well that the man could easily fly after Bruce. Stop him, demand- well he doesn't know. He could demand anything from him in this moment, his silence, his identity in return, his life. The thought doesn't terrify him as much as it should. Because he leaves, and despite being able to, Clark doesn't follow. 

 

~~~

 

The following week, Bruce disappears into his work. Clark texts him several times, all of which go unanswered. He calls once and Bruce watches the phone ring, staring at it with a sick sense of foreboding. He’s still processing the shock of information he happened upon, as well as nursing the many visible injuries the explosion left him with. 

A couple of days later, Bruce Wayne had wrapped one of his fancy sports cars around a light pole to explain away the injuries. Clark had called him an hour after the news broke. Bruce, for his part, feels awful in the slow nauseating way of guilt. But he can’t make himself pick up the phone and speak to Clark, not now that he knows he’s Superman. 

Ridiculously, Bruce feels lied to. Clark had kept it from him this whole time, it’s not as through they haven't spoken about Superman before. Clark seamlessly lied to Bruce about the man, acting as a reluctant supporter of the hero, saying he knows him through interviews. Hell, most of his career is based on a lie he tells his editor. He doesn't interview Superman, he is him. It’s a massive breach of journalistic integrity. 

But no, if Bruce is honest, Clark’s journalistic integrity is the least of his concerns. 

Bruce thinks about the amount of times he’s allowed himself to be vulnerable with Clark. Baring himself in a way he’s never done with anyone else. Even physically, Bruce is clad in armor and bullet proof suits most of the time, to have stripped down and let himself be touched by a man that coils crush his bones to dust with a mere pinch of his fingers is a sickening thought. It doesn't matter that Clark’s always been gentle with him, not so much as bruising his skin, even with his little nips at Bruce’s neck, had he slipped up, lost any amount of his control, Bruce would be the one who’d have suffered. He feels justified in his right to have at least known. 

It’s a pair of glasses. That’s all that separates the two. Bruce should have seen right through it. Clark always kept his glasses on, no matter what. Even in their private moments, he had insisted on seeing Bruce as clearly as possible, that he’s blind as a bat without them. Bruce had allowed it, melting even at the way Clark’s voice dipped when he said it. It was all a lie. Superman could probably see halfway around the world if he wanted to, he had no trouble seeing Bruce just inches from him. The signs were all there. Hell, Bruce has likened them both to the damn sun before. He should have known no one could hold a candle to the man. 

Bruce is frustrated, angry, confused, and many other things he doesn't know how to name. So, as is his nature, he avoided them all. 

Alfred and Dick come down to the cave occasionally, wearing expressions of concern. Bruce hasn’t told them yet, but he won’t be surprised if they predict it on their own. He’ll keep Clark’s secret. But he’s not yet sure if he can keep Clark. Not when his nervous system is a swirl of hazardous confusion. The more he thinks about it, the further away he is to an answer. 

So he works. Tirelessly. Because there is always work to be done. 

 

~~~

 

Bruce calls Clark the following Thursday, almost two weeks since he found out about his identity. 

Bruce is in his study for once, Alfred had forced him out of the cave for the past couple of days, claiming something about him needing sunlight and sufficient sleep. Bruce had grumbled in response but ascended the stairs nonetheless. He had a feeling that he’d be dragged up to the manor if he didn’t comply with this once. The last time he saw Dick had a look about his face that Bruce wasn’t inclined to trust. 

Speaking of, it’s been a bit since he’s seen his son. It’s early September and Bruce needs to make sure he’s enrolled for the upcoming school year. He almost hangs up to do just that, but Clark picks up on the second ring. He’s speaking before Clark even gets a chance to breathe. 

“Bruce, hi? Are you okay, I tried to get a hold of you after the crash but you didn’t respond. I figured you were recovering. I wanted to stop by but I couldn’t find which hospital you were at. Are you at home? I can come by right after work, I want to see you and make sure you’re okay.”

His voice is spoken in a rushed concern that tears into Bruce. Part of him feels awful for not calling back, but the larger sum of himself feels bad enough the extra guilt doesn't make much of a difference. Bruce stays silent for a moment too long and the silence stretches between them uncomfortably. They’ve never had uncomfortable silences with each other before, but it weighs heavy on their uncertainty. 

“Bruce?” Clark tries.

“I’m okay, yes. But I’d rather you not visit, Clark.” His voice sounds strained even to his own ears. 

“Oh, okay. Yeah, that’s fine. I understand. You need your rest. Maybe this weekend then? I could-”

“No, Clark.” Bruce cuts him off, sharper than he means to. But it works, Clark cuts off with a deadly sort of silence. “I don’t want to see you.” He puts his meaning in the words, ignoring how sharp and cruel they sound, even to himself. 

“Oh,” is all Clark has to say in response. 

There are no questions, no begging Bruce to change his mind, no probing because Clark Kent, even for the reporter that he is, has never once demanded more from Bruce than what he was willing to give. Not about his life or his clearly kept secrets, and not not this. Not even his breakup. 

“That’s all.” Bruce says, and then cringes. “Goodbye, Clark.” He allows his voice to soften from the cold detachment he affected, hoping it’s enough to convey the magnitude of what Bruce isn’t saying. It’s not. It never could be. Bruce, for all of his many silences, wishes this once that he was better with words. But he’s not. So that’s all he has to offer before he clicks the button to hang up. It submerges the study in a bouldering silence. 

Bruce sits there and stares off into the middle distance for a long time after that phone call, feeling something metallic in the back of his throat. There’s no mistaking it. Regret. Sharp and bitter; a taste Bruce knows intimately. There’s no room for it, but it weasels through like a heavy smoke in his lungs.

Alfred walks into the room with a platter of tea in hand and his familiar calm. 

“Tea, Master Bruce?”

Bruce doesn't answer, but Alfred sets the tray on the desk and pours them both a cup. He adds two sugars and a splash of milk to Bruce’s cup, exactly the way he used to take it as a child. Alfred takes a generous sip of his own tea, letting Bruce stew in his thoughts for a moment longer. That moment, however, does not last. If Alfred wants to stage an intervention it will happen, regardless of how reluctant Bruce is to listen.

“You know, I quite like that Mr. Kent, of yours,” he says mildly, but Bruce doesn't think for one minute he doesn't have an agenda. He steals himself to ignore hard enough that Alfred will give up on the conversation and leave him to his silence. Alfred pours himself a second cup.  

He lasts seven minutes before relenting. 

“You’ve never met him,” is all he says in his belated response. 

Alfred makes a humming noise, “He makes you happy.” Bruce nearly startles at that, taken by sheer surprise at how true the words hit. But Alfred continues on, fully aware and uncaring of how his words hit Bruce. “An excellent writer too, have you read his latest story about Gotham’s gang violence? Just brilliant.” It’s the story he was working on during the explosion, of course Bruce read it. He’s read every word that Clark Kent has published. “I quite think his talents are wasted on his usual work. I imagine the interviews are quite a work around.” 

That gets a response out of Bruce. “You know.” It isn’t a question, and Alfred doesn't respond to it as such.

“I’ve only ever seen you this affected by one other young man. How convenient is it that they happen to be one in the same?” 

“I’ve never been affected by Superman.” Bruce isn’t sure why that particular detail stands out to him, only that it feels imperative that he cements it. 

Alfred, who is apparently finished with his piece, settles for sipping the rest of his tea in silence. Bruce, at a loss for what more to say, reaches for his tea and takes a sip. It’s run cold by now, but he sips the sugar monstrosity he used to be fond of. It reminds him of childhood. Not the grief and anger that plagued him. No. It reminds him of a rare peaceful night spent in the manor, with only Alfred for company. It should have felt lonely, such a large space, filled only with the quiet souls of Alfred and his ward. But it wasn’t.

They finish their tea together in silence, still heavy, but no longer suffocating. Somehow, a weight has eased off of him, but he still feels the clouds of it overhead. 

Alfred cleans up silently, allowing the silverware to clatter and chime. Bruce lets the sound surface memories of his mother sorting through her jewelry box and the sound of her swaying with her many bracelets. It melts as soon as it comes, and Bruce realizes he let his eyes drift shut somewhere during the short memory. He doesn't feel as hollow as the memory used to make him feel. No, instead, he feels at peace with the knowledge that’s what he has to keep from his mom. The picture of beauty and grace that Bruce has unknowingly emulated all his life. 

Alfred is midway through his leave when he stops to look back at Bruce. 

“I have enrolled Master Dick in Gotham Prep Academy. He starts in two weeks.” He stops, considering something. “The teachers are impressed with his placement results, you did well, Master Bruce.” 

When he finally leaves, Bruce drops his head into his hands. He may not know much about the swirl of feelings in his heart, but he thinks he places a name to one of them, something unfamiliar that nearly cracks him in half. Love .

 

~~~

 

The first day Dick goes to school is a week and a half later and Bruce is in a frenzy all day. Well, internally speaking. Outwardly, he handles paperwork for Wayne Enterprises, takes calls, and catches up on some cases he lets fall through the tracks. But he looks up at every noise, thinking for a moment that it’s Dick coming home. He rubs his eyes tiredly. 

Seriously, how long does it take a kid to get through one day of 4th grade? 

It’s close to four when Dick comes home, he’s jumping excitedly through the doors of the study with Alfred in tow. 

“B! Guess what!”

Bruce really has no idea what has the kid so excited, he never loved school this much. Not at his age at least, he got into a lot more bad days than good ones, with a lot more bruises at the end of the day too. But Dick looks elated in a way only a kid can be, and it’s immediately clear he had a good day. The sight of his smile has Bruce relaxing immensely, he hadn’t known he was afraid until his heart settled for the first time all day. 

“What?”

Dick reaches into his open backpack, gently withdrawing a handful of… well Bruce can’t actually tell until Dick comes closer to his desk. 

“It’s a ladybug!” Dick places it on Bruce's desk with a little collection of leaves that he clearly picked up for the insect. “My friend said they’re good luck, so I brought it home for you! It’s supposed to bring you what you need to be happy again.” Dick gives Bruce an uncharacteristically shy smile, like he’s unsure of how his gift will be received. 

But Bruce, well, he has to clear his throat to break up the emotions bubbling there. He hasn’t realized Dck picked up on his recent mood, surely not his unhappiness, but he’s a smart kid. Bruce shouldn’t have underestimated his emotional intelligence because his own is lacking. He’s reminded that Dick isn’t his son, not biologically, he could have never made something so thoughtful and good . But all the same, Bruce pulls him close, hugging him like he’s his. Because they may not be blood, but Bruce wants Dick to know he’s loved beyond his work as Robin. Is his family beyond being his ward on paper. And this damn ladybug on Bruce’s desk nearly splits him in half. 

It’s love, the feeling confirms.  All his life, Bruce has been a creature of darkness and solitude, with only Alfred to drag him out of his hole. In his weakest moment, he considered the possibility that he was lonely, but it didn’t matter. He had a responsibility to drag Gotham out of its blood soaked mud. He had no space for things like joy, or company beyond an evening’s distraction. He had next to no one in his ally.  But here, with his son in his arms and Alfred at the door, watching the exchange, Bruce allows himself the truth. 

He might have been alone once, but he has a family, one he never imagined for himself after his parents had been killed. And for the first time, he identifies the strange, unfamiliar glow in his chest. 

“I am happy.”

It’s the first time it feels like the truth.

 

~~~

 

Bruce is back in Metropolis for a business meeting. The city is its typically sunny self, and Bruce tries not to think about the last time he was here or Clark Kent’s similarly bright smile. Or the way he could fill any silence with his rambling and stories and how animated he sometimes got. Bruce ignores the way his heart aches at the memory of him because there’s nothing for it now. They’ve split. Bruce came to him for a distraction and it’s proven unhelpful. That’s all it ever was, there's no use in pretending or hoping otherwise. 

So, Bruce sits in the board meeting, sitting with quiet disinterest on his face. He’s ignored for the most part, it’s particularly useful given he’s not paying attention in the slightest. It’s a follow up from the first time he was here for this particular project, the second time he met Clark Kent. The reminder shouldn’t stir up something painful in his chest, but it does, unbidden. 

Bruce is tired of all the swirling chaos in his chest. He operates on order. He plans for everything, with seven back ups attached to every one. He doesn't have the space for chaos or the unknown. It’s his job to ensure the opposite. He can’t figure out for the life of him how to get the insistent buzz out of his chest. 

Things felt better after his talk with Alfred and the day Dick first came home from school. 

The thing in his chest has eased ever so slightly with the acknowledgement he gave to it, but not enough. The feeling remains relentless like a pest. 

Bruce not so subtlety checks his watch, he’s been here for over an hour and every minute drags like sand. He wants to be home, helping Dick with his homework, drinking tea with Alfred, patrolling with the both of them, one by his side and the other in his ear. Bruce is trying to be better at allowing himself to want selfish, inconsequential things. Alfred not so subtly hinted at the advice in a self-help book he read. Bruce caught the implication loud and clear. 

Bruce prepares himself for the meeting to drone on for another half hour when one of the windows shatters. 

Tumbling through, in a whirl of red and blue is none other than Clark Kent. Well, Bruce supposes no one else knows him as such, but it feels strange to think of him as Superman when he knows the man beneath the cape so well. Anyway, semantics aside, he still tumbled right through the window and landed in a craterous heap on the floor. It’s a wonder it didn’t cave under the force. Bruce looks outside and sure enough, there is a giant creature hurtling right towards them. Excellent. 

The room erupts in chaos, shattering the stillness that came with Clark’s unexpected appearance. Board members hide under the table, rush for the door, scream as the hulking beast flies even closer to them yet. But Bruce zeros in on Clark, whose chest is rising and falling in enormous breaths. He’s getting up, not injured but clearly having only knocked the wind from his lungs. He won’t be quick enough. The Beast will get to him before Clark has a chance to meet his eyes, so Bruce acts on instinct. 

He jumps over the table and crosses the distance to Clark. Bruce hooks his arm over his shoulders, forcibly lifting the hero to his feet. Without his armor, he’s little help, especially against the intergalactic threats Metropolis tends to attract. But he gets Clark to his feet, and his hand falls to Bruce’s forearm to steady himself. It’s then that their eyes meet. 

Bruce is uncomfortable and aware of their unusual predicament. He knows Clark, the person he broke things off with, is Superman. And Clark obviously knows his situation with Bruce, but he doesn't know that Bruce knows he’s Superman. In any other situation, this would be a supremely awkward encounter. Both men are saved from their valiant attempt at pretending at normalcy when the flying monster crashes through the window, breaking it even further. Up close, Bruce can see the extent of how horrific the creature is. It’s feathered but holds no resemblance to any bird that Bruce knows. Its hands and feet are bent at odd angles and clawed to deadly points. Bruce does not try to describe its face. Looking at it sets him at a distinct feeling of discomfort, which Bruce thought he was beyond feeling since his time as Batman. He was sorely mistaken. 

Glass shards rain down over them and Clark puts himself in front of Bruce, both to take the blunt of the attack and to shield him from the monster. The beast says something in a language Bruce can't understand, but he notices the way Clark stiffens with tension. He can see the way his shoulders tremble, not with fear, but with rage. Bruce wishes he could see the expression on his face, if only to read what he knows lies there, plain and open as day. 

Clark says something in the same guttural language as the thing, lunging for a punch that Bruce has to assume would be deadly if he was fighting a regular person. But it’s not, the thing merely treats Clark as a nuisance, batting him towards the opposite wall. He hands him a sickening crunch, leaving the wall warped and weak. Bruce follows Clark’s figure on the floor back to the monster, pausing at the way his beady eyes are fixed on Bruce. 

That can’t be good. 

Bruce is bulletproof in the worst of times. He’s prepared to ward off mugging and taking beatings by crooks and criminals on the streets of Gotham no matter what suit he wears. What he isn’t prepared for, however, is for the creature to wrap a disfigured hand around Bruce’s waist before he has the chance to so much as step back and take off through the broken window and into the sky.

Bruce has never been airborne before. Sure he swings through Gotham’s skyline with his grappling hook and he’s flown a jet more times than he can count. But the violent thwip of wind beating on his skin from thousands of feet in altitude is a wholly new experience. It’s not a pleasant one. Bruce is sure his neck will snap from the pressure and speed they’re moving at, but he’s held uncomfortably close to the beast’s hulking figure. He almost thinks he’d prefer his neck snapping. 

He’s not sure what the goal is here, not sure if the creature intends to kill him for sport or if he’s bait or both. When he sees Clark hurtle after them he’s suddenly sure it’s the last option. 

He knew his death was inevitable. Bruce was never going to pass peacefully in his old age. He wasn’t even sure he’d get to become gray when his time came. But he always imagined he’d die as Batman, with his cowl on an =d his fist raised. It was a certainty he’d come to embrace, take comfort in even, that his last act would be one worth taking with him to whatever afterlife waited, if there was one at all. It’s a strangely cold realization that he might not get that after all. He’d die as Bruce Wayne, wearing a three piece suit and his affected incompetence. It sent a chill down his spine. 

As soon as Superman gets close, the monster halts him with a motion from his free hand. He says something Bruce can’t understand, but the implication is clear as he gestures to the many thousands of feet below them. He’s going to drop Bruce. Clark can either let him fall and fight or catch Bruce. He knows, without a doubt, that Clark will save him. He can’t let it happen. 

He’s about five thousand feet up, from this height Bruce has anywhere from forty-five to fifty seconds before he hits the ground. Less if they’re over a particularly high skyscraper. But Clark is fast. Bruce has studied Superman’s abilities in depth in his earlier weariness of the man, but he knows the man beats every odd possible. If Bruce trusts anyone to catch him, it’s Clark Kent, the man of steel, the man of heart. So, against the brutal wind and the altitude from up above, he takes a breath, stealing himself for the drop. 

“Let me fall.”

He says it quietly, softer than Bruce has ever been. But Clark hears it. His eyes flash to Bruce’s, worry dripping from his expression. But whatever he sees on Bruce’s face has his eyes widening by the barest fraction. He bets the monster can’t understand him, probably wouldn’t even care to. What worth does Bruce Wayne’s words have to an alien? The answer is likely none. Bruce is thankful for that. 

Clark doesn't answer Bruce’s request, but his shoulders draw back and his chin lifts daringly at the creature. Bruce has always known the magnificence of Superman, he’s seen it in the media and with his own eyes. He’s also become well acquainted with the beauty of Clark Kent and his pure goodness . It’s strange to see them both reflected in this singular person. But Bruce sees it, and it’s the last thing that takes his breath away before he falls. 

He has forty five seconds and each one slips away from him. He can’t hear much more than the angry wind rushing past him, cutting through his hair and slipping through his hands. He’s tipping head over heel on his way down in a terrifyingly dizzy descent. He can’t see Clark above him nor the ground below. The fall is almost peaceful in a way, Bruce has maybe ten more seconds to enjoy it. Five hundred feet to go. 

Bruce thinks of Alfred. The closest thing Bruce has to a father, and for a long time, the only person he had to call him. He’s family in a way that surpasses blood, and that’s the strongest bond of any. Choosing to stick with someone, even through the worst conditions and watch them destroy themselves only to help them rebuild in the end. It’s the kindest thing anyone’s ever done for Bruce, and Alfred’s done it dozens of times over. 

Eight seconds.

Bruce thinks of Dick. If Alfred is the closest thing to family Bruce has ever had, Dick is his joy. He hasn’t had much of it in his lifetime, he’s not even sure he’d know how to recognize the feeling until Dick had come into his life. He’s the better version of Bruce, as children often are of their parents. Dick is kind and loving in ways Bruce is brittle and jagged for the many times he’s broken. As dutifully as Alfred puts him together, he’s never quite been whole. Dick has found some of his missing pieces. Bruce is sure he’s far from what the kid needs, but he’s given the strength to at least try. 

Five seconds. 

Bruce thinks of Clark. He has enough time to remember his smile before his world is draped in shades of blue and red. Clark has his arms tight around Bruce, his back pressed into the man’s chest, steadying and safe. They continue to tumble the remaining hundreds of feet, Bruce knows a sudden stop will just about shatter his body the same as impact would. So they fall, but the wind is no longer ripping into Bruce. It slows to a gentle breeze on his face. And the tumbling stops too, allowing them both to float gently against the weight of gravity. 

When they finally touch the ground, Clark pulls away to look at Bruce. His gaze is intense and dangerously blue. Bruce is an idiot. Even behind Clark’s too large glasses, he could never hide how remarkable his eyes are. They’re a sight to behold, and Bruce should have seen it coming before the revelation hit him upside the head. Truly, he’s ridiculous. 

Clark, for his part, is the picture of concern. He’s still holding Bruce but his touch is incredibly tender as if Brouch is something bound to break. He’s never been touched so gently before, it takes everything in him not to lean into the sensation. 

“Why?” 

Bruce isn’t sure what question he’s demanding answers to. The way he’s looking at Bruce could mean a great many things. Why did you leave me? Why don’t you love me? Why did you want to fall? But at the moment they are Superman and Bruce Wayne, so Bruce has no option but to answer the latter. 

“I knew you’d catch me.” 

It rings dangerously close to trust. It’s the second time he’s found himself instinctively trusting Superman to have his back. It’s the hundredth time he’s trusted Clark Kent with himself, from the little details he shared to the kindness he’s offered. 

Clark has no idea the weight of Bruce’s heart in his chest, but when he replies, “Always,” something shifts. 

Bruce looks at Clark and the chaos in his chest goes quiet. 

Notes:

As we can see, Bruce still can't figure out his feelings. BUT he's getting there, I promise.
ALSO Bruce turning around like he's Orpheus, I was so proud of that little moment. I'm going to use any excuse to squeeze mythology into my fics about these gay superheroes, mark my word.
And it led up to 1/2 of the reveal! And a dash of angst! (if you squint)
Bruce is so bad at feelings, and I take that very seriously. He is Not well adjusted by any means.
But he's figuring things out; dude is only just learning how to accept love. It takes baby steps.

And thank you all, once again, for sticking with me and my silly little fic. Your love and comments mean everything to me!!

Chapter 4

Notes:

Hi everyone! This is the home stretch! Thank you all so very much for reading my silly little fic; I appreciate you all so much!

Quick heads up, the end of this chapter has some spice. You have been warned (or promised.)

Bruce doesn't quite know what to do with his new found peace. He’s so used to chaos and solitude and darkness that he doesn't know what to do with all the light he’d let into his life. It’s equally as unsettling as his turmoil. But there's nothing to be done for it, not now. He’ll just have to accept that Clark is an answer to Bruce’s… everything. He’s not quite sure what to call it yet. Love feels too tentative, fragile, too familiar to be what this feeling is. Bruce loves a whopping total of two people, but still, it’s enough for him to believe he has a grip on the feeling. What he feels for Clark is a different beast entirely. One that Bruce should be reeling over if his past coping mechanisms are anything to say for it. The revelation is not one he quite knows what to do with yet. 

It’s an unfortunate revelation, to say the least. 

Alfred is no help at all. The older man just hums at Bruce when he gets back from being dropped out of the sky with that entirely too knowing look of his. Bruce says nothing to him. He doesn't need to, Alfred has an uncanny knack for knowing exactly what Bruce is thinking.

Gratefully, he doesn't push. He lets Bruce handle himself for the remainder of the night. 

This time he doesn't throw himself into his work. Instead, he walks up to Dick’s bedroom and knocks on the open doorframe. He looks up at Bruce with his blue eyes that are overlay large in the way kids are before they grow into it. He has a perfectly good desk in his room, but the kid is pouring over his homework on his bed, Bruce’s back aches just looking at him. But he crosses the distance regardless and sits beside him on the edge of the plush mattress. 

“What are you working on?” Bruce looks at the array of papers in front of them, it looks like a mix of geometry, geography, and physics. Bruce does not remember learning all this in fourth grade. 

“One of the freshmen gave me their work in turn for a favor,” Dick says by way of explanation. 

Bruce pauses, wondering exactly how to go about that. “What favor are you going to ask for?” 

Dick shrugs, “He’s a football player. I’m gonna have him sneak me into a game.Or have him give me the high school lunch. They get the better food.” 

Bruce hums, that’s a fairly tame exchange given the sorts of trouble he’d have gotten up to. And Dick is more than capable of creating his own, Bruce remembers the time they had to bribe him down from the chandeliers. It had taken him and Alfred over half an hour to find the right bribe. He supposes he should be grateful these are the antics he chooses to get up to while out of the house. And Bruce remembers from his own youth how horrid the cafeteria was at Dick’s age. It’s no shock they haven’t improved. 

After a long moment, Bruce points to a physics worksheet that Dick hasn’t started on just yet. “Pass me that.” Dick gives him a quizzical look but does just that. Bruce grabs a pen and gets started on the paper alongside him. They work in silence for a while, occasionally breaking it for Bruce to explain some particular trick or piece of history to Dick, who’d nod and try it out for himself. They get through a week's work within the hour. There’s more, of course, but two hours into the night, Alfred comes in to call his boys down for dinner. 

What he finds is Bruce leading against the headboard with his eyes shut and a pen gripped loosely in his hand. Dick is similarly asleep, lying across Bruce’s lap, crunching the paper he had been working on before he drifted off. A great many papers surround them, on the bed and the floor. Bruce had somehow ended up with an ink stain across his cheek - from when Dick was waving his arm around and accidently penned the side of his face. Bruce didn’t notice. 

Alfred stands there for a moment, taking in the rare scene before gently closing the door. Dinner can wait. His boys clearly need this far more. 

Bruce wakes up sometime later to Dick still fast asleep across from him. He decides patrol can wait at least another hour that night. 

 

~~~

 

 Bruce finds balance. 

He’s had his routines before, between the mask of Bruce Wayne and the cowl of Batman. Nights were spent pouring over cases in the cave and sowing violence and justice in the streets. Days were spent sleeping off aches and pains and plastering on a persona that was sickening in its incompetence. Bruce had split his life right down the middle, always working in one way or another, allowing his responsibilities to eat the man inside of him alive. 

Routine, he’s come to realize, isn’t balanced. 

He has his duties and responsibilities, of course he does. No matter how much he works, he’s swimming in things that need to be done, things that need to change, things he needs to be better at. But the difference now is that he has an inbetween. In the early hours of his waking and the space between his mask and his cowl. He has a family to come home to. For the first time in his life, he realizes he’s forgotten what the manor halls sound like when there’s no chattering echoing through them, when there was nothing to seek out beyond his study and the cave, Bruce has found himself something precious to hold on to, and he’s not letting go, stubborn as he’s always been and reluctant to let this shred of joy tear itself from his grasp. 

He’s a bit like a drowning man, Bruce thinks. One that is holding desperately onto his last breath of air, fighting to the surface. He’s been down for a long time, that he’s known, but never has he felt so close to the top as he does now. 

It’s dangerous and fuels him with as much fear as it does lightness. But Bruce breathes, on that last breath of air he’s been holding on to. The air moves easily through him, easing the tension in his shoulders, letting the water fall away from him and letting the sun bathe his freezing limbs. He breathes on that last breath until he chokes. The water surrounds him once more, pulling him down and down and down until he can no longer see the sun. He can’t feel the warmth on his face, and he longs for it, however brief he had it. It leaves its mark before he’s ripped away. Down down down. 

Bruce is drowning.

Then he wakes up. 

It’s early. Much earlier than he woke up in a long time. The soft streams of morning are painting his bedroom a soft yellow. He feels it cross his body at odd angles where his blanket has been thrashed off in the middle of the night. He can feel his heart thumping through his chest, equal parts in panic and relief. 

Bruce breaths through it, allowing the realness to wash over him. The silk sheets on his skin, the cool comfort of the morning, the ragged sound of his breath, and a quiet footfall down the hall somewhere. 

Bruce breaths, reveling in the feeling of being alive. 

It’s the first time he’s woken up from dying and been glad to do so. 

Balance, he thinks. He’s finally found his balance. 

 

~~~

 

Bruce has a location on Luthor after a month and a half of looking. He’s been in Gotham, right under Bruce’s nose the whole time.

Bruce had been looking at missing persons reports, cataloging them under his rigorous filling system and doing extensive research on each of their backgrounds when he got to a woman named Lacy Stinger. He learned the basics first, nurse at the Drake Memorial Hospital, daughter of nearly four years old, unmarried, etc. But a little deeper looking brought Bruce to a court case. 

Robert Elrod, the other man that has escaped, had dated her in college. The relationship ended messily with a child on the way. Lacy had gotten full custody and a restraining order against the man. Lacy Stinger hasn’t been seen at all in the past month, nor has her daughter been in school. 

Alarm bells ring clear as day in Bruce’s head as he suits up early that night with Dick in tow. The kid had insisted he come along, and even to Bruce’s reluctance, he ran a convincing argument. Or maybe Bruce is getting worse at saying no to him, not that he’d ever admit it. Nonetheless, Batman and Robin make their way across the roofs to the little apartment on Fifth Avenue. It’s a little thing, the brick beaten down but not enough to warrant remodeling from the city, the trimming splintered around the windows, and a dull creeping of light from the unit Lacy Stinger is registered in. 

Bruce sends Dick to the other side, knowing full and well how dangerous a man like Luthor is, and what a man like that will do to claw his way out from a corner. Bruce gave Dick clear instructions to keep an ear out and call the police at Bruce’s signal. Only after will he be allowed to enter, tending to the presumed hostages while Bruce deals out justice to the escapees. He’s prepared for anything, he has to be. 

Before they left, Alfred had asked if Bruce would like to have Superman on standby, given that this is his villain after all. Bruce didn’t dignify it with a response. 

Bruce performs a surprisingly silent jump and roll onto the roof of the apartment. Ceilings around this part of Gotham are known to be notoriously thin so he’s careful about the impact of his weight, letting his body roll to a silent stop. There are cameras on the roof and the ones around, small ones that would have gone undetected if not for Bruce’s knowledge about Luthor. As crazy as the man is, he does well at dealing in paranoia, Bruce has to give the planning to the man. Lex Luthor is good, but he’s nowhere near good enough for Batman. He mapped out the camera angels beforehand knowing exactly where the shadows cut to shelter him and where the blind spots are. There won’t be so much as a shadow trace of him nor Robin on the camera footage. 

So, with that in mind, Bruce attaches his grappling hook to the ledge of the rooftop and slowly lowers himself to the window of Lacy’s apartment. There are cameras and silent alarms on the windows, of course, but Bruce flips upside down so he can disable them above its vantage point. He clips up his cape so it doesn't dangle in front of the camera, it makes him briefly consider its use, but the one time inconvenience isn’t enough for him to forgo it all together. He’ll have to convene with Alfred about it if it becomes a problem again though. 

The camera and alarm, while pure Luthor tech, are laughably easy for Bruce to disable. It’s no secret the man is smart, but he is no match for Bruce Wayne. 

With the disabled tech, Bruce flips himself so that he’s peering in the window right side up. There’s a small lamp illuminating the living space, but there isn’t a sign of life Bruce can see, not even with his heat specs setting on the cowl. It’s eerie. Bruce knows Luthor is hiding out here and that Lacy and her daughter are likely being held captive somewhere in the apartment. He feels something shiver up his spine, the low thrum of tension that he won’t shake until the case is closed. Anticipation for the pieces to fall into place. And, quietest of all, doubt. 

He shakes the former, there is no room for hesitation when lives are at stake, especially not on a night Robin is there to jump in for Bruce. So, he pushes on as he always does, not ignoring the ice cold doubt curling at the base of his neck, but preparing for it. He has a dozen contingencies for every plan he makes. There is rarely a situation where Bruce is caught unawares, and tonight will not be among them. 

The window slides open with a grease slicked silence, easy in the way most worn windows aren’t. He’s expected then. 

“Do not engage.” He tells Robin slowly through the comms, low enough that the sound is swallowed by the wind that rustles the Gotham skyline. He waits for Dick to pop back a quick, yes sir, in that childish mockery of his before he enters the belly of the beast. 

The floorboards bend under his weight as he steps inside the building, letting the unnatural silence fill into his thoughts. Even his breathing sounds loud to his ears amidst the empty. It’s not a comforting feeling by any means, but Bruce allows it as an advantage. Slowly and silently, he surveys the space. He’s in a living room that attaches to a quaint kitchen, with two hallways branching from either end of the space. Bruce can’t hear any movement in the apartment- no. 

He can’t hear anything outside of the room. Outside, he was able to hear the low tones of conversation from the downstairs neighbors as well as footfall from next door. The silence here is man made and it forces Bruce to look over the room with new eyes. Nothing looks out of the ordinary, the lamp light casts the cheap furniture in an orange-yellow glow. As dim as it is, it drowns out any other light source, so he turns off the lamp with a reverberating click. 

There, on the bottom of the television, small enough to be mistaken for a power button to anyone else, but Bruce was looking for it, so he saw the little white light for what it was: a sound distorotor. A miniscule machine that filters and blocks sound to an unnatural scale. Just as he can’t hear a single thing outside of this room, every noise he makes is likely being broadcasted to the rest of the apartment. Even the beat of his heart is probably being picked up. He fights the curse building up his throat. Bruce walks silently - although there’s no use for stealth here, his steps might as well be thunderous to the ears of Luthor and Elrod - over to the television and crushes the machine. 

All at once, the world surges to life. He can hear the wind outside as well as murmured conversations on all sides of the building. It’s a horrible contrast to the deadly silence of before, but it’s useful. He has the advantage over the two escapees and now, they have none. 

Bruce listens to new found sounds of the world, picking up a very quiet curse just as the silence is shattered and the high pitched sobs of a child to his left, but instead of going towards the noise, Bruce walks right, down the opposite hallway. There are only two doors, one he bypasses all together and the other one he twists the handle for. 

Inside is a horrible combination of Robert Elrod and Lacy Stinger. Elrod is facing Bruce with a horrible sneer and a gun in his hand. Except, the gun isn’t pointed at Bruce. It’s held at Lacy's temple, who is restrained and gagged. She looks bruised and has dry tear tracks running down her face, but despite the gun held to her head, she doesn't look afraid. She just looks resigned. Her expression, even as she registers Bruce’s presence, does not lighten with hope or relief. Instead, her eyes flutter shut in what looks like a final prayer. Bruce spots a small, silver cross around her neck. 

“Not so fast, mister Batman,” Elrod says. His voice is slick as oil and reeks of malice, “One step and I’ll blow ‘er head off.” To make his point, he presses the barrel harder against Lacy’s temple, forcing a strangled sound out of her around the gag. He’s clearly crazy, Bruce knows very little about him except for the fact that he was a low level accountant who was put in for a major laundering job. He had lost custody of his daughter years before his sentence and had a restraining order against him from Lacy Stinger. Bruce does not need three guesses as to why. 

“Put the gun down, Robert.” His voice comes out deep and demanding in the mechanical whirl of his voice modulator, but no less threatening than he means it to be. “Away from Ms. Stinger-”

“No!” His voice is threaded with barely contained madness that doesn't bode well for the loaded gun in his hands. “She’s a monster, she took everything from me. I- I was going to show her. Yes, I was. The m-money was going to show her. She shouldn’t have dared. No.. No.” His voice trails off somewhere in his own head, clearly lost and disorientated. Bruce wonders how this man is the same mild-mannored Robert Elrod that was put in a jail cell, and what happened to him in the five months since. There’s little time for it though. He’s hanging on by a thread, and Bruce needs to cut his strings before it snaps and Lacy suffers the price. 

“I’m a monster too, Robert. It doesn't matter if you shoot Lacy, I’ll put you right back in that jail cell before you take the next breath. I’ll take everything from you, just the same.”

The words have the intended effect, conflict crosses Elrod’s face, looking from Bruce to Lacy, the movement of his hand wavering. Bruce watches him consider his words, with an expression of abject fury burning hot on his face. Eventually, in the space of tense heartbeats, the gun falls away from Lacy’s head and pulls up to level Bruce square in the chest. The kevlar on his chest plate is his thickest point of armor, he’s taken shots before and braces for the punch of the bullet while preparing to lunge for the man after it rings out. 

Elrod never gets to pull the trigger. 

Bruce hears a creak in the floorboards behind him a moment before he feels the impact of a different bullet behind his left knee. He falls hard, as it buries into his flesh, leaving him with the rush of breath from his lungs. 

Behind Bruce’s fallen form, Luthor talks disapprovingly at the scene. “I told you you weren't to engage with the Bat, no matter what he says. You came to me with one goal and you failed to deliver.” He tsk again before another shot rings out. Bruce watches as Robert Elrod falls with a stricken look on his face and a bullet wound right between his eyes. A sob wretches its way out of Lacy from around her gag, looking far more terrified then when Bruce first found her. Bruce tears his eyes away from Elrod's body to see exactly why. 

Lex Luthor is holding a squirming toddler to his side while the gun he just shot Bruce and killed Elrod with is cradling her face. Bruce wouldn’t think Luthor would kill a kid, but before tonight, he never thought the man was a cold blooded murder either. His veins turn to ice along with the Lacy’s, who is trying her damndest to scream and shout around her gag. She’s still in her scrubs from when she must have last left the hospital before her abduction. Bruce grunts to his good knee to face Luthor, who is sneering down at him in disdain. The feeling is entirely mutual.

“You vigilantes never do know when to leave well enough alone, do you?” He hums disapprovingly, leveling Bruce with the fun once more, aiming for yet another weak spot in his armor. “Oh well, not for much longer anyway.”

It’s the second time tonight the Bruce braces for a bullet that doesn't come. This time, he’s grateful the surprise isn’t one buried elsewhere in his body, it’s Luthor grunting as he’s kicked down by a force clad in the color of traffic lights. Lex Luthor sprawls across the floor, almost on top of Bruce, but he shifts quick enough to miss the impact. With him, the little girl falls too, but she’s up in a second and rushing over to her mom. Her arms are restrained too, but she’s far more mobile than Lacy is. 

Bruce, for his part, takes advantage of Luthor’s shock and punches him in the windpipe with his gauntlets, reveling in the way he chokes on the pressure. Bruce’s leg is in excruciating pain, but he manages to restrain Luthor with a zip tie from his utility belt as Robin holds him down. Bruce will be having another conversation with him as soon as they're back in the cave, but for now, he’s mostly glad he showed up, even if it meant directly disobeying orders once again. 

Bruce supposes it could have ended a lot worse without him, but he will not be telling Dick that. Not directly, at least. The kid doesn't need more incentive to not listen. 

“The hostages,” he tells him, after Luthor is restrained and knocked out - Dick dealt him an extra blow before Bruce could stop him, not that he wanted to, but it seems like the responsible thing to do as a guardian. Dick doesn't protest, he hurries to untie Lacy and her daughter with quick hands. The reunion is heart warming, aside from the smell of murder and fear still hanging off the walls. This time, Lacy does cry in earnest, but Buce is ninety percent sure it’s from relief - well, he thinks so. The blood loss from his knee is looking very serious and Bruce isn’t sure how long he’ll remain conscious. Damn it, he can’t pass out here, not when the police are sure to swarm the place in who knows how long. He needs to get back to the cave. 

He’s lost a worrying amount of blood, and he knows Alfred will be at his throat upon his return, scolding him the entire time he tends to his wounds. Bruce almost looks forward to it. First, he needs to figure out how he’ll get back to the cave. 

“Robin,” he grunts, weak with injury, trying and failing to get to his feet. Dick is at his side in an instant, gently leaning Bruce alongside the wall. “Call Agent A, tell him I need transportation-”

Dick cuts him off with a guilty wince that immediately has Bruce’s senses sharpening, an alarm sending signals to his brain to wake the hell up. It doesn't last long. “It’s already covered, but um, Alfred insisted on calling in back up.”

Bruce’s brain barely has time to register what his words mean before his brain is falling back into the murky waters of his unconsciousness, seemingly ignorant to the whirlwind that kicks up in his heart. Apparently a heart attack doesn't warrant enough alarm to keep him conscious. 

The last thing Bruce registered before he’s fully knocked out from blood loss is the flash of red and blue as it appears down the hall and the way it stabilizes as it gets closer, moving out of superspeed. Bruce feels hands on his prone body and the far away noise of Dick’s awestruck voice. 

Bruce is unconscious and Clark is there to catch his head before it lulls all the way to the hardwood floor.

 

~~~

Bruce blinks up into the blinding lights of the cave’s medbay.  His leg aches something vicious and the little movement he can perform does nothing to make it better, but it gives him the comfort of knowing his leg still works. Bruce knows all the ways in which a bullet through his knee could debilitate him, but for now, he’s grateful it’s still attached to his body. He’ll deal with the physical trauma of the injury later. 

He lets the cool air drift over his injured leg, the only part of the suit that has come off, and- wait. His suit is still on, along with his cowl. Alfred hates healing him in suit because of how difficult it is for the man to assess his injuries, and for him to wear the cowl in the cave isn’t at all usual. Bruce is immediately alert, fighting through the final haze of the pain medicine he must have been given. He can hear voices, the high chattering of Dick’s excited trill and a smooth timber that sends Bruce’s heart to his stomach. 

Clark is here.

His suit being on makes much more sense now. 

Before Bruce has too much time to dwell on Clark’s presence, Alfred sweeps through the curtains of the medbay, rustling the curtains just enough for Bruce to see the two other forms still lingering in the cave. He’s relieved to see Dick still has his mask on. Alfred, for his part, levels Bruce with a stoic look that tells him he has some choice words for Bruce. He just sighs, pushing himself to a sitting position, not wanting to take the lecture lying down. 

“I expect you know the severity of your injury, Batman.” And yeah, okay, Bruce is really in trouble if his tone is anything to go off of. “If I see you so much as walk for the next month, you and I are going to have problems to settle.” He continues lecturing Bruce in his typical fashion and Bruce takes in every word with appropriate attention, despite the cowl hiding his expression.  

Bruce doesn't admit that he probably couldn’t walk right now if he wanted to. He’s lucky his armor took the brunt of the bullet, but the injury is still serious regardless. He expects months worth of tedious physical therapy and a lifetime of knee problems ahead of him. Just one more injury for him to bear, but really, it’s a small price to pay for his mission. Alfred seems to accept that because at the end of his spell, he softens incrementally, Bruce only sees it because he’s known the man all his life. 

“I invited Superman to stay while you rested, I believe talking will do the both of you some good.” There’s a significant look on Alfred’s face, and Bruce ignores the pang of agreement inside of him that says the man is right. The sooner he clears the air with Clark, the sooner… Well, Bruce doesn't actually know what happens after. He can summon a hundred possibilities but he doesn't want any of them. No, he just wants to face Clark and figure things out together, if he’ll have Bruce, of course. So Bruce takes a deep breath, letting the rise and fall of his lungs steady him before he nods sharply at Alfred. Satisfied, Alfred sweeps out of the medbay to speak to Clark and take a reluctant Dick up to the manor. 

Bruce, for all of his preparation and planning, isn’t expecting the breath that punches its way out of his chest when he sees Clark. He’s still in his suit, that leaves very little to the imagination, more so when his brain helpfully supplies an image of Clark without anything on. Bruce shakes the thought away, dismissing it as an unfortunate side effect of the drugs. His black curls are messy, like he’s been running his hands through them and his face is unsure. It’s an expression that doesn't at all fit with the Superman the world sees but is entirely at home with the Clark Kent Bruce knows. It appears all his pretenses have come crashing down the night of the explosion. 

Bruce, still in his cowl, feels a twinge of guilt holding onto the anonymity that has been ripped away from Clark. 

“I wasn’t sure you wanted to see me,” Clark begins, after the silence has stretched a moment too long. “You ran off and I wasn’t sure what to think.” Bruce isn’t sure what to say to that and CLark must take it as an invitation to plow on as he rushes to explain himself. “I know you have no meta rule in Gotham, and I want you to know I really wasn’t trying to intrude. You see, I’m a reporter for the Daily Planet, Clark Kent,” he supplies, “I was following a lead and my source met me-”

“I know who you are,” Bruce cuts in, unbidden even to himself. Something about Clark, rushing through the details of himself - as if Bruce doesn't already know, doesn't care to hear the long-winded rambling they were first revealed to him in - hurts. 

Clark stares up at him, looking on in confusion, before he laughs nervously to himself. “Oh, heh, that’s right. I suppose you’ve looked into me already. Worlds Greatest Detective and all that.” he says the last part quietly, almost to himself, and Bruce has an out right there for the taking. It’d be the easiest thing in the world to hide behind the lie, but Bruce doesn't want to hide anymore, he realizes. 

So instead he says, “No Clark, I know you.”

He doesn't catch the jerk of his chin or the curious look in his stupidly beautiful eyes as Bruce lifts his hands up, around the smooth graphite of his cowl and lifts. He feels the air hit the top half of his face and the shake of his hair as it tumbles loose. He’s looking down into his lap, obscuring his face for a couple more precious seconds of anomaly before he looks up, feeling every heartbeat that ticks between them. He hears Clark’s breath catch halfway through the trajectory and he meets the man's wide, blue eyes with steely ones of his own. 

“Bruce,” his name slips its way out along with Clark’s gutted breath. His face flickers through surprise, awe,  hurt, betrayal, and devastation, ultimately settling on some mix Bruce can’t fully read. It’s deserved, he knows, but the pain on Clark’s features make Bruce want to undo all the hurt he’s dealt him in the past month. For a man that rarely doubts his decisions, the sudden regret leaves him feeling impossibly small in the wake of the blazing sun before him. “Why?” There are a dozen different questions packed into that singular word and Bruce feels the weight of each one of them. But even now, there are answers he does not know how to say.

“I was….” It takes a moment for Bruce to collect his thoughts and Clarks allows him the space to think. As always, he waits patiently for Bruce to reveal his hand. “You asked me what I thought of Superman, and I never really got to tell you the truth. The truth is I despised you. You reminded me of everything I couldn’t control. I feared you, Clark. And then you showed up on that stupid rooftop and turned my whole world around.” The words were spilling out of him now. Bruce didn’t think he could stop it if he tried, he couldn’t look away from Clark’s eyes as every word landed around the pair. 

“That night you almost died in the warehouse, I was terrified, Clark. I didn’t even know you were you and yet, the thought of you dead nearly ripped me apart. I felt like I was ripped in half seeing you lie half-dead on the ground, on this very bed. I- I didn’t know what was wrong with me, so I needed a distraction.” Bruce let out an ugly laugh, too sharp and too loud, one meant entirely for the ridiculousness of this self-deprecating situation. Clark, of course, knows very well what kind of distraction Bruce sought. “You were far more than I was prepared for, Clark Kent, as yourself and as Superman. And I’m sorry that I never answered your question. The real answer was too much for me to have known at the time, even more so once I knew it was you. So I ran. It’s better this way.”

Once after Bruce dragged up his soul to bare did he look away, not wanting to see how the final words landed. He tilted his chin down, waiting for judgment, like a sinner kneeling at the feet of a god. But, Clark Kent is no god. As powerful and as pure as he is, he’s a man like any other. Bruce feels it in the way his hands gently cup the side of his face, the warmth of him melting against the chill of Bruce’s skin, breathing through the atmosphere of the cave itself. He sees it in the way his blue eyes soften, letting every emotion bleed into his irises. He hears it in Clark’s soft spoken voice that sounds warmer and kinder than a person has any right to. 

“Bruce,” he says, soft as morning, “I can give you space. I can give you time. Anything, you need. But all I ask is that I’m the person you run to, not from.” His expression is so devastatingly open that Bruce has to fight the urge to pull away. Clark will let him, because of course he will, but Bruce doesn't want the distance. Not anymore, not that his soul has been spilled out for this impossible man before him. Clark Kent may not be a god, but he absolves Bruce like he is one. The thought strikes Bruce hard, tumbling through his mind with clarity. Bruce has never sought forgiveness from anyone, but here he is, receiving it all the same. It’s a lightness he’s never known. Freedom from the weight of his guilt. 

It gives him the strength to lean in. 

Clark must match him in the motion because the two of them meet in the middle, lips pressed together soft like a prayer and tentative like forgiveness. It’s the softest kiss the two of them have shared and it lasts the span of a heartbeat before Clark is pulling away with questioning eyes. 

“Is this okay?” 

For the first time all evening, Bruce doesn't hesitate to answer Clark’s question. “Yes.” And then he’s on him again, pushing as close as he can to Clark while still sitting on the edge of the medical bed. The kiss has lost all of its tentativeness, fueled by something beyond their quiet moment. Bruce deepens the kiss and Clark follows his lead, stepping between Bruce’s open legs so their chests are flush against each other’s save for the thin fabric of Clark’s suit and the kevlar armor of Bruce's. He wants it gone, but for now, he relishes in the feeling of Clark’s soft lips and his tongue dancing inside of his mouth. Clark does something devastating, licking the roof of Bruce’s mouth, causing an embarrassing noise to slip out of him. Clark sees the opening and uses it to take control of the kiss. Bruce has no problem with that whatsoever. Clark’s hands find the base of Bruce’s neck, tangling into his cowl matted hair and Bruce’s own wrap around Clark's waist and back, feeling the muscles flex beneath the suit. 

Clark detached himself from their tangle just enough to pepper Bruce’s jaw with kisses and teasing scrapes of his teeth that draw soft moans from his mouth. He must take it as an incentive to continue because he kisses every inch of Bruce’s jaw and trailing down to what little of his neck is exposed. It drives Bruce nearly mad, bucking his hips towards Clark with need stronger than the memory of why they’re in the cave together to begin with. He lifts his legs to wrap around Clark’s waist, but Bruce is reminded of his injury the hard way when the movement elicits a different kind of gasp from him. The pained noise immediately detached Clark from him with concern written all over his face. Bruce misses his warmth. 

Damn his stupid knee. Damn Luthor for shooting him in the first place. Bruce is used to being injured, far more than most people are. He tends to work through his injuries and endure the pain and damage as it’s felt, much to Alfred’s displeasure. For a fleeting moment, lost in the kiss, Bruce had ignored the protest he left in his leg until it gave him no forgiveness. Getting used to near immobility isn’t something he looks forward to. Especially when it prevents him from working and from taking what he’s positive the night was about to offer him with Clark. 

Bruce lets out a grunt of frustration, settling back on the bed and stabilizing his knee with the solid support of the surface. Clark stays close, but prevents himself from touching. Bruce is grateful, even injured and vulnerable as he is, he draws the line at Clark fussing over him. Clark, to his credit, seems to sense that, letting Bruce manage his knee on the uncomfortable bed. It’s only after he lets out a brief breath of relief that Clark moves, seeming very unsure of himself all of a sudden. The contrast between his expression and the suit is almost comical. 

“What?” Bruce asks, refraining from snapping in his usual manner. 

“I just, um.” Clark stops and starts again. “Do you want me to leave? I don’t want…” He trails off with a meaningful look at Bruce’s knee, looking at it with an air of uncertainty and sadness. Clark, who Bruce realizes has very rarely been injured, has no idea what to do in the face of someone else's pain, despite clearly wanting nothing more than to make it better. Bruce, despite himself, feels his mouth tick up at the man’s discomfort. 

“Stay,” he says, surprising them both with the softness in his voice. Clark nods with hopeful eyes, his shoulders relaxing from their tension at the permission. “I can’t…” Bruce trails off, uncomfortable with the request on his tongue. “You can carry me to bed, if you’d like. I might have overlooked the convenience of an elevator down here.” 

Clark brightens immediately, shaking off his uncertainty entirely, “of course.” And that’s that. In one fluid motion, Bruce is lifted off the medical bed and into Clark’s arms. He’s being carried bridal style, which Bruce would have protested to if it didn’t feel so nice to be held so close to Clark. He does a good job at pretending to be disgruntled, though Clark looks at him as if he sees right through Bruce’s act. He probably does. 

When they get up to the manor, Bruce can feel Clark’s surprise. Bruce has grown up in the grandeur halls of the manor and in the luxury that comes with the Wayne name. Clark has not. He can’t imagine what he thinks gazing upon the place Bruce was raised in. Bruce sweeps the space with his own eyes, catching every absurd thing that Clark eyes might latch onto. There are entirely too many. But when Clark opens his mouth, he only asks, “Which room is yours?”

“Upstairs, five doors to the left.”

He feels more than sees Clark’s nod and they’re descending another flight of stairs as easily as if Clark was floating. Bruce looks down just to be sure he isn’t. He carries Bruce as if he’s light as a kitten and not the over two hundred pounds of pure muscle that he is. He’d be lying if the reminder of Clark’s strength didn’t send a volt of electricity to his system. Except it’s not panic he’s feeling. He curses his injury once again. 

Clark finds Bruce’s bedroom easily from there, setting him gently on the bed and pulling out a pair of sweatpants and a t-shirt at Bruce’s request. He helps Bruce out of his suit, quietly curing the various hidden buttons and zippers the process requires. Bruce only laughs amusedly at him, no help at all, according to Clark. Bruce pretends he can’t feel Clark’s hands burning a brand into his skin wherever they touch. He can’t believe he’s getting this worked up over someone undressing him. Nothing about it is remotely sexy, except, he looks up at Clark and the focus and care written into his expression and decides that, yeah, it is actually.

Bruce settles into bed with Clark’s help, allowing just this once to be fussed over. God, this man is ruining him already. A couple kisses and he’s completely gone. 

Clark borrows clothes of his own from Bruce’s closet. The shirt is too tight in all the right places and just because Bruce can’t touch doesn't mean he can’t look. And boy does he look. He settles into bed next to Bruce as per his permission and Bruce is warmed immediately by his proximity. They don’t do anything that night, Clark kisses him goodnight gently on the forehead and Bruce is charmed all over again before he drifts off to sleep. He doesn't dream at all, but he does wake up in a careful tangle of limbs with the man. It’s the first night that Bruce has slept through in years. He’s never slept better. 

 

~~~

 

Over the next month, Bruce sees Clark more than he doesn't. It’s strange, not unpleasantly so, but strange all the same. He’s gotten used to life in the manor since Dick has come into his life, the chatter and the chaos the kid brings along with him, but Clark’s presence is something else entirely. The empty halls feel warmer, brighter somehow. He’ll roll - because Alfred had forced him into a wheelchair for the first couple of weeks while he healed - into the kitchen and see the man in question and Clark washing dishes together after a meal. He’ll hear typing in the early hours of the morning as Clark tries to finish an article before the deadline that same morning. 

His presence in the manor had been strange, but comfortable. 

Now, pushing on a month of recovery, Clark's stay had been a strategic decision that Alfred, Clark, and Dick pushed for, not that Bruce put up much of a fight. Bruce was injured, meaning that Batman was out of commission. Dick, as formative as he is, is too young for Bruce to allow him to patrol on his own and Alfred, as capable as he is, is far beyond his years of jumping across the Gotham skyline and fighting crime. Bruce was pouring over a solution when Clark flew into the cave after the Daily Planet one night, not wearing his suit, but rather his rumbled work clothes. 

He had come over to where Bruce sat over his desk and peaked over his shoulder. Anyone else and Bruce would wave them off with an annoyed grunt, but he allows it because it’s Clark. 

“You know,” he starts, “if you’re having trouble finding someone to look over Gotham while you recover, I could always take on an extra shift of patrol. It won’t be the same as Batman on the streets, but if you give me some pointers, I could take over for a bit.”

Bruce had stopped and looked up at Clark, with his glasses perched cookedly on his face and his tie askew over his brown button-up. He had almost said no, before he really thought about it. Having Superman on the streets would be a problem for many reasons, but his help would go a long way. Batman maintains a very strict allusion of no metas in Gotham, and has zero tolerance for other vigilante help either - Dick being the exception, of course. But, with a different suit and an extended lesson in stealth, it might just work. 

So, with that very short conversation, and a noncommittal, “I’ll think about it,” from Bruce, that was the end of that conversation. Clark had accepted this answer, seemingly anticipating it, and hadn't pressed on the matter. He stayed with Bruce in the cave, both of them taking their meals there with Dick bounding downstairs excitedly from who knows where. He had stolen a great chunk of Clark’s attention, showing the man his newest tricks among the gymnasium Bruce had built in the cave for him to practice his acrobatics on. Bruce liked seeing them together, Clark was good to Dick, as expected, and Dick obviously adored Clark, not that he’d show it much. The nine year old did a very good job of ‘playing it cool’ around Clark, only when he was gone did Dick let his hero worship show. 

The next day, Bruce had a suit for Clark and some very intensive directions. Thus, they had their solution. Dick went with Clark most nights, allowing him his much needed time to beat down crime and gave Clark enough direction that Bruce didn’t need to speak to him through the comms the whole night. It was a rocky start, Clark ruling by his own moral code and Bruce arguing with him that Gotham needs a different sort of authority to fall in line. They fought a lot, but it became a sort of routine for them. They fell into their arguments at the end of the night and then into bed, murmuring soft apologies to each other as they fell asleep until they came to a compromise about how to handle the situation. 

Now, a month later, Bruce has been cleared for physical therapy, which he’s taken to rather well given his wealth of experience with the matter. Alfred does not consider it something to be proud of, but he’s glad nonetheless. Bruce, out of cast and wheelchair, revels in the freedom that comes with walking. His movements aren’t as fluid as they once were, he comes down hard on his right leg when he walks, favoring it over his injured one. He winces when he turns wrong. Gets frustrated when he has to sit down after climbing a flight of stairs. It’s a new reality to live, one that he’s considerably vulnerable in, and it frustrates him to no extent. 

Bruce is walking down the hall after a late night in the cave. Clark and Dick had already come home for the night and debriefed. Clark tried to stick around, but Bruce wasn’t in the mood tonight, so he sent him upstairs with nothing but a curt nod and a sharp noise of dismissal, pretending to be very busy with a case he was trying to solve. Working from the cave is something he’s used to, a majority of his work is done from the cave, case work, tracking data, all of the like. Bruce enjoys it, but when he’s trapped here, with a shadow of the control he used to have over his body, it becomes maddening. 

His leg screams at him but he ignores it, deftly maneuvering through the halls. He’s not ready to go to bed just yet, not wanting to see Clark like this. It’s no question the man has already seen the antsy anger bubbling under his skin, he just wants a chance to feel like himself again before he sees him. The gardens seem like a good place to start, so he goes there, slower than he would have liked, but there nonetheless. 

It’s a chilly night in Gotham, one Bruce isn’t dressed for in his sweats and thin shirt, but he welcomes the familiar cold, allows it to bite and turn his pale skin pink. It’s the middle of winter and all the plants are barren, not at all like the memory Bruce has of his mother in the gardens during the spring, but for not it’s enough. Bruce walks aimlessly for a long time, letting the cold and memories wash over him, resembling something akin to peace. That is, until his knee buckles underneath him, taking him down hard against the unforgiving ground. 

Bruce curses, loud, unable to move his leg until the agony tearing through it dies down. So he stays there, for seconds or minutes, Bruce doesn’t know. He’s saved from attempting to get up himself, however, because Clark’s arms are around him before he even registered the man’s presence. 

“I’ve got you,” he says, softly, picking up Bruce piece by piece. Despite himself, Bruce - angry and hurting - believes him. “I’ve got you,” he repeats. Bruce doesn't respond, he just lets himself be carried and flown into his bedroom for the second time since his injury. 

On the bed, Bruce sits upright off to the side, staring lovely into the astonishing eyes of Clark Kent, who is kneeling between his legs with an expression of gentle concern. It’s soft, and loving, and all the things Bruce doesn't want to see right now, when he’s simmering in his own anger. It’s times like this that Bruce realizes how different they are. Where Bruce is a mess of anger and shame, Clark is a pillar of stability and light. He’s calm in the face of Bruce’s veiled chaos. Bruce loves him and hates him for it. Except, no, that’s just his anger. He doesn't hate this man at all. Couldn’t if his life depends on it. What a strange journey he’s made. 

“What’s wrong?” It’s a simple question, one that’s entirely fair after Bruce’s behavior, but his throat works itself closed at the mere thought of explaining himself. Luckily - or unluckily, depending on Bruce’s mood - Clark is patient, looking up at him with patient eyes with his hands running up and down Bruce’s thighs comfortingly. So Bruce sighs, knowing a loss when he sees one. 

“My body isn’t my own,” he starts and Clark urges him on. “I’ve spent my whole life honing my skills, mastering everything I do to become what I am. And now all of that is shattered because of a damn bullet to my knee.” 

“It’s not shattered, Bruce. You’re not shattered. It’s been a month, Alfred says you’re healing faster and better than what he would expect from your injury. You’ll be back, because you’re Bruce Wayne. For now, let others handle things while you focus on yourself. I know you want to get back out there, but for now, let Dick and I take care of Gotham for you. I think she’s taken a liking to me, you know?” Clark throws in, with an air of humor that Bruce finds himself huffing at. “Let me take care of you, please.”

Bruce hates accepting any form of help, Clark knows this, it’s why he’s currently looking up at him with what can only be described as puppy dog eyes and his hands are trailing under Bruce’s shirt in comforting circles. Clark is not as innocent as he appears, the man knows exactly what weaknesses of Bruce to use to get him to agree. Not that he can deny the man much to begin with, certainly not when he’s on his knees for him, so he relents. 

“Fine.” 

This elicits a blinding smile from Clark. Bruce may be a rich man, but he’d give up every dime if that’s what it took to see Clark smile at him like that. 

Clark's hands are still trailing underneath Bruce’s shirt idly, scraping gently over spots that make Bruce shiver. His eyes flutter shut and a gasp escapes his lips as Clark brushes over his nipple. 

Clark's voice is husky with want when he asks,"Is this okay?” 

“Y-yeah.”

That's all Clark needs before he’s pulling Bruce into a kiss. It’s needy but slow, almost teasing in the way Clark bites at Bruce’s lip and draws sounds out of him. He’s in control, and Bruce doesn’t think he's going to relinquish it, it doesn’t stop him from trying though. He tries to deepen the kiss, pulling Clark closer but Clark pulls away almost as soon as he tries. Bruce ignores the way he follows the motion. Clark’s hand comes up to Bruce's wrist, carefully pulling it away from him. 

“Let me take care of you, okay?”

The words shouldn’t reverberate through Bruce’s bones but they do, sending all of the blood in his body south. Bruce can only nod in response, not trusting his voice to come out as steady as he wants it to. Clark seems pleased with the answer though, returning his teasing hands to the hem of Bruce’s shirt and lifting it over his head, exposing his abdomen to an onslaught of winter chilled air. But Clark quickly attaches his mouth to Bruce's cold skin, warming it with the heat of his tongue. Bruce shivers for a different reason entirely as Clark traces the sensitive scar tissue that litters his body. He’s still kneeling between Bruce’s thighs, his chin brushing against his straining cock as he dips low on his abdomen, focusing entirely on the muscles and scars that span there, sucking soft bruises onto the flesh as he goes that forces needy sounds out of Bruce. 

He goes lower still, mouthing at the fabric covering Bruce’s dick and the sight nearly drives him mad. “Fuck,” Bruce curses hands threading through Clark’s curls, feeling the vibrations as he moans at the sensation. Christ, this is going to kill him, isn’t it? Clark Kent is a dangerous man after all. But before he fully has a chance to succumb to that knowledge, Clark pulls himself off of him and eases him onto the bed fully. Bruce lets himself be moved until his head hits the pillow and Clark is suddenly crawling over him, bracketing Bruce’s head in with his strong arms and he goes in for another quick, maddening kiss. He disappears quickly again, hovering right over Bruce’s wanting dick. 

Clark looks up with a hunger in his eyes that has Bruce whimpering. He’s a mess and he can’t even bring himself to be embarrassed about it. Not when Clark is looking at him like that, so close to where Bruce wants him. 

“Lift your hips for me, love.”

That nearly does it. Nearly. His body is already abiding before he consciously makes the decision to do so, allowing Clark to do whatever he wants to him. At this point it’s as much his as it is Bruce’s. Then Clark is pulling the fabric of his sweats and boxers down. By his teeth. 

“Oh, fuck me.” Bruce gasps, not being able to look away from the sight. It’s as devastating as sin. Clark is heartbreakingly beautiful like this, bathed under the moonlight creeping in from the windows, making a mess of every wall Bruce has built around himself. He’s almost certain the man isn’t real, would be if not for the way his mouth attaches to Bruce’s exposed cock, lapping up the length in a way that has Bruce nearly screaming out in pleasure. Fuck, it’s so good. Better than anything he’s ever felt. He’s barely been touched and he already feels so close. If Clark keeps going like this, he’s not going to last. 

He seems to sense this too, because Clark is pulling off of him with a pop that has Bruce groaning. 

“I want to fuck you, Bruce.”

“Yes, please. I- Please, Clark.”

He’s a mess, one that can barely string together a full though, and that seems to please Clark to no extent. He grabs the lube in the nightstand and opens up Bruce until he’s a babbling puddle on his fingers that curls deliciously in exactly the right place every time. He replaces his fingers with his cock and Bruce’s mind is all static and electricity, sending volts down his spine every time Clark thrust into him. He’s being careful of Bruce’s injured knee, not fucking as hard because of it, but that doesn’t stop him from bringing his other leg over his shoulder and burying himself deep into Bruce. It’s slow and hard and Bruce thinks it’ll kill him. It’s entirely too much yet not enough all at once. 

He picks up the pace tentatively, letting out moans that match Bruce’s own until they come together in a pile of beautiful, bare limbs, leaving Bruce’s mind entirely gone. He isn’t thinking about his knee, or the responsibilities that pile on his shoulders, or his anger. He isn’t thinking at all actually, he’s present with Clark curling around him, peppering him with satisfied kisses before cleaning them both up. Bruce falls asleep halfway through the process, but he thinks he feels a soft kiss behind his head with a whispered, “I love you.” He takes the memory of it with him in his dreams. 

In the morning, Bruce wakes up soaked in sunshine. The curtains are drawn wide and Clark is lying underneath him, playing with Bruce’s hair. He doesn't remember his dreams, but he knows, for the first time, they were hazy, warm things dancing through his sleep. It leaves him waking up peacefully and happier than he remembers being. Clark may not be a god, but he has a way of making Bruce feel the impossible. 

“Morning,” he whispers up to Bruce. 

Bruce welcomes the sound of his sleep soaked voice, burying his nose into Clark’s warm embrace. He doesn’t recall much after he drifted off to sleep, isn’t fully sure if his memory of the three words were reality or a part of the fuzzy dreams he had, but the memory resonates inside of him nonetheless. Bruce can’t help the way it envelops him, sending peace and warmth through his mind. So, he looks at Clark, sees the love written plainly on the man’s face and feels it reflected back on his own. 

“I love you, Clark,” he confesses. 

Clark stares up at him, momentarily stunned by the truth Bruce offered him, before melting under its weight. Clark may only be a man, but Bruce swears, in this moment, he glows. 

“I love you, Bruce.”

Notes:

Bruce finally got his shit together!! Everybody cheer!
These idiots mean so much to me.
But seriously, this whole fic has been a whirlwind of an emotional journey for Bruce. But he got there in the end!
See what happens when you finally let people care for you and support you—crazy concept, huh?
Also, Bruce helping Dick with the schoolwork in the beginning is so wholesome and special to me. Also, Dick Grayson is smart as hell; I'm tired of pretending otherwise. This kid 100% is doing schoolwork grades above him.

As this fic is officially finished, this is goodbye. Once again, thank you all so much for reading and your kind comments; I love each and every one of them. I hope you enjoyed reading this as much as I enjoyed writing it!

Notes:

If you haven't noticed, Bruce is very good at not taking care of himself. Much to the harm of Alfred's stress levels.
Also the scene at Haly's circus is exactly what I want to see in The Batman II; I cannot wait to see those acrobats fall.
And poor everyone, they're so out of their depth (Bruce especially), but they are getting it handled—for the most part.
Lois is such a badass, can I just say. Bruce was watching her exchange with Superman, wondering where the hell this woman gets the balls to talk back to the most powerful man alive.
Also, Clark Kent is a yapper if I've ever seen one. And this is my fic, so in this world, it is canon.

But thank you all so much for reading! It means the world to me :) More to come soon, I promise!